The older woman blinked. “Forgive me, sir. I did not see your wife before.”
“I was warming my hands by your wonderful fire,” his new companion said quickly, “while, ah…”
“While I stopped at the stables arranging repair to a broken carriage axle,” added Arran. “It has been a very trying day.”
“Very trying.”
“Oh!” said Mrs. Vine. “Dear me. Oh, you poor poppets. The room is yours, I shall have one of my maids prepare it now. Would you care for hot tea and fruit cake in the dining room while you wait? You won’t taste better, I assure you, Mr...?”
“Elliott,” he replied. “Mr. and Mrs. Elliott. And yes, refreshments sound superb. Don’t you think, my dear?”
His wife of less than a minute beamed up at him, and it was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “Superb indeed. My…our grateful thanks.”
Arran nodded, and they followed Mrs. Vine through a set of double doors into an enormous dining room, three-quarters full and loud with chatter.
This Christmas Eve was proving to be eventful, indeed.
She had warmth. Would soon have food and lodging for the night. All because the well-dressed and sinfully handsome gentleman sitting on the other side of the small wooden table had chosen to be kind.
A sinfully handsome gentleman now masquerading as her husband.
Rachel shivered. A part of her wanted to shriek at the enormity of what she’d done, an action so rash she could scarcely believe herself capable of it. Attaching herself to a complete stranger! But desperate times called for desperate measures, and propriety became an easy sacrifice when a woman needed food and shelter in winter.
Well, that and the fact that she also needed him.
From the moment he’d marched through the inn doors and halted mere feet away at the fireplace, Mr. Elliott had awakened a scorching hot desire in her. Her first thought had been to marvel at his height, surely six feet at least, and the way his tailored greatcoat lovingly clung to broad shoulders and a powerful chest. Older than her, perhaps a decade or so more than her twenty years, with faintly tanned skin as though he enjoyed being outdoors. But his face…pure fallen angel, with silver-gray eyes, sculpted cheekbones, and a jaw hewn from stone. Jet-black hair, military-short, only added to his air of command.
She’d simply had to say something. Anything. All her foolish tongue managed was an inane comment about the fire, but the way he’d looked at her…good heavens. Seared to her very soul by a raw hunger, like he wanted to bed her at once. And when she’d later overheard the innkeeper’s wife about to refuse him a room for being a bachelor, her feet had moved faster than she thought possible, her hand curling about his solidly muscled arm before she could inwardly debate the rightness of it.
Now here they were. False husband and wife being served hot tea, and thick slices of fruit cake by a deferential Mrs. Vine.
“Do you need anything else, sir?” said the older woman, as she deftly poured tea. “Your room is being readied, and your satchels have been taken upstairs. Here is your key, the room is on the second floor, end of the hallway, last door on the left. Will you take supper down here, or do you wish a tray? Tonight is beef and vegetable stew served with fresh bread.”
“A tray,” blurted Rachel. Two strangers could only feign wedlock in public for so long.
Her gentleman nodded. “A tray would be much appreciated. Thank you,” he said, slipping Mrs. Vine some coins.
“Very good, sir,” the innkeeper’s wife replied, nodding in approval before bustling away to assist another guest.
To give herself a moment for composure, Rachel took a few sips of tea. It was hot and sweet, and she sighed at the soothing, warming magic. Then she set down her cup and leaned forward. “Thank you.”
He lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug, his gaze unreadable. “No, thank you. Our esteemed hostess was about to turn me back out into the icy mud for the shocking sin of being unmarried.”
“Is Elliott really your surname?”
Now he smiled just a little, revealing a hint of a dimple. Truly devastatingly handsome. “It is. Might I know your name? I feel like I should know, being wed and all.”
She blushed. “It’s Rachel. Rachel Lindsay. I’m from London. You’d think that might make me a little wiser in the ways of the world. But I was left behind by the stagecoach going north because I foolishly believed an aristocratic cad when he told me the luncheon stop was a full hour. I…I don’t think he wished to sit beside me for the remainder of the journey. Not that I wished to sit beside him, for he talked about horses and saddles without taking a breath. But he was preferable to the spinsters with their scripture. And the mother with an irritable toddler. And the retired sailor who passed wind in his sleep…oh, good heavens. I’m babbling. I’m sorry. It’s just such a relief to not be on that coach or outside in the freezing cold.”
Mr. Elliott nodded as he finished a bite of cake. “I understand. I’m rather relieved myself. My carriage axle needs a new bolt, so I’m at the mercy of the local smithy, but I’ve come down from Lincolnshire and the thought of spending one more hour let alone many on those damned…er, I do beg your pardon, those roads did not appeal.”
A giggle escaped at the notion he thought her a lady with airs, graces and an abhorrence for cursing, and Rachel impulsively took his hand. “No need to apologize, or mind your words, sir. As I’m sure you can see, I am no delicate miss.”
“Quite,” he said softly, his silver-gray gaze burning in a most appreciative way.
Her mouth went dry, and she swallowed hard. Not to be outdone, her nipples
