Greyson groaned, his face tilted towards the darkening sky. He was cursed.
It simply had to rain hours after they had left the inn. And not a sprinkling drizzle. No, it must be a monsoon of epic proportions that sunk wariness into his bones, and at the same time plastering his greatcoat to his chest, causing goose flesh to dot his arms. He shifted his hips, cursing when his breeches tightened abnormally against his lower body. It only worsened with the steady clop of his horse, making his body shift forwards in a rather uncomfortable manner, indeed.
It would be a bloody miracle if he didn't find himself a soprano by journey's end.
He glanced over his shoulder towards Charlie, barely hearing the hoofbeats of her horse over the rain. The last thing Greyson needed - but one he was prepared for - was his unwilling servant giving him the slip.
Instead, another vision entirely greeted him. The bloody chit was grinning like a heathen.
Greyson's breath lodged in his chest when the daft creature tilted her head back, opening her mouth as if to catch the meandering droplets. She giggled, her hands lightly clenching the reins of her horse, as she galloped at a quick pace beside him. It about took ten years off his bloody life.
Greyson's eyes narrowed as he thought back to last evening. Make that twenty years off his life.
"Do be careful, will you?" Greyson called back, trying to making his voice as nonchalant as possible when he wanted nothing more than to throttle the reckless action of the madwoman behind him. "I would hate for all my tiresome troubles over the last few days to be wasted and not get my dutiful servant because you broke your bloody neck."
The lady laughed.
Laughed!
Her chin swept down, rain dancing merrily about her. Strands of dark hair appeared black as they plastered themselves to the paleness of her face. Her eyes squinted against the plunking of drops that landed on the tip of her nose and upon the curves of her cheekbones. She grinned at him, one hand clasping her hat firmly atop her head. "You have been caterwauling all morning, my lord. What? Are you not a fan of the rain, then?"
"I don't caterwaul," Greyson said, shouting to be heard over the storm. His body stiffened in affront at the very idea. The chit laughed at him again, her bright eyes alive, sparking like the lightning that chose that moment to flash across the sky. I am simply not used to being plagued unnecessarily by deuced challenging women! But what he replied instead was, "Besides, who would like the rain when it logs down my clothing and slows down my bloody journey. I feel like a damned drowned rat."
But, truth be told, his vile mood had begun much earlier than this morn.
It had been sharing a bedchamber with this woman, her intense eyes on his person, equal parts curious and embarrassed. The first ten minutes it had been an exercise in control. Her eyes had shifted away only to continue their minute inspection. This, Greyson had been sure, was what a caged animal felt like.
He had thought it would be a simple business. Get ready for bed, ignore the chit and sleep soundly. After all, he had barely slept a wink thanks in large part to the woman currently in his rooms. Greyson had used the washbasin, as per usual, scrubbing with lukewarm water the traces of dirt and grime and sweat that had bled into his skin.
The water turned muddy and gray before reaching for the cloth to pat his face dry. The stubble gracing his jaw made him wish for soap and a razor.
Greyson had looked up then, feeling that consuming blue-green gaze, and his eyes had clashed with hers. The bloody woman hadn't even looked away. No. The lady had licked her lips. An innocent gesture he was sure, one she wasn't even aware of making. Greyson found his muscles pulling taut, nevertheless. He had clenched the edge of the basin as if his very life depended upon it. Closing his eyes, he had sought divine intervention.
God hadn't seen fit as his eyes opened only to find her eyes on his bottom!
A coward through and through, Greyson had left the chamber, slamming the door behind him as he mumbled something to the effect of needing a drink.
Thunder rumbled above his head, and Greyson thoughts were lost in the rain. The sky darkened considerably, and he briefly considered turning back. He twisted around towards Charlie, realizing she was soaked through. Her face was now hunkered down into the cloak he had found for her at the inn. All he could see were her eyes.
But Greyson knew the inn was an hours ride back. It would make sense to simply move forward. The horse shifted under him, the forelegs bunching, its hindquarters kicking them into a faster gallop. Greyson found his own face tilting, taking refuge from his thoughts in the cold drops.
But his mind refused to stay away for long.
Greyson had thought the extra fingers of bourbon would help last evening. He had taken residence in the same corner of the common room, its confines devoid of most but the occasional lone man in his cups.
His scowl must have been quite black and foul indeed as he considered his predicament, for not even the bumbling proprietor - no doubt still seeking recompense for his disgruntled guest - had been willing to approach.
