Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3) (5 page)

A sharp gust of wind plastered her skirts against her legs. Thunder rumbled in the distance, reminding her of her purpose. The storm was drawing nearer. Time to find shelter. “Mr. Brooks, I did not bring you out here to discuss the village, or my personal life.”

“No?”

“No. The fact is, I’m afraid we may be in a bit of trouble. Rather serious trouble, really.”

Her dire pronouncement failed to have the desired effect. Instead of concern, amusement glimmered in his sapphire eyes. “Are all missionaries as earnest as you are?”

She blinked in surprise. “Me? I’m not a missionary.”

“But you must be. You were with Father Tim and Sister…”

“Mary Louise.”

She gave a light shrug. “We boarded the same vessel in Shanghai. As I was traveling alone, Father Tim was kind enough to take me under his wing. It was only a temporary arrangement.”

“But I thought you… So you’re not an innocent, devout woman, intent on saving souls?”

She couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Hardly. My husband and I ran a pub in Canton.”

“A pub?”

“Yes. A pub.”

She’d clearly disturbed whatever comfortable assumptions he’d made about her. His words came out slowly, and she could almost hear his thoughts clanging and bumping about in his mind, like gears that had slipped free of their mooring cogs.

“I see. So you’re—”

“Concerned,” she replied succinctly, determined to force their conversation back on track. ”As ours is a financial arrangement, there is a small matter we need to discuss. While you were busy carrying on with the Bosom Twins, I was occupied doing a few calculations. Unfortunately, I confess that I am not as well-acquainted with the cost of travel in England as I had imagined myself to be. Therefore, we shall have to make adjustments to our plans. Going forward—”

“The Bosom Twins?”

“Those two young women you were flirting with on the coach.”

“I was not flirting.”

“Oh? What would you call it?”

“There isn’t much to say. Ours was a relationship of a regrettably fleeting nature. They giggled and flaunted their bosoms. I gazed on with appreciative male rapture. Alas, the sweet interlude ended and we were forced apart.”

Brianna bristled. The mocking humor in his tone was unmistakable. “Very clever, Mr. Brooks.”

He drew to a stop and propped one hip against a fence rail, bringing himself eye level with her. “I apologize if my behavior was less then appropriate, Mrs. Donnelly.” He gave a loose shrug. “It was just a bit of sport. Something to enliven an otherwise dull journey.”

Brianna gathered her thoughts. Obviously her escort was accustomed to being appreciated by women. Perhaps even adored. And why shouldn’t he be? He was devastatingly handsome. And if that wasn’t enough, he’d been graced with the kind of rugged male appeal that worked as an intoxicant on the female mind, withering away all customary restraint and good sense. So potent was the man’s breezy charm he was almost dangerous—a direct frontal assault on a woman good sense. His very presence was utterly disarming.

Fortunately for her, however, she was made of stronger stuff than other females.

“You shouldn’t have encouraged them,” she persisted. “It’s in rather poor taste to trifle with the virtue of innocent young women.”

He let out a bark of laughter. “Virtue? Innocent? Those two? I can assure you there’s not a farmer’s son within fifty miles of here that’s not intimately acquainted with that pair.”

She felt the heat of embarrassment flush her cheeks, but she didn’t back down. “You enjoyed their attention.”

Another shrug. “I’m a man.”

“My point exactly. That’s the problem.” She shook her head. “I’ve seen dozens like you in Canton. Randy young English lords are not known for keeping their peckers tightly buttoned up and properly put away. Particularly when they’ve landed in an exotic port and the consequences of their actions seem well…nonexistent.”

She’d shocked him. She could see that.

“Did you just say the word
pecker
?”

“You’ve never heard it before?”

“Of course I’ve heard it before. That’s not…” He drew in a breath, then let it out slowly. “Mrs. Donnelly—”

“Forgive my boldness, but I am endeavoring to make a point.”

“By all means, then. Do proceed.” He held up his hand to catch a fat droplet of rain. “Preferably before the storm breaks and we are soaked to the skin.”

She brought up her chin and met his deep blue gaze. “If we are to travel together, you will have to behave yourself. From this point forward, I must insist you act the part of a perfect gentleman.”

