But more and more his reticence worried her. Sometimes it seemed as if he didn’t see her as a lover at all, but rather as a child, the way Helena and Rosalind did.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so hasty to dismiss Helena’s concerns about him. What if she’d been mistaken in her impression of his character? What if Helena had been right after all?
No, how could she even
think
of agreeing with Helena on this matter? Helena’s heart of ice made her suspect every man of villainy. And besides, Helena had barely spoken to Will, so what did she know of his kind nature and amiable character?
Indeed, there was only one thing that bothered Juliet about the way he was acting, and she couldn’t keep quiet about it any longer. “Will?”
“What is it, sweeting?”
“Why haven’t you kissed me?”
His gaze shot to her in surprise. Slowly it swept her, the way Papa’s hounds eyed a joint of mutton cooking in the kitchen hearth. A little shiver snaked down her spine. He’d never looked at her with such hot, covetous hunger. It alarmed her.
It thrilled her.
“Do you want me to kiss you?” he finally rasped, as if the words were torn from him against his will.
“Of course!” When she realized how shamefully wicked that made her sound, she hastened to add, “I-I mean…well, we’re to be married and yet you’ve done nothing more than kiss my hand. Even the boys in Stratford tried to—” Dear me, that sounded awful. “I didn’t let them,” she added hastily, “but they did
try.
One or two of them.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “I imagine they did.”
His gentlemanly façade was back in place, annoying her extremely. “You
do
find me pretty, don’t you?”
He glanced away quickly. “You know perfectly well that I find you pretty.”
“So why haven’t…why won’t—”
“I’ve got other things on my mind,” he bit out. “There will be plenty of time for all of that once we’re married. Right now, try to save your strength for the voyage ahead. It’s sure to be tiring.”
It won’t be tiring as long as you hold me during it,
she thought, bitterly disappointed by his answer. What had she expected? That he’d leap across the carriage and give her a passionate kiss like the ones she’d seen Griff give Rosalind?
Yes. That was what she’d expected, hoped for.
As if sensing her disappointment, he added kindly, “I’m only trying to treat you with the respect you deserve. Until we’re married, I wouldn’t dream of sullying your honor. I know you understand.”
She didn’t, though she dared not say it, for he’d think her the worst wanton imaginable. All the same, for once she wished he was not quite so much a gentleman.
For the hundredth time, Helena wished Daniel Brennan were more of a gentleman. A gentleman would wait upon her leisure. A gentleman would phrase his requests politely instead of barking orders.
A gentleman wouldn’t give her so little time to pack.
Only an hour! How was any woman to pack in that time, especially when all her gowns were unacceptable? It had taken her half the time just to settle on two that might do, and she wore one of them now. Then there’d
been decisions on what else to bring, what she could manage without, what Juliet might need once they found her.
One bag,
the great tyrant had ordered. Obviously, it was another way to discourage her from going. As if they couldn’t fit more than one bag in Griff’s carriage.
Fine. She’d packed
one
bag. A very large bag.
She bent to close it for the waiting footman, then caught sight of Mrs. N’s guide. Should she bring it?
Oh, why not? It wouldn’t hurt to have a reminder of the rules of propriety—the ones she hadn’t yet broken, that is. Mr. Brennan was the sort of man who made a woman wish to throw propriety to the winds, which would be terribly unwise.
Stuffing the book into her bag, she gestured for the footman to take it, then followed him out of her bedchamber on the second floor of Knighton House. She grew uneasy as they approached the grand staircase. It had been more than the allotted hour; she was sure of it. And Mr. Brennan was so
un
gentlemanly that he probably wouldn’t even wait for her—the arrogant beast.
Even as she started down the stairs behind the footman, she caught sight of Mr. Brennan headed for the front door. “Wait, Mr. Brennan!” she called out, hurrying down the steps as quickly as her leg would allow. “I’m coming!”
He turned toward the staircase, his gaze falling on the footman hefting her bag. “I thought I told you to pack light.”
“That’s as light as I could manage.”
He stopped the footman before he could pass. “Leave that here. I’ll take care of it.”
