Ben sat very still and wondered if they would succeed in getting all the way to her new home without becoming lovers. He had wondered the same thing since yesterday afternoon. He had wondered it last night while trying to sleep.
… if we are only attracted to each other, then we should go to bed and have our fill of pleasure with each other.
She had actually spoken those words. After he had made her that asinine offer of marriage and before she had remembered that she owned a cottage—how could one forget that one owned a house?
He did not want them to become lovers. Well, he did. Of course he did. If he could shed all his clothes at this moment and plunge into a frigid lake, it would not surprise him at all if the water turned to steam. Good God, it had been longer than six years, and she was both beautiful and voluptuous and tantalizingly available.
But he did not want them to be lovers. For one thing, he was accompanying her in order to protect her from harm, not in order to debauch her himself. For another, he was a bit afraid of being anyone’s lover. He did not want any woman to see him as he was, to witness the difficulties he would doubtless have—though in the last month, since that kiss had opened the floodgates of his restored sexuality, he had wondered if it would be possible to remain celibate for the rest of his life. But he did not want her to see him. She was physically perfect while he … Well, while he was not. And for yet another thing, she was a recent widow and it would not be right to begin an affair with her so soon.
But here she was, warm and relaxed with sleep, her head burrowed between his shoulder and the seat cushion, one of her arms through his, her ungloved hand resting on his upper thigh, fingers spread. Her little finger was a hair’s breadth away from his groin. It really felt as though someone had pumped air from the tropics into the carriage. And it was all unconscious on her part.
He tried to think of other things and remembered suddenly that he had been planning to leave for London this morning. He would not be at Hugo’s wedding after all. He had not even replied to the invitation. He felt a wave of regret bordering on loneliness, imagining his six friends all gathering in London for the festivities. They would miss him, but they would think he was still in the north of England with Beatrice.
Mrs. McKay smelled of something sweet and elusive. Gardenia? Actually, he was no expert on female scents, but this one must have been specifically designed to tease the senses of celibates.
He looked downward, past her shapely hand. His legs, encased in pantaloons and Hessian boots, looked almost normal. But when they stopped for a change of horses, as they must do soon, it would be evident that they were not normal at all. He would descend to the cobbles of the inn yard, taking many times longer about it than any normal man would, and then he would turn to hand Mrs. McKay down, all stiff pain and gallantry when, left to herself, she could have been down without his assistance and already seated in the coffee room. He would not even be able to offer his arm to lead her into the inn. He would need both for his canes and his twisted legs. She would no doubt reduce her pace in order to make him less conscious of his slowness.
Who was accompanying whom on this journey?
It was reality, though, and would never be any different. He had pledged himself to accept that, had he not? So, he was half crippled. His legs were only just better than useless. His legs were not him, however. His life did not lose worth just because he could not move as he had used to move—and as almost every other man on earth did. How long would it be until he fully accepted that?
He glanced across to the other seat, where the ugly hound sprawled in ungainly slumber. She loved the dog, ugliness and ungainliness notwithstanding.
He laughed softly to himself.
How the devil had he got himself into this coil? He wondered what his fellow Survivors would say when he recounted this adventure—or misadventure—to them next spring.
They would not stop teasing him for a decade.
Traveling was one of the most difficult activities for Ben, a fact that underscored the irony of what he had decided to do with his life until something more meaningful suggested itself. Except that he knew his body well enough to understand how much he could demand of it. Normally he would travel in short stages, taking twice as long to get where he was going than anyone else would. And if he was traveling purely for pleasure, as he would soon be doing, he would take frequent days off.
This was different, however. Although