For the Love of Lila Page 5

  “Definitely.” She took the bag, her complexion now pale. Pulling her cap down low on her brow, she dashed through the rain toward the inn.

  Her obvious rise of apprehension did nothing to subdue his. He ran after her and cut in front before they entered the inn. Directly within, they were greeted by the innkeeper, a swarthy middle-aged man, and his wife, a plump and fair-haired matron.

  “Yer in luck,” the man announced. “We’ve one very good room left. Will ye be sharin’ with your...uh—”

  “Valet,” Tristan said and frowned at his choice of deception. Valets were usually crusty old codgers, not green boys. Why hadn’t he planned how to handle this beforehand? “We shall require separate quarters.”

  The innkeeper frowned toward Miss Covington and looked back to Tristan. “Damn my eyes, if he ain’t the youngest valet I ever seen. Good thing, though. We’ve only the one room left, but I reckon your valet can bed down with me own boy. They’re of an age and Ian wouldn’t mind a bedfellow, would he, May?”

  He looked to his wife, who scrutinized Miss Covington with cool blue eyes.

  “Oh, I daresay he wouldn’t mind this bedfellow.” Her gaze shifted to lock with Tristan’s, and his stomach twisted hard.

  She knew.

  The woman lifted ash blond eyebrows at him. “Of course, if you’d like to keep your valet with you, there is a trundle bed in the room. The chamber is a large one.”

  A clap of thunder roared outside, and rain slapped against the door behind them. Tristan didn’t dare look at Miss Covington and didn’t bother inquiring about other inns in the area. He knew that in this stretch of countryside, lodgings would be a rarity. Vocal cords tightening, he said, “I would prefer to keep him with me. The, uh, trundle will be fine.”

  She nodded, pursing her lips. “I reckoned as much. Well, me husband will show ye up. We’re done serving supper, but I can send some stew up to ye. I daresay the pot is still bubbling.”

  He nodded and fumbled for money to prepay their shot—anything to lessen the time they would be here in the morning.

  While the innkeeper showed them to the room, he could feel Miss Covington’s gaze boring into him, for once sharp with emotion. Was she angry at him? She had to know he’d had no choice but to accept the chamber without hesitation. Afraid, perhaps? Was it possible she might not realize he had no intention of actually sleeping in the room with her?

  As soon as they entered, he practically shut the door in the innkeeper’s face. Grappling with the door latch, he said, “I shall sleep in the stables, of course. If the carriage is repaired early, perhaps I can move into that.”

  He got the latch hooked and turned to find her inspecting the chamber, a surprisingly commodious and well maintained room. Her profile gave him no hint to her temper.

  She leaned over a trundle bed in the far corner and dragged it away from the wall. Turning down a thick coverlet and examining the sheets, she asked, “How do you propose to explain to the stablehands why your valet is to sleep in comfort while you are exposed to the elements?”

  Angry. He should have known fear wouldn’t be her style. The valet fabrication had been stupid of him, but hindsight was pointless. “Perhaps we can say that you’re ill...”

  At last she met his gaze, her brows raised. “Shall we tell them I suffer from a putrid fever—cholera, perhaps? For you to sleep in the carriage I should have to be quite indisposed, don’t you think? And don’t you think such a story will get us both thrown out into the rain?”

  He stood mute, a brew of mixed sentiments simmering under his collar. She had no right to be vexed. His lie had been poor but necessitated only by her poor disguise. Meanwhile, he was putting his entire future at stake for her.

  The sole thing that kept him from venting his ire was a consciousness of what he owed her father’s memory. Hell, if not for Sir Francis’ encouragement, he might never have formed his political aspirations. An image surfaced in his mind of what the baronet would think if he could see his daughter now, trapped for the night in a thoroughly compromising position. He would turn over in his grave—and Tristan had facilitated the whole mess.

  Miss Covington sighed and sat down on the cot. Just as he was about to apologize, she said, “Pray forgive me. I am a bit overset by the circumstances, but ‘tis only on my account that we’re in this predicament.”

