“Aye, sir. Much obliged. Never too early for a brandy at Christmas, if they have plum pudding as well, I’ll be happy as a pig in mud.”
Arran rolled his eyes as Simms ambled away, but his heart had begun to pound. In truth, he felt like a condemned man given a respite. If Rachel agreed to continue their married couple charade, they could have a few more days together to make memories to warm his cold future. A few more nights.
Strolling over to the small wooden table on the east wall that she’d chosen, he slid into the chair opposite her. “I have a question. Are you at all open to bribery and corruption?”
Rachel’s eyes widened. Then she leaned forward, her face aglow with curiosity. “That depends. Is it you wishing to bribe and corrupt me, sir?”
“Yes. In a manner of speaking,” he replied, suppressing the lust that always surged through him whenever she called him that. “More like throw myself at your mercy.”
“Oh?”
Arran took a deep breath. “My carriage needs a new bolt for the axle. But it will take a few days—”
“You want me to stay with you?”
Something twisted in the region of his heart at her hopeful smile, and he almost regretted asking. If one night with Rachel Lindsay had him feeling like this, how would he ever let her go after three? And if she felt the same…
Yet his hand—apparently of its own bloody free will, because public displays of affection were not something he indulged in—had already reached out to take hers. “If you would. You may name your price, of course.”
Rachel’s smile dimmed a little. “Payment is unnecessary. But if the offer is just you…I accept.”
It was freezing outside, so cold it almost hurt to breathe. And yet Rachel wouldn’t have traded this stroll for the world.
Yes, she was a fool to have agreed to extend the bargain. She had been miserable enough this morning, knowing she would have to say goodbye to Arran. But no matter what her head chided and warned, her body remained greedy for more touching, more tender care, more indescribable pleasure in bed. So she had agreed to his request.
This inn was a different and magical world. Here, she wasn’t Rachel Lindsay, poverty-stricken maid of dubious birth and no prospects. A young woman who couldn’t seem to do anything right, who sometimes ached with loneliness and a sensation of being adrift, of not really knowing who she was or her place in the world. No, here as Mrs. Elliott, Arran’s companion and mistress, it all felt very clear. Because he made it clear. And others took his lead and treated her with friendly courtesy; men smiling and wishing her good day, women inviting her to join card games, sing carols, and admire rosy-cheeked babies. Rather than being the one with raw hands from scrubbing floors or mending, she was the lady at the table with a crisp napkin in her lap and a stomach full of tasty food.
And now, on Arran’s arm, with nothing but the scent of chimney smoke, impending storm, and tilled earth in the air, it was dangerously easy to imagine this game would never end. That she wouldn’t have to leave and enter servitude again, but stay with him always.
“You’re cold.”
Rachel glanced up at him and smiled reassuringly. “I’m fine. The fresh air is quite welcome after London. Sometimes the Thames has a stench that is truly awful.”
“I’d like to purchase you a cloak before we attend the church service,” he said abruptly. “Mrs. Vine said the village dressmaker lives above the shop with the bright blue door, and always has a few ready-made garments available. I understand the shop is open until noon.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she said, stunned at the offer.
Arran’s determined gaze bored into her. “I don’t want you to be cold. That shawl is entirely inadequate for the weather.”
“But—”
“Please, Rachel,” he said, although the word still sounded like a command. “No strings attached. Not a payment. Just a Christmas gift, and a practical one at that.”
“Oh, very well,” she grumbled, as though her eyes weren’t burning at the thought of a garment that wasn’t old and patched or been worn by other people. A token to remind her of the happiest time of her life.
The shop was indeed open, and a Scottish couple she recognized from the inn dining room were perusing a colorful display of ribbons. Across another wall sat a long trestle table covered in a range of ready-made clothing, everything from stockings and gloves to flannel nightgowns and striped cambric gowns, even a few pretty lace-edged chemises. Obviously, the dressmaker had some sort of special arrangement with the Vines, for these items looked more like something a well-heeled traveler might buy rather than the local women. If she had a reticule heavy with shillings, she might lose her wits completely in a place like this.
“Something you like?”
Rachel forced herself to shake her head at Arran’s query. “Did you see any cloaks?”
“Just over there. Mostly black and brown, although one in bright yellow if you are feeling adventurous.”
She laughed. “A good choice if lost on a mountain, perhaps, but I think I shall choose a more muted shade.”
“Go and try on a few. There is a curtain pinned up for privacy in the corner.”
Well. This might be why ladies of quality enjoyed shopping. While some might deem it a frivolous activity, there was something empowering about choosing your own cut and color and fabric, even for a cloak. The curtained-off area had a half-sized looking glass propped up against the wall, so Rachel was able to take a good hard look at herself. Ugh. The charity-box gown really was too small, as were her stays. Her chemise and stockings had long seen better days, but at least