Instead, Mr. Mulberry had fluttered about like a baby bird with a broken wing, always one shout away in case its mother called him. It became rather tedious to watch the man as he paid undue heed to crumbs on an unoccupied table. Or when he had sought to scrub the top off the wooden table, Mr. Mulberry's fumbling attempts only making him stumble and scatter the table's accoutrements.
Only after Greyson had felt delightfully foxed, his vision wavy and his mood restored, did he return to his rooms.
Instead of easing his frayed nerves, however, the alcohol only seemed to dull the logical, cautious part of his brain. His gaze went unerringly to her. He hadn't thought about their sleeping arrangements, but mayhap he should have.
Charlie was on the settee in the far right corner of the room. She was a lump, her body curled up in the fetal position. He could only see the top of her head, a few curls escaping, seeing as how she was cocooned in a pile of covers with feather pillows lining the back of the settee, at the end of her feet and alongside her head.
She was snoring, a soft, delicate sound, completely oblivious to Greyson's plight.
He found it irksome. Was he the only one to feel discombobulated so?
And that was before Greyson had turned towards his own bed, wobbling slightly. The four poster bed stood in the center of the left side of the wall. Earlier it had been decadently draped in green fabrics. He gazed at its current dressing, his mouth open in shock. One brow rose high on his forehead.
The little thief had stolen every piece of his bed linens.
He should be outraged. Appalled, even.
Yet, Greyson felt his lips quirk. Seems his little caterpillar wasn't too fond of their sleeping arrangements either. As far as revenge went, it was a bloody good one.
Of course, the smile was dashed away when undressing himself became a lesson in torture. For at every moment - as he untied his cravat, as he unbuttoned each fastening on his waistcoat, as he reached for the placard of his breeches - he was unerringly aware that a lady was asleep in his chambers. A few steps away, snuggled in stolen down and wrapped in his bed linens.
Greyson didn't know if the whole episode was thoroughly amusing or simply God's way to spite him. Perhaps he was in over his head with Lady Charlotte.
Damned if that didn't make Greyson want to know her more. He resigned himself to the near constant buzz of lust in his veins. It was the challenge, he insisted. The preposterousness of her actions, of her disguise, that had him so...damned preoccupied with her.
And what good would it do her, he wondered? His protection was inadequate at best, perhaps negligible considering he had nearly gotten his sister killed.
And yet...
Charlie was such a delightful mix of contradictions. As Greyson climbed into his makeshift pallet - for that was all it seemed to be, at this point - he wondered at her circumstances. It was driving him bloody mad with his need to know. It didn't help that his little caterpillar seemed more than capable of her own protection. The longer Greyson was within her company, the more he noticed Charlie had spread her wings further and further.
A dazzling array of colors that Greyson wanted to investigate.
Determined to get some sleep, Greyson had finally began feeling the inevitable pull of the liquor. It numbed his limbs and slackened his muscles.
Until the woman had shifted.
Over and over, each time doing so with a little sigh of discomfort. A disgruntled snort and, at times, tiny, impatient huffs. He wanted to thrash the creature for the jealousy inspired with each torturous instance. For Greyson wished to be that piece of cloth scraping her skin. Each creaking of the chaise had Greyson wanting to climb in beside her. He would kiss her softly upon the curve of her shoulder, and Charlie would turn to him sleepily, a sweet, half-dazed smile upon her lips, as she opened her arms. A silent beseeching for him to curl up behind her, Charlie's head on his shoulder while he drew an arm about her waist.
His agony changed halfway through when he heard the lady's teeth chattering from cold, even with all of his creature comforts stacked around her. It went against everything he had been taught as a gentleman - as a decent human being, as an older brother - to leave Charlotte on that flimsy piece of furniture. He knew by her frequent huffs and maneuverings that the settee had to be as uncomfortable as it looked. Like sleeping upon a pile of stone and mortar.
That deuced disguise of hers, however, nixed the idea from forming. He was the master, the lord. Showing any type of undue concern for her comfort would have been odd.
Until he knew what Charlie faced, Greyson was going to keep to her rules. Or until such a time that Greyson's will and honor crumbled, and he found himself pressing her body into the nearest wall so he could take her lips.
Greyson was sure it would be the latter as her moans and groans had amplified in the quiet.
A swift gust of wind bowled over his body, bringing Greyson back from his thoughts. His tailcoat whipped behind him, flapping with their quickened paces. His hands were cold and cracking from the rain sheeting upon him.