  “No,” he said. “I entered this plan willingly, despite having been about in the world more than you and having a better understanding of the risks. I ought to have known better. I should have come up with another, more practical—”

  “Don’t be daft. You have done far more than anyone could expect of you.” She looked down at the coverlet, running a hand over the linen. “You know, for a trundle, this feels almost comfortable. I would be happy to sleep here myself, but I gather that you will insist I take the...the bed.”

  Her tone wavered on the last words, and she wouldn’t look up at him. She was afraid after all, and rightly so, considering it seemed they must share the room. Yet she had resigned herself to accept the arrangement, a fact that astounded him.

  While he stood scouring his mind for another possibility, she got up and walked to the bed, turning down the counterpane. She murmured something to herself, the pounding rain drowning out all but the words “no alternative.”

  A burst of thunder exploded outside, and they both jumped. No alternative. She was right. He could think of nothing. He swallowed hard. “I promise I will not...”

  His throat closed around the rest of the sentence.

  “I know.” Her voice sounded tight as well. “You needn’t say more. In fact, perhaps the less said about this, the better. We can only mortify ourselves further.”

  Another crash of thunder made her start again. She chafed her arms and, beneath her rolled-up shirtsleeves, he saw that gooseflesh had risen on her skin. She finally met his gaze, wringing out a thin smile. “We could be in a worse predicament, I suppose. Had we been caught driving in this, our lives would have been at risk, not simply our composure.”

  Composure. Interesting that she’d chosen that word rather than reputation or virtue. His composure was indeed shredded. He focused on the rest of her statement, the significant part. “We are safe here. Let me assure you that you are safe, Miss Covington.”

  She kept her gaze on him but turned slightly, observing him from the side, obviously wary. He would never take advantage of her, but she had no way of knowing so for sure. Perhaps now she had come to regret their bargain to travel together. Indeed, she must have longed to trade her clinging breeches for a modest gown. He wished she could, too. A few yards of billowing fabric might have helped clear his head of the sensual speculations he struggled to fend off.

  He opened his mouth to offer more assurance, but what good would more words do? She’d been right to suggest the subject be dropped.

  Setting down his bag, he rubbed his palms together. “I believe I shall go down to the taproom for a drink. That will give you a few moments of privacy. I will tell the staff to hold our stew until I come back up to join you—a half-hour, shall we say? Longer, perhaps?”

  Another clap of thunder sounded, and she glanced toward the window, her face pale. “A half-hour will be enough, thank you.”

  He felt an instinctive drive to stay and comfort her. Ludicrous! His presence was the very source of her unease. Instead, he mumbled a goodbye and grappled to unlock the door.

  Once in the hall, he strode away from the room, combing a hand through his damp hair. Good Lord, this would be an unbearable night, perhaps as uncomfortable as sleeping in the stables would have been, though in quite a different way. He would tarry in the taproom as long as possible. Some good hard cider might help ease his nerves before bed.

  Bed! His mind flashed an image of Lila Covington climbing into the bed upstairs, dressed in a sheer nightrail, her black hair cascading down her back. He shook his head fiercely. If he didn’t halt such images from the start, he’d be plagued with them all ni
ght.

  He trudged into the taproom, frowning deeply. If he got a wink of sleep that night, he would count himself fortunate.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Lila stared into the dark, listening to rain beat on the window above the headboard. She would be lucky if she got a wink of sleep all night. Electrical storms always unnerved her, and tonight she had double cause for insomnia. Even during breaks in the weather, she had been agitated by an awareness of Mr. Wyndam’s presence. She had tried to compose herself by reviewing all the grounds she had not to be afraid of him. For goodness’ sake, he had been sound asleep for hours. Eventually, she’d had to acknowledge that fear of him must not be her problem. What unsettled her was her attraction to him.

  From the direction of the trundle bed, she heard a soft snore, barely audible under the noise of the storm. To sleep through the last few claps of thunder, he must have been very tired indeed, though the cider he had quaffed downstairs had likely helped. His “half-hour” in the taproom had turned into two hours, and she hadn’t needed to ask why. Clearly, he had been doing all he could to limit their time alone together in the room. Unlike her, he hadn’t allowed the idea to titillate him. She envied his consistency in keeping to the path of discretion.