“Surely you will not be so wretched as to leave my bag behind,” she snapped at her giant adversary. She reached
the bottom of the stairs and halted a few feet from him. “It’s far easier for a man to pack light than a woman, you know, and we’re not sure how long we’ll be gone.”
“All the same—” he began, shifting his gaze to her face. Then he stopped short. “This isn’t a good beginning a’tall, m’lady.”
She refused to let him intimidate her. “If you mean to tell me I can’t go along simply because my bag is too big—”
“I’m not talking about the bag. I’m talking about
that.
” He nodded at her neck. “I told you no lace.”
Her hand instinctively went to her throat. The half-inch border of lace at her collar was the only lace on the entire gown, which was why she’d chosen the dress in the first place. “This gown is the simplest I own.” Sarcasm crept into her tone. “I’m sorry if it has a trifle adornment. If I’d had time to remove it, I would have.”
He quirked one eyebrow up. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a slender object and came toward her. Without warning, he reached up to grasp one end of her lace, but only when he lifted his hand did she see a flash of steel and realize what he intended.
“Don’t you dare!” she hissed, but it was too late.
He’d already sliced the lace from her collar with a deft stroke of his pen knife. One quick pull and he tore it off as neatly as a milliner splits ribbon.
His eyes were sleet on slate. “There. That took no time a’tall.” Then stuffing the sad little strip into his pocket, he lifted her bag and strode off toward the door.
She scowled as she followed him, her cane’s staccato taps on the marble floor increasing in volume with her anger. “Even milkmaids occasionally wear lace, for heaven’s sake,” she grumbled.
He stopped short so quickly she nearly tripped over his
big riding boots. “Did you speak, m’lady? As I recall, one of my conditions was that you keep your opinions to yourself. You even agreed to it.”
A pox on his “conditions”! They were almost as impossible to follow as Mrs. N’s, and if the beast wasn’t smirking at her as if to say,
I knew you’d never manage it,
she’d tell him so.
Jerking her gaze from his, she lifted her head high and walked right past him through the open door. “You misheard me just now, Mr. Brennan. I was merely complimenting you for your excellent knowledge of women’s fashion.”
“Were you indeed?” he drawled. “Then p’raps you should refrain from complimenting me lest I ‘mishear’ you change your mind about going along.”
“You know perfectly well that I—Merciful heavens, what is that?”
She halted at the top of the entranceway stairs, frozen by the sight of a huge horse, saddled and waiting impatiently at the bottom for its rider. A groom held the creature’s head, but even he looked wary of the gigantic bay mare.
“It’s my horse,” Mr. Brennan said from behind her. “What did you think a man my size would ride? A wee pony?”
Behind the mare stood a gelding bearing a sidesaddle. It was not quite so monstrous a horse, but still large enough to alarm her.
Mr. Brennan sauntered down the stairs to the groom holding that one. “Here you are.” He handed the groom her bag. “Fit what you can of her things into the saddlebags, all right?”
“Very well, sir,” the groom murmured and began his task.
“You can’t mean to…we’re not…where’s the carriage?” she sputtered.
“We’re not taking the carriage,” Mr. Brennan said matter-of-factly as he climbed back up to her side. “Traveling by coach would slow us down, and you said yourself that this matter requires haste.” He held out his arm to help her descend. When she didn’t take it at once, he added, “Wait a minute, I nearly forgot—you don’t ride, do you?”
She scowled at him.
Nearly forgot,
indeed. The devil. Well, his blatant tactics would not work. “Of course I ride.”
He cocked his head. “That’s not what your father said this summer.”
“I thought you ‘nearly forgot’ that?” When his lips twitched, she tipped her nose up at him. “As it happens, Papa was mistaken. I can handle any horse you give me.”
Well-bred Young Ladies do not tell falsehoods,
she thought woefully. Though she used to ride every day when the weather was fine, she hadn’t mounted a horse in the eight years since her illness had struck. She’d feared having everyone see her fail at it.
But as with the other things she’d had to tackle on her mad excursion, she’d do this, too. Because she refused to stay behind, no matter what Mr. Brennan sprang on her.
He eyed her skeptically. “Your leg won’t give you trouble?”
Of course it would, but she’d never let him know it. She took the arm he offered. “Not in the least.”
