Page 50 of When We Touch

The carriage jolted to a halt.

“You’re home,” he told her.

He wasn’t confining her anymore, she realized. She jumped back to her own side of the carriage, staring at him.

She could see that Randolph had come down from the driver’s seat and awaited Jamie’s motion to open the door.

Maggie stared at Jamie, disturbed.

A glance out the window had assured her that Justin indeed was home; the carriage was in the drive, and the horse had been stabled for the night.

A light burned in the parlor. It wasn’t late; whatever had made her brother choose to stay home tonight?

She was a disaster. A complete disaster. Hair completely mussed, clothing all untidy. Her nerves were quite shattered.

Staring at her, Jamie arched a brow. “Alas, this doesn’t look good, does it?” He leaned out the window. “Randolph, the lady had a rather bad night. I think we should take her home for a brandy before she tries to sleep.”

“Ah, sir! Home, then.”

Randolph returned to the driver’s seat. They heard his command to the horse and his flick of the reins. The horse jolted back into motion. “Does this suit you, m’lady? At my town house, you can take all the time you need to get yourself together. Don’t worry. This is my coach, and Randolph is my personal servant. He can pull around to the back. You’ll not be seen coming, or going.”

She suddenly buried her face in her hands. “All right.”

His “town house” was not a row house, but a single large dwelling, old, dating back to Tudor times, she was certain, and elegantly designed, as if it had been planned, perhaps, for the mistress of a king. A sweeping drive brought the carriage around to the rear, which was surrounded by lush vegetation. In fact, the house sat in its own private park, not far from Buckingham Palace, in the St. James area of the city. They exited in the carriage house, a generous structure with a passageway through to the manor itself. They came into an empty kitchen where lights had been left burning low.

“Come along. There’s a guest room up the stairs; you’ll find all you might need,” Jamie told her.

The whole of the house was darkened. She was certain he had live-in servants to keep such a large place so immaculate, but if so, they had long retired. She saw little of his home, but found herself curious, and tried, as they hastily moved along, to see all that she could. The parlor was elegant with oak furniture and damask coverings, and was warmed by a hearth that ran almost the length of a wall. A door stood ajar that led to a library with a large mahogany desk occupying much of the far center of the room and endless rows of books covering the walls. A staircase, curving handsomely against a back wall, was not terribly broad, but the old oak banisters were richly carved.

Up the stairs, Jamie pointed down the hall to a door. “The guest room.” He turned. “My door,” he said, indicating the one at the end of the hallway. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll see you home.”

She nodded stiffly and forced a “Thank you.”

He didn’t respond, but walked the distance down the hall to his door.

She hesitated, then hurried into the room he’d indicated to her. Quite nice, for guests, she determined. But then, he lived alone. Or, at least, she thought that he did. And certainly, if he was in the Queen’s service, in whatever capacity, he was making a fine income. And, of course, he was Charles’s nephew. Great nephew. But she didn’t think that he derived much income from his uncle’s estates. Then again, what did she really know at all?

The bed was pleasantly large and had a canopy hung with fine white Belgian lace. There was a light wood wardrobe in the room, a small secretary against a wall, and a dressing room. There was also a very modern bathroom, the size of which indicated that it had recently been remodeled, perhaps from another small room that might have extended off the guest room.

A sink offered running water, hot and cold, and she washed her face, then looked into the mirror above the basin, and saw her reflection with horror. Pins were escaping everywhere; she needed a brush badly.

There was one out on a dressing table. She returned to the room and began plucking the pins from her hair. In a few minutes, she found that she couldn’t quite reach the tangle of hair and pins that had knotted in the back. She hesitated, gritted her teeth, winced, and then stepped into the hallway and hesitantly walked to the door he had indicated as his own.

At her rap, she heard “Come in?”

He had shed his greatcoat and made himself a brandy. His own quarters were both masculine and comfortable. The canopy on his bed was broad and in a deep crimson velvet. The bedroom itself was in an alcove, and beyond the minor arches was a sitting area, where he now sat casually on a small sofa, sipping the brandy, staring into the hearth, where a fire burned warmly.

He turned as she entered.

“Sorry.” She indicated the back of her hair. “If you would be so kind . . . ?”

“Come here, then.”

He set the brandy down on the small occasional table before him. She moved to the little sofa and gingerly took a seat before him, turning her back to him. She felt his fingers move expertly into her hair.

“A fine mess you’ve made,” he murmured.

“Of many things,” she agreed softly.