Upon a Midnight Dream (London Fairy Tales #1)(29)

“She shall stay with Alfred, he will be sure to take great care of her.”

Mary blushed like a schoolgirl. Bewildered, Stefan looked at his valet only to see him with a similar rosy hue.

“Well?” Rosalind said standing in front of him.

Stefan shook his head. “Right, off we go.” He mounted Samson and held his arm to Rosalind. With little effort, she was on the horse behind him. And dash it all if Samson didn’t seem to be proud as he neighed, pranced, and snorted.

“Show off,” Stefan muttered. Samson neighed and lifted his head. Stefan rolled his eyes in disgust, pleading to the heavens yet again for a horse that wouldn’t take attention away from him.

“He’s really such a lovely horse.” Rosalind said with a throaty laugh.

“Yes, my thoughts exactly.” Stefan clenched his teeth and pulled tight on the reigns. Shown up by his horse…again.



****



The smell of horse mixed with sweat and leather pounded into Rosalind’s senses. The last thing she needed was to be trapped in a small Inn with a man of Stefan’s nature.

She was beyond being worried or irritated or perhaps even frightened at the prospect. Fear and excitement twisted inside her gut until she thought she would surely expire from the turmoil of her circumstances. Why couldn’t they merely change horses and ride through the night? Surely it wouldn’t take that long to reach London!

“Sorry, Rose. It seems that we were already behind schedule as it was. We would have needed to stop regardless. Naturally, I blame Mary.” Stefan muttered as they reached the top of the hill and were able to see the Inn. She desperately wanted to be back at the carriage. At least then her body wouldn’t be awkwardly pressed against his. Sitting side-saddle behind him made it difficult to concentrate on anything but the way her arms fit around his waist, or the hard planes of his muscles as they clenched and twitched beneath hers. Would it be so terrible to lay her head down on him?

“Rose?” he prompted.

“Really, it’s not trouble at all!” Rosalind feigned any sort of confidence she could muster up. “Truly, we shall arrive in the afternoon.”

Stefan shrugged and started to whistle. It appeared his only aim when he could sense her frustration was to drive her mad with that ridiculous tune! And why the devil did he constantly whistle the same thing? Was his creativity in the same category as his romance?

Not that his romance was at all lacking. Quite the opposite in fact, which was why in her desperation and worrisome thoughts she found herself nearly bruising her lip as she bit down in concentration.

Stefan hopped off the horse and held his hand to her. With reluctance, she conceded and with a swift prayer slid off of Samson straight into the barbarian’s arms.

Magic. It had always been as such when his firm body came into contact with hers. There was no release. As if sensing her need, her desire—her want. His muscled arms bracketed around her.

“In the mood for more lessons, sweetheart?”

Breath coming out in short gasps, Rosalind could only shake her head and close her eyes as his forehead leaned against hers.

“Why do you fight it so?” Stefan whispered.

“What woman would not fight what she does not have any semblance of control over?”

He smirked. “What woman would desire to control something so passionate?”

His arms continued to encircle her as he lifted his head and laid a soft warm kiss on the curve of her neck. The faint brush of his hair tickled down her collarbone as she memorized the way his lips felt against her skin.

“Don’t fight me, love. I only want—“

“Your Grace, so sorry for interrupting but you may want to acquire rooms, it seems to be quite busy!” the footman said apologetically as he turned his cherry red face away from the couple and cleared his throat.

Warmth immediately left Rosalind as Stefan pulled away and straightened his jacket, “Of course. Shall we, my Rose?”

Rosalind gave a short awkward nod and took his arm.





Chapter Eleven


We are such stuff

As dreams are made on, And our little life

Is rounded with a sleep—The Tempest



Stefan scanned the crowds of people as they neared the Inn. It would be a miracle for them to find a room, let alone two. Knowing he was without any solid option other than claiming Rosalind as a wife, he approached the innkeeper and prepared for battle, for the woman next to him would rather be trampled by Samson then announce to the world that they were married.

“My good man, my wife and I are in need of two of your best rooms.”

Rosalind began choking. Stefan used the opportunity to pull her closer into his frame. All the while trying desperately not to grin as she stiffened beneath his hold.

“Wedding night. She’s a tad frightened.” He gave a little wink to the innkeeper, who abruptly started laughing as if they were sharing a small joke at Rosalind’s expense.

Then the woman drove her heel into his boot sending a yelp of pain out of Stefan’s mouth before he could stop it.

Rosalind smirked. “Sorry sir, it seems my husband is nursing some fears of his own as well. Aren’t you husband?” She turned to look at the innkeeper. “Seems tonight will be a night of many firsts. Can you imagine? A duke as innocent as this one!” Rosalind sent an elbow sailing into Stefan's stomach. “Now, about those rooms.”