He maintained a somber expression for two, perhaps three full seconds—for him, a Herculean feat, no doubt—then his cocky grin returned. “In that case, we are in grave trouble, indeed.”

“Mr. Brooks, this is no laughing matter.”

“Isn’t it?”

Brianna took a steadying breath and tried a different approach. “Given our current financial circumstances, for the duration of our journey I shall have to present myself as your wife.”

That wiped his smile away. In fact, his expression changed entirely as he adopted the sort of wary look one usually wore when checking to ascertain what sort of dreadful substance they’ve stepped in. Brianna tried not to take offense.

“I beg your pardon?” he said.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I’ve made an unfortunate financial miscalculation. I simply can’t afford lodgings for two—not if we also want to eat and enjoy the luxury of two coach tickets to London, rather than walk the entire way.” She released a defeated sigh and shook her head. “I’m sorry, but there’s simply no other solution. Henceforth, we shall have to travel as a married couple.”

Chapter Seven

“You can’t mean…”

Had the woman just said married?
Married?
Jonathon’s dismay must have shown on his face, for her dark eyes flashed with irritation.

“Do not flatter yourself, Mr. Brooks. That was not a proposal.”

“No?”

“
No
,” she repeated, emphasizing the word as though he was some kind of dullard. “It most certainly was not. Nor should you construe it as any kind of tawdry invitation. I’m simply referring to our lodging accommodations. That’s why I wanted to speak to you privately, before we registered as guests at the inn.”

“Very well. Go on.”

“The inn appears to be a respectable establishment. Therefore, it is safe to assume they will not rent a room to a man and woman who are not married. Hence the ruse. I can think of no other solution to our predicament. Unless..” She paused, gazing up at him hopefully, “Unless you might be amenable to accepting lodging with the livestock in the barn?”

He studied her face, searching for some telltale sign to indicate she was jesting. Instead, he read nothing but earnest expectation, as though the request was perfectly reasonable.

“You expect me to sleep in the barn. With the livestock.”

“Of course I don’t
expect
you to. But if your sense of chivalry demands—”

“Remarkably enough, my sense of chivalry pales at the suggestion of sharing a bed with the local dairy cows.”

“I see.” Her brow furrowed. “That’s unfortunate.” She pursed her lips and gave the matter further thought. “We might make a cozy bed for you within the coach…”

Jonathon felt his grip on sanity slipping. He was standing in a patch of mud in a dreary village in the middle of nowhere, accompanied by a slip of a woman (who apparently wasn’t actually a missionary at all, nor was she married), who prattled on about castles, peckers, and sleeping in livestock pens. In the past forty-eight hours he’d been drugged, robbed, and shot. He was determined to break off his relationship with Lila and seriously contemplating arresting his cousin. His shoulder was stiff, his head ached, and his back was sore from the damned coach.

The last of the sun’s rays slowly faded. Barely five o’clock, he judged. Good Lord. He wanted it to be later—midnight, at least—to match the exhaustion he felt.

A deep rumble of thunder echoed around them. A fork of lightening split the sky. Fat droplets of rain began to fall.

Enough.

He returned his attention to Mrs. Donnelly. “You do have
some
funds, I presume?”

“Of course,” she bristled. “But they must be properly managed. The way I see it, we have three choices. Do we want shelter, coach fare, or food? We can have each one, but not all three on the same day. If we budget correctly—”

“Have you enough funds to pay for our room and meals tonight?”

She hesitated. “Yes, but we couldn’t possibly—”

“Splendid. That’s all I needed to know.”

Time he took matters into his own hands. Which meant taking her into his hands. Or at least taking her arm and steering her back toward the inn.

“Mr. Brooks, I must protest. It would be very unwise to incur such an expense at this stage in our journey. If we hope to make it to London, we must economize. I have devised a simple plan which I believe will carry us—Mr. Brooks, are you listening? Did you understand what I just said? Aren’t you concerned?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m listening. Yes, I understand, and no, I don’t care. I will have a warm room, a warm bed, a warm meal, and I will have it now.”