  Then again, on occasion he might do well to reroute. He seemed to think the world revolved around his father’s values. Well, perhaps it did—but it shouldn’t have.

  The wind howled, and a pocket of hard rain splattered against the panes. She shivered, despite the warmth of the counterpane, and shrunk deeper into the feather mattress. She hated waiting out this sort of storm alone. If only Mr. Wyndam were awake, she would have company to help occupy her mind.

  Lightning flashed, and she winced in time with the thunder that blasted on its heels, the closest strike she had yet heard. Maybe now he would wake up.

  No, below the pounding downpour, she heard another quiet snore. How on earth did he manage to sleep? But he had driven all day, while she had spent the morning dozing. She was selfish to wish him awake. He needed his rest.

  Another shock of lightning glared, and a deafening crack sounded almost simultaneously.

  She sat up and scooted toward the foot of the bed, away from the window. Lord, that was close. Had it taken down a tree in the yard?

  Pulling the counterpane around her shoulders, she peered toward the trundle bed. A white flash lit up the barrister’s motionless figure before the dark swallowed him again with an accompanying rumble. At least that one hadn’t been as near as the last. Perhaps the worst had passed.

  The fire in the hearth had died, so she stayed put, bundled in her blanket. After a few minutes, she decided to light a candle. That way she wouldn’t have to wait blindly between those horrid flashes.

  She slid out of bed and stood on the cold wooden floor, inching toward the nightstand where Mr. Wyndam had left the candle. The room was pitch-black, and she moved in a stooped posture, her hands stretched out before her to prevent a collision with the furnishings.

  Her right hand met with something warm—fabric over hard muscle. She snatched her arm back just as a bolt of lightning revealed she had felt Mr. Wyndam’s shin, covered only by a sheet. The room went dark, and a rustling came from his direction as she stood still, fancying she could feel her chilled fingers thawing from the scant bit of contact.

  Foolish! She didn’t know whether to hope she hadn’t disturbed him or had. Then she heard his breathing again, not snoring, but the even respiration of sleep. Had the rain grown quieter? It must have, as she could also hear her own heart thumping.

  She located the candle and tinderbox by touch and, after a minor struggle, succeeded in lighting the wick. Rather than providing a reassuring illumination, the flickering flame invoked ghostly shadows in every corner of the room. As she picked up the candleholder to take it back to bed, she glanced toward Mr. Wyndam. He lay on his back, his face turned away from her. She found herself pausing, even leaning a little closer to the trundle bed, a tingle rising up her spine.

  She let her gaze linger on his face, tracing his strong jawline, fringed with dark sprouting bristles—fascinatingly male. His need of a shave emphasized the intimacy of the moment; normally he never would have appeared before her in such a state. Indeed, he had not chosen to appear like this now and certainly would not have appreciated her studying him.

  She looked away, toward her bed, but still didn’t go to it. Tristan Wyndam was an extraordinary man in both his person and his character. Until she had met him, she hadn’t realized the extent of her sexual vulnerability. Standing here beside his bed, she felt a tremendous yearning...a yearning that her philosophy left no room for. She had long ago accepted that she would spend her life without male companionship. To marry made a woman a slave, and to become a mistress afforded one less respect yet. Until the unlikely event that the world offered a new alternative, she had no choice but to live alone.

  So, why on earth was she standing here next to a sleeping man’s bed? The reason came to her, one that brought an ache of regret: This moment would likely be the most intimate she would ever share with a man.

  It was well she hadn’t slept through it. And no wonder she didn’t hurry back to her bed.

  Though she knew it wrong to spy on a sleeping person, she looked back at Mr. Wyndam...at Tristan. Having allowed herself to think of him by his given name, she felt a heady rush, charged with guilt and a sense of risk. To indulge this sort of thought could only be dangerous, but maybe not too dangerous if she confined it to a moment. After all, this was the closest she would ever come to...to...She couldn’t put the idea into words, even in her private thoughts. Never in her life would she go to bed with a man. Could she not—this one time—allow herself to dream about it?

