My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(80)
You cannot let things with Benedict end this way. At least not without having the last word. Turn to this page.
If you are entirely over all of this nonsense and ready to get the brot-hell out of here, turn to this page.
The Great North Road to Scotland is long, muddy, and interminably dreary. Fortunately, the orphans don’t seem to mind and treat the cart in which they’re traveling as an impromptu wrestling ring. As Sallie roundhouse-kicks Bert in the face (no doubt giving him another black eye), you sigh and remember when you, too, partook in such innocent childish pleasures.
How you wish you had their youthful exuberance, stripped as it was from you after a series of tragedies that left you forever marked. Alas, it does no good to dwell, so you huddle in your cape, water dripping from your bonnet, and watch Mac’s firm hands with fascination as he expertly takes the reins of the coach. Imagining what else those hands could do helps the journey go a little faster.
“My sweet Sassenach, I wish to ken what entices ye so about these hands o’ mine,” Mac says. “Are ye fixing to chop ’em off and use them as ingredients in yer witch’s brew?” A somewhat sad smile plays on his broad, fine lips. You burn at having been caught staring, but you hold your head high and return his smile in kind.
“Your hands would not be good for magic, dear Mac,” you say as primly as you can. “They have too much work in them, and not enough playfulness. Magic is work, to be sure, but it needs lightness. Deftness.”
“Wildness,” Mac agrees with a nod, his voice almost a groan. You are momentarily shocked by the desire you hear in it. You share a look that says you want to share more. You imagine his hands working your wildness. Now more than your face burns for him.
You remedy the situation by resolving to stare at your shoes for the remainder of the journey. Mac clears his throat and focuses his attention entirely on the road.
It is a long and arduous day’s travel before you find a suitable inn that can fully house the mob you are traveling with. As Mac sees to the cart and horses, you make sleeping arrangements with the innkeeper.
“The young ‘uns can probably just about fit in the great room, miss,” he says in his flat East Anglian whine. “It will be a tight squeeze for sure, but there is room for them and maybe one or both of the ladies. We also have a small room to the side that you and your husband can take.”
“Husband?” Mac half chokes, half laughs as he walks in from the freezing cold. His shirt clings to him as he shakes droplets from his red hair, which has been darkened by rain.
The innkeeper raises an eyebrow. “Unless your husband prefers to sleep in the stables?”
“Och, the stables will do me fine!” Mac says quickly, and he turns on his heel as if about to run to them. “I’ve slept in much worse, believe me!”
You don’t doubt it, but it doesn’t seem right that the man who has worked so hard and so long should spend the night in a freezing stable instead of a cozy bed. It also infuriates you that he would make such a show of being virtuous, although propriety (and the fact that you don’t trust your quivering loins to behave themselves) demands that you do not sleep in the same room together under any circumstances. You bite your lip as you gaze at his muscular back and consider what the devil you are going to do—when you aren’t lost in thoughts of what you would love to do.
If you let him sleep in the stable on his freezing ownsome for propriety’s sake, turn to this page.
If you decide to give the martyr a run for his self-righteous money, turn to this page.
“Nigel,” you say, still in disbelief of how things have turned out, “I don’t know how to say this, but—”
“You need to marry me so your life is not in ruin?” Nigel says hopefully.
“Ah…yes.” The words are barely out of your mouth before he drops to one knee and slips a ring onto your finger.
“Marry me! Please! If you please! My darling!”
“Yes…fine. Sure. Nigel, have you just been carrying a ring around—”
“On the off chance that you might ever be inclined to marry me? Yes, my love, I have! Let us away so you may meet Mama!”
You journey to the country in a swift carriage while Nigel excitedly describes all his relations and how much you will like his country home. You cannot much focus on his talk, but when you do, you are surprised to find yourself laughing at his good-natured sense of humor. When the carriage finds itself caught behind a simple farmer’s cart, stuck in a muddy track, you are impressed by how helpful and kind Nigel is in response. Instead of feeling inconvenienced, he strips off his fine shirt to reveal a pleasing, surprisingly muscular body and then proceeds to deftly free the cart from the mud, sending the happy farmer on his way to market.
Once you arrive at his country home, you are fussed over by his sweet mama, who is delighted to meet you and puts you up in their house while you plan a hasty wedding. His family is entirely delightful, and you think that being a parson’s wife might not be such a terrible fate. Your heart warms as you realize that you shall help the poor and make some small difference in the world.
One fine afternoon, when Nigel, his mother, and the rest of the family have gone to town on various errands, you find yourself entirely alone in the house. You are dizzy at the prospect of things going well in a way you never anticipated.