“But—”

They reached the inn. He opened the door, thrust Mrs. Donnelly inside, and followed her into the foyer. The driver and the rest of the coach’s occupants had already been accommodated. They were seated at tables in a large, tavern-like room. Pints of foamy ale rested before the gentlemen; the ladies had received tea. Jonathon noted they had also been served loaves of dark bread and bowls of some sort of stew. The rich scent wafted through the air, making his mouth water.

He cleared his throat, signaling his arrival to the woman behind a tall wooden counter. She glanced up and spared them a look that clearly said,
Wait your turn, mind your manners, and don’t drag your muddy boots across my clean floors as you leave.

“All full up,” she said, before returning her attention to her ledger. “You might want to try the blacksmith. He lets rooms over the foundry.”

Jonathon drew in a breath and sent the woman a pointed glare, ready to deliver a scathing set-down at her rudeness. Then he caught himself. What utter arrogance. He had expected to be received. Formally received. Will all the due deference and proud delight his arrival with his traveling retinue normally occasioned. Rooms for his servants and the best her house could offer for him. As though the woman should somehow be able to intuit that it was Viscount Brooksbank who graced her threshold, and not a sorely fatigued, travel-worn man garbed in clothing acquired from a charity bin.

Absurd.

At his side, Mrs. Donnelly heaved a weary sigh. She turned up the collar of her damp cloak and moved toward the door. He stopped her with a shake of his head. He might not have a farthing to his name, but he was not about to be put out into the street like a dog at a butcher’s. He removed his hat, dragged a hand through his hair, and stepped to the counter.

Jonathon guessed the woman who ran the inn to be somewhere in her fourth decade. Her brown hair was streaked with gray, but her deep green eyes sparkled with lively good humor. She wore a fine lace shawl tucked over her shoulders. Curves that once must have been spectacular now spread to soft womanly plumpness.
Olmsby Inn.
Mrs. Wintress, Proprietress
, boasted the sign above her head.

“All booked up, are you?” he said pleasantly. “That’s a shame, when I’d heard so many good things about this place. Why, Olmsby Inn is known all the way to London.”

The woman looked up. “London, you say?”

“Indeed. That’s what all the fine folks say. If you’re on the road between Liverpool and London, best stop at the Olmsby Inn. Mrs. Wintress runs the best house in all the county.”

Jonathon teased and cajoled and flattered, getting on with the proprietress like a house afire.

Right,” Mrs. Wintress said at length. “As I said, my best rooms are already taken. I’ve only the attic available. It’s breezy and the roof is prone to leaks, but the mattress is soft and the linens are clean.”

“Done,” Mr. Brooks said. “We’ll take it.”

The serving girl returned to the dining room, carrying a cast iron pot of something that smelled positively delicious. The scent wafted around them, reminding Jonathon how hungry he was. The other passengers of the mail coach had had the foresight to pack a midday meal. With their rushed leave-taking, he and Mrs. Donnelly hadn’t had time.

“What is that glorious aroma?” he asked.

Mrs. Wintress smiled proudly. “Only my specialty, ” she preened. “Best lamb stew you’ll ever eat.”

He let out a blissful sigh. “I do enjoy a good lamb stew.”

She leaned forward. “Makes your mouth water, don’t it?” she said. “Chunks of tender lamb, onions, carrots, peas, and potatoes, floating in a rich gravy sprinkled with fresh herbs and spices. Best you’ll ever taste.”

“I have no doubt. My wife and I will each have a large serving,” he said. “And a loaf of bread.”

Beside him, he heard Mrs. Donnelly gasp. She gave his sleeve a sharp tug. “Mr. Brooks—”

He arched one dark golden brow. “Yes, Mrs. Brooks?”

The appellation seemed to throw her off-balance, but only momentarily. Giving him a pointed glare, she tapped one finger against her reticule and shook her head. “I believe you’ve forgotten something.”

“What? Oh, of course.” He turned back to the proprietress. “My wife would like a bottle of your best wine to accompany the meal.”

Before Mrs. Donnelly could voice her objection, he continued, “If you don’t mind, we would prefer to dine in our room.” He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her snugly against his side. “We’ve only just been married, and we like our privacy. Don’t we, angel?”

Mrs. Wintress sent them a knowing wink. “Lucky girl.”

Mrs. Donnelly stiffened at his side. Jonathon could almost hear her teeth grind.