He said nothing more as they made their slow way to the gelding. Close up, her mount looked impossibly large. She swallowed hard. They would need a mounting block, and perhaps even two on top of each other, since
she couldn’t use her weak left leg at all to vault herself onto the horse.
Would her leg even serve well enough to ride? She tried to remember being in the saddle, how it had felt, how she’d supported her weight, if she’d needed that leg with the sidesaddle.
But memory was pointless. She’d been a different woman then, sure of her abilities. Her body had done the riding, not her mind, and how did one make the body remember anything? She couldn’t even make her leg remember how to walk properly.
Mr. Brennan lowered his head. Concern flickered in his eyes. “Are you sure about this, lass? I don’t want to see you hurt yourself.”
Pride took over then, pride and a bit of the Laverick stubbornness. “I’m perfectly sure. I’ll merely need help mounting.”
“Of course.” He took the cane from her hand and tucked it into the pack behind the cantle of the saddle. Then before she knew what was happening, he turned her to face him and placed his hands on her waist. “Tell me when you’re ready.”
“I was speaking of a mounting block!” she cried, seized by sudden fear. “You can’t lift me so high!”
He chuckled. “Compliments upon compliments, eh? D’you doubt my strength?”
She stared up into his face uncertainly. He waited, expectant, sure of himself and his power. It wasn’t
his
strength she doubted, but her own. If he lifted her and she did not maneuver her body into the saddle right, she might come crashing down on him. Or worse yet, fall onto the stone steps.
He bent close. “Trust me,” he whispered, his breath
surprisingly sweet-scented as it drifted over her cheeks. “I can heft a slender thing like you with one hand. I won’t let you fall, lass, I swear it.”
Oddly enough, his words reassured her. His hands were heavy on her waist. She could feel their heat through her muslin gown. Their heat and, yes, their strength. She
had
seen his muscles for herself yesterday. If anyone could lift her into a saddle, he could.
Besides, the longer she hesitated, the more likely he was to guess she was lying about her ability to ride.
“All right,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I’m ready.”
The words had scarcely left her lips when she found herself soaring, held aloft by the sheer might of two brawny arms that set her upon the horse’s back as easily as a swallow alights on a windowsill. To her vast surprise and satisfaction, old instincts took over, prodding her to complete the rest in one easy motion—hooking her right leg over the crutch at the knee and balancing her weight in the saddle.
When she had her limbs and skirts arranged and all that remained was to have him adjust the left stirrup so she could put her foot into it, she glanced down at him, shocked and elated. Triumphant.
He smiled approvingly up at her as he reached for the stirrup. “Well, well, how about that? You
do
ride. Or at the very least you sit a horse properly.”
The compliment swirled about her like a heady fragrance. She did, didn’t she? Why, she was seated as well as she’d ever been before she’d lost full use of her leg. As that realization sank in, Helena trembled from sheer exhilaration. She’d mounted a horse! With help, of course, and she didn’t know what might happen once the gelding started to move, but nonetheless she’d done it! And she’d soon be riding, truly riding!
Her excitement was apparently infectious, for he smiled at her as he adjusted the stirrup. His eyes twinkled the way they had at Swan Park last summer whenever he’d teased her. Then he concentrated on fitting her booted foot into the stirrup and his smile faded, replaced by a dark intensity.
He clasped her ankle. “I s’pose I should have warned you about the riding so you could wear a proper skirt,” he murmured in a husky tone. “This one’s a mite short.”
Indeed, she felt cool air creep through her wool stocking to chill her leg, which was partly exposed below her hiked-up gown, She tried futilely to jerk her skirt down, but it wouldn’t cover all her calf. A good six inches showed above her boot.
Six inches that seemed enormously captivating to Mr. Brennan, who slid his hand slowly from her ankle to her calf as if measuring the strength in her leg. His rough hand encircled her lower calf.
“Are you sure about this, lass? Are you sure your leg won’t be worked too hard?”
She cringed to think of what lay beneath his fingers—the withered muscles barely concealed beneath her thin stockings. Yet she was acutely aware of his intimate touch, the gentle, near caress he feathered over her lower calf.