Charlie was faring hardly better. The laughing urchin of earlier was now shivering slightly, her full head now encased in garments. The sight caused him a pang of discomfort. He must think of something, he knew, to ease her plight.
To hell with her disguise, he thought. This was asking too much.
He pulled on his stallion's reins as he fell alongside Charlie. He shouted over the rain. "Lad!"
Charlie's head popped up, a turtle braving the comforts of her shell. She peered at him. He motioned for her to halt her motions, and she did, pulling back to bring her horse to a stop. Greyson didn't think anything of it as he hauled her body over to his horse. Charlie made a brief sound of noncommittal, but Greyson found his foul mood - not to mention the blows to his honor as a gentleman - had him uncaring.
He turned her to face him, her body's weight nothing more than a minor inconvenience as her legs dangled along the left side of his stallion, pressed into his inner thigh. Greyson's hand pressed her face further into him, his other hand wrapping his black cloak about Charlie. "Stay here, lad, until the rain lets up. We'll make better time if I don't have to worry about you."
Her face came up, her lips tight, as she pushed against his arms. "I can handle myself just fine, my lord."
Greyson subdued her struggles easily, ignoring the wet floral scent of her teasing his nostrils. "I don't have the patience to fight with you, lad. Either way, you will find yourself right where you are. So go ahead and struggle all you like, but know you are only increasing your own discomfort - not to mention mine - by holding us up."
Charlie glared at him, her arms crossed over her chest.
He rolled his eyes. "Fine, then. Your horse." Her eyes shifted. Greyson figured the horse was some type of Irish draft with its large hooves and a shiny coat. It was a beautiful specimen, one that he would be delighted to have in his stables. He wondered which horse would breed the best with it, before he shook his thoughts off business. It could wait.
Her eyes were narrowed on him mutinously. No doubt knowing where he was going with this.
"Do you wish to keep your horse running about in muck? Do you think it's safe to travel in such conditions?"
He wondered if stubbornness would win, but eventually she nodded. Greyson was momentarily nonplussed when the woman burrowed into him then, her arms clasped between their chests. Knowing he had won for now, Greyson urged his horse into a trot.
***
They had been riding in relative silence before Greyson saw the structure up ahead. It was off the main road, of shoddy foundation, but it looked sufficient to dry off until the rain let up. While it hadn't been a downpour as earlier - the thunder having tapered off and the lightning sparking only infrequently in the distance - Greyson worried about the long travel on his passenger.
He glanced down at the lady in question, sound asleep. She was enclosed in the blackness of his great coat, her mouth hanging slightly open as a snore drifted towards him. Charlie looked rather delicate against him - pale where he was tanned, slim where he had muscle and sinew. A fairy, he thought, with the droplets of rain on her eyelashes as they fluttered, the tipping of her nose, and the tiny dimple in her chin.
Greyson imagined placing his thumb in that indent.
It also didn't help that Greyson could not keep his eyes upon her face. The breeches outlined each of her curves - the trim waist and the elegant lines of her legs. Greyson glanced at the corkscrew curls that had frizzed in the dampness of the day. He felt a slight pang at the shorn locks, her floppy brimmed hat had been unceremoniously tossed aside to reveal the cut mass.
He remembered the curls of the night before - a riot of chocolate-colored curls tumbling from her loose coiffure. They begged a man's fingers to take one pin, risk taking another, to see how long it would hold before the other strands fell en masse.
He shook Charlie awake gently. She mumbled low beneath her breath, burrowing deeper. Greyson chuckled, his lips coming to her ear. "Wake up, boy." Charlie lifted her head, swiping the wetness from her cheeks. "We'll take shelter there," he said, pointing at the wooden structure, "until the rain lets up."
Whether it was from her sleepiness or wishing for a dry place, Charlie agreed with nary a word or mark of defiance. Dismounting, Greyson landed on the wet earth, his boots squishing into the mud. He grasped Charlie around the waist, settling her before him.
She weaved towards his body before she stiffened, her hand coming up awkwardly to her shorn hair. Charlie cleared her throat before she reached for her horse's reins.
Greyson drew back from her with a shake of his head. "Head in. I'll see to the horses."
As she did as he instructed, Greyson led their horses to the side of the cottage. He was pleased to see an overhang. After seeing to them, he made his way into the warmth of their haphazard shelter, the door closing with a clang.
Greyson took off his hat, shaking droplets of water from its brim as he glanced about. It must have been an old crofter's cottage. The place was devoid of furniture, besides a rickety table in the far right corner, an empty candleholder amidst its scarred, wooden surface.