The proprietress slid a key from its cubbyhole and passed it to him. “If you don’t mind. I’ve had trouble with people passing through, not paying their bill.”

Although that was precisely what he had thought to do (with the intention of sending full payment to her once he reached London), he clucked his tongue in sympathetic dismay. “Awful.”

“So I’ll be needing payment in advance.”

“Of course you will. No trouble at all. My wife likes to handle the money. Sweet, isn’t it?” He looked at Mrs. Donnelly and nodded. “Pay up, dearest. And don’t forget to add a little something extra to thank Mrs. Wintress for her trouble.”

“Of course,” she grit out, “
dearest
.”

He nodded and grabbed her valise, swinging it beside him as he took off up a narrow flight of stairs.

Snippets of conversation trailed in his wake. Mrs. Wintress:  “Charming bloke you got there, dearie. Handsome as sin, isn’t he?”

His disgruntled ‘bride’: “Yes. Well. He certainly seems to think so.”

He bit back a laugh and made his way up the twisting staircase to the top landing, where he found the door ajar. He stepped through, entering a long space with broad pine floors and a sloping ceiling—he would have to duck if he wanted a view out the window. Not that there was much of a view to be seen at present. Night had fallen and the storm had swept in, bringing all its dark, blustery glory with it. Gusts of wind rattled the window glass and rain pelted the roof.

The space was tidy, but sparsely furnished. It contained little more than a washstand, a small pine table and mismatched chairs, a wooden partition screen, and an oversized bed atop of which rested a puffy goose down quilt. Gratitude surged through him. At that moment, the finest room in London’s finest house wouldn’t have looked more appealing.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled off his right boot. He flexed his stockinged foot and gave a blissful sigh. “Nicely done, don’t you think?” he remarked as Mrs. Donnelly entered the room behind him.

“Indeed. You could charm the skin off a snake.”

He paused and cocked his head to one side. “Hmm. That’s not much of a compliment, is it? Given that snakes shed their skins naturally.” His left boot hit the ground, joining its partner with a solid
thunk
.

“My point is, Mr. Brooks, going forward, we have to economize. Perhaps you are not accustomed to being inconvenienced. Nonetheless, sacrifices must be made. This is a rather reckless expenditure.”

“It’s only money, Mrs. Donnelly.”

“Spoken with the haughty assurance of someone who’s never been without it before.”

“Ah.” He sobered and regarded her with newfound sympathy. “Have you ever been without it before?”

She brought up her chin. “Actually, no. Because I know how to
manage
my money.”

She clearly meant for this to be a teaching moment, but her advantage was lost as a light knock sounded at the door. Two young serving girls entered. One carried a pewter tray with their meal, the other held a basket of kindling.

He stood and moved to the washstand. He poured the water, politely gesturing for her to go first. She took off her damp cloak and hung it on a hook by the fire to dry. Her bonnet joined it. She washed her hands and face, then smoothed her hands over her hair to tidy her bun.

He followed, grimacing at the unfamiliar stubble that coated his cheeks and chin. He was in desperate need of a shave. A hot bath wouldn’t be unwelcome either. But as there wasn’t anything he could do to remedy his appearance, he shrugged the matter off.

When he turned, he found the serving girls had finished their tasks and left. A fire blazed in the grate, snapping and crackling and banishing the chill that hung in the air. His gaze moved to the table. Mrs. Wintress, (apparently a romantic soul, bless her) had outdone herself. In addition to the food, which smelled positively divine, she’d provided them a few extra touches. A lace cloth covered the rough pine table. Wildflowers filled a pewter jug, a candle flickered.

He took that all in with a quick glance, then his gaze moved to Mrs. Donnelly. She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, her dark eyes wide and doe-like as she surveyed the room, her gaze returning over and over to oversized bed which dominated the space. She stood uncertainly near the door, as though seriously considering grabbing her valise and bolting through it.

Biting back a smile, he endeavored to put her at ease. “Going forward,” he said, “I shall endeavor to follow your financial judgment to the letter. For the moment, however, I am exceedingly grateful for the blessing of a warm meal and shelter from the storm.”

That seemed to take the bluster right out of her. She gave a tight, fleeting smile. Her gaze met his, hesitant, yet searching.