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She untied and pulled down the curtain, blocking the view.
‘Don’t.’
She jumped at the sharp word, turning.
‘Tie it back. The curtain.’
She was too surprised to obey immediately. ‘It is cold.’
Lochmore shifted Jamie’s sleeping form and reached under the seat to pull out a colourful afghan.
‘Here. Put that around you. Leave the curtain open.’
She retied the sash and unfolded the blanket. The wool was fine and warm and she wrapped it about her, grateful but confused. Then annoyance struck her, a little late but welcome. She was not here to stay. She need not be compliant as she was at Uxmore.
‘Please,’ she said and he frowned.
‘Please, what?’
‘Please, Mrs Langdale, would you mind leaving the curtains open? I find it easier to brood while viewing the rain and gloom in all its glory.’
His chest expanded, then his breath came out in a long hiss.
‘I used to consider Lady Theale an astute woman, but now I am doubtful—she assured me you would give me no cause for complaint, Mrs Langdale.’
‘I apologise for giving you cause for complaint, Your Grace.’
He sighed and shook his head.
‘You should apologise for making me feel like a churlish fool.’
‘I only assume responsibility for my mistakes, Your Grace. Not for a state of affairs beyond my control.’
It was a risk, but it paid off. The tension evident in the grooves in his cheeks eased into the glimmer of a smile.
‘Kicking a man while he is down is not sportsmanlike, Mrs Langdale.’
‘It may not be, but he is much easier to reach when he is, Your Grace.’
He laughed and turned to inspect the passing scenery and, after a moment, Jo did the same.
* * *
The silence fell again but for the patter of rain and the sounds of the sleepers. Benneit watched the slide of green and grey beyond the rain, caught between amusement at Mrs Langdale’s impertinence and frustration at himself. How the devil did he always manage to come out the worst from their exchanges?
She had a point, though. His reaction had been instinctive, but far too harsh. He usually controlled the outer manifestations of his condition, but sometimes when he was weary that control slipped. And when it did, it left this foul ache in his arms and chest, as if he had gone a dozen rounds sparring with Angus at his best. He shifted his shoulders, cursing his weakness. Thirty years had passed and he was still as cracked a vessel as ever.
He glanced at Joane Langdale but she did not turn. She looked like an urchin, tucked into Mrs Merry’s blanket. His housekeeper had used every colour of wool she could find and the result bordered on disaster and yet was charming, like an English spring garden chopped up and woven together. Against its riot of colour Mrs Langdale’s delicate colouring was more ethereal than pixyish. Soft.
She raised the shawl, brushing her cheek with it furtively, the way Jamie did when he was sneaking a tart from Mrs Merry. Even through the clop of the horses’ hooves and the creaking of the carriage, he thought he could hear the faint burr of fabric on flesh and his own cheek warmed, his fingers tingling as if making contact with the shawl, or her cheek. A snake of a shudder made him shift his legs in surprise and discomfort and he shoved his hands into his pockets and turned again to the blurry greyness outside.
Boredom and a wayward mind were dangerous things. Especially after an exhausting week of travelling, his mind caught between Jamie’s ills and the daunting challenges awaiting him back home. He should keep his thoughts on those challenges, but the image lingered like a painting in a gallery one kept returning to inspect—the curve of her cheek just brushed with colour and the surprising lushness of her lower lip nestled against the blanket. His mind fixed on it like an eagle on prey—circling, honing in on every angle and aspect, trying to understand what on earth was so appealing and why his hands were hot and buzzing with discomfort that had nothing to do with his ancient weakness.
He looked resolutely at Jamie, recalling his visit to McCrieff Castle the day before his departure for London. McCrieff preening like a prize cock, Lady Tessa calm and sweet, her generous figure presented in a slightly garish pink that spoke more of her mother’s tastes and ambitions than her own. She was intelligent, too—thoroughly aware of the political and financial import of such a union and clearly willing to undertake it. She was the perfect bride for the Duke of Lochmore.