The hearth was a mass of ashes and slivers of half-burnt wood. On the left, there was an old mattress, a few sheets upon it. Spying an opening in the wall, Greyson headed over, seeing that it was a small cubby that held a few blankets.
Praise be!
He grabbed the rough wool blankets, bringing one to a shaking Charlie who had taken a seat in the only chair occupying the small room. It looked rather rickety, wobbling even under Charlie's slight weight.
"Here." Greyson walked over, thrusting the edges of the blanket at her. She took the bundle, folding it up and pressing it against her chest as she hunkered down, her knees coming up to her chin. "It might be better to take off your wet garments and set them to dry -"
Greyson broke off, swallowing hard. A new predicament entirely reared its head.
The lady must have realized this as well for her eyes shifted around the sparse confines of the cottage. Her eyes flicked to his before they swept down to the blanket.
"I hardly think that's necessary, my lord," she replied, unwrapping the bundle to settle it around her shoulders. "I am already half dry, besides."
Greyson wondered if he should push the issue. It would be just his luck that she would catch a fever. Then what would he do?
When she shivered again, the previous trials of yesterday combined with his soaked attire and desire to simply be at his estates had him cursing. "Stay in your wet clothing, then. Perish if you wish, by being stubborn."
She laughed bitterly. "I am stubborn?" She strode up to him, her blanket falling around her shoulders. "You, sir, are a horrid man. I have dealt with far more hurdles than a mere chill, I can assure you. What? Because I am a la-" She stuttered off, and it took everything Greyson had not to let his grin break through. Already her disguise was unraveling. Perhaps he wouldn't have to push much further to obtain a truth.
"Just because I am a poor lad hardly means I need to be coddled. In fact, I am determined to outlast your lordship simply to prove my constitution is much more hardy than yours."
Her words were punctuated with a huff of ire, her arms crossed over her chest, the red and black plaid blanket tightening in her grip.
"So it is a matter of pride, then?" Greyson asked. "If it would make you feel better, I can set my attire to dry as well -"
"Nay!" The sheer panic on her face had him feeling a bit of guilt. But damn, the lady was stubborn. It was going to be on his consciounce.
"I was concerned for your health, lad -"
She snorted at that, but Greyson ignored her outburst.
"A little appreciation would hardly be remiss."
Her face flamed. "I show appreciation? I wasn't the one to insist upon this journey. Nor was it I who grouched about all morning and was too missish to deal with a tad bit of rain -"
"By God," Greyson shouted, taking a step towards her. "It was out of concern for you, blast it! For you."
The words were out of his mouth before he could draw them back.
The silence was tangible. He watched her chest rise and fall rapidly, her mouth parted as she took in gusts of air.
"For me?" The incredulousness in the words brought Greyson's gaze to her face. Charlie seemed quite shocked that her welfare was even a consideration. The mere thought of it nothing more than to be discarded as insincere.
That, in itself, caused Greyson's temper to boil. That wherever she had come from, whoever she was running from, had lacked the necessary ingredients for this woman to realize her worth. It made Greyson wonder if he had any right to demand anything of her.
What did he hope to truly get out of this arrangement?
Greyson found that whatever he wanted wasn't as important as this woman's welfare. She wouldn't begin to trust him, wouldn't believe that he had begun to care - because quite frankly, he had. He did.
He bloody cared more than he should.
That was the reason for his foul mood, Greyson knew. The truth of it.
It scared the ever-loving shite out of him.
Call if a flight of fancy, an intrigue from one lost soul to another. Or perhaps simply a case of wayward lust in a rather dull existence for the last handful of years. Whatever it was, Greyson damned himself for a fool. For he was determined to be his little caterpillar's protector and guardian. Hell, a bloody knight if Charlie desired it.
Hell, but he was becoming downright sentimental.
So, Greyson decided, if Charlie needed the disguise to feel safe, then she could keep it. However, Greyson wasn't about to let the woman off the hook.
"In truth, Charlie. Who are you running from?"
**Author's Note: Whew! This was one of my longer chapters! I hardly ever write two chapters in a row from the hero's POV, but Greyson has been adamant to tell his side of the story before Charlie gets her say-so (ha!).
Also, I started watching "Poldark." It inspired this chapter, especially because I have decided Ross Poldark is my idea of Greyson in the flesh. If you are a fan of historical fiction, I invite you to watch it! A librarian reminder: You can borrow it for FREE at a library :)
Don't forget to vote and/or comment. I love to hear from my readers!***