  She moved back toward the trundle bed, trembling over her own audacity. Oh, his features were fine, every perfectly formed detail of his face delineated in the candlelight. Good Lord, she had never imagined she could be this susceptible to a man. After this one little ration of fantasy, she swore she would discipline her thoughts with the determination of a nun. But while the moment lasted she stooped beside him, drawing a smidgen closer.

  One of his arms, the one farther from her, rested over the covers. He had worn a loose shirt to bed, but the rolled sleeve exposed muscled contours that reminded her of ancient Greek statues. The rest of his body would look that way, too, she thought, letting her gaze drift down his blanket-draped form. Thanks to her studies, she knew quite what the coverlet hid at every point. Shocked by her effrontery, she sucked her breath in deep.

  He stirred, perhaps sensing her shameful scrutiny, and her focus flew back to his face. As he rolled over so that his body faced her, his arm flopped over the side of the bunk and his fingers brushed her arm. She jumped back, slamming her elbow into the nightstand, which screeched back on the floorboards.

  “Ow!” She yanked her arm forward again and fell hard on her knees. “Ow!” Somehow, she still balanced the lit candle, biting her lip to keep from moaning. She pressed her elbow into her side, as she had no free hand to rub her injury. Her knees felt as if they had shattered.

  “Wha...Who...?” a groggy voice murmured from quite close to her. “Lila?”

  She realized she had her eyes squeezed shut and opened them. Naturally, he could sleep through crashing thunder but woke to catch her in this scrape. “Shh. Go back to sleep.”

  He blinked at her, as though he didn’t trust his own perceptions. “Wha...what is it?”

  “‘Tis nothing.” She tried to rise, but pain sheared her knees and they crumpled. The best she could do was keep from pitching head-first onto the trundle. “Never mind. You need your rest.”

  He lifted his head, squinting. “What are you doing?”

  She opened her mouth but got distracted when his gaze skimmed down her body. Recalling the thinness of her nightrail, she covered her breasts with her free arm, but he had already looked back to her face, his expression of confusion settling into a frown.

&n
bsp; “The storm kept me awake.” She turned toward the window, seeing with chagrin that the bullets of water had subsided.

  “What storm?” His tone had grown sharper, more alert, ruling out her hope that he would roll over and go back to sleep.

  “It seems to have passed.” Her uninjured arm began to cramp under the heavy brass candleholder. Could anything more go wrong? “Blast it. Would you take this, please? I hurt my knees, and I need to brace myself to get up.”

  He gave her a hard look but struggled to prop himself up on one arm. The sheet slid down and bared part of the sculpted chest that she had envisioned moments before. She turned her face away, keenly aware that his fingers brushed hers while he pried the holder from her grasp. Hand freed, she grabbed her injured elbow and curled in pain and humiliation. She leaned against the trundle for support.

  “How badly are you hurt? Do you...” He cleared his throat. “Do you need help getting up?”

  “No, no. You stay where you are.” She kneaded her knees through her billowing nightrail. “I am very sorry that I woke you. I shall be fine in a moment.”

  “Do you need me to leave the room? I mean, did you want the candle because you needed to...to use the necessary?”

  “Oh, no!” Her cheeks went hot, and her nails dug into her legs. “I only wanted the light for comfort.”

  “For comfort?” Disbelief edged his tone. When he spoke again, annoyance displaced it. “Miss Covington.”

  “Y-yes?”

  “Miss Covington, look at me.”

  She glanced up at him from under her lashes, her unbound hair falling in her face. She hoped it hid her blush.

  For once, the blue of his eyes failed to shine through the dimness. His entire face had clouded. “This may have been an accident, but you cannot allow such accidents to happen.”

  She nodded. “You are right. It simply didn’t seem very consequential if I—”

  “But, clearly, it was consequential. In such a tenuous situation as we are in, every action is consequential. You and I were forced to sleep in this chamber together, but you must keep to your side of the room. You cannot wander over on a whim, incurring a mishap that nearly lands you in my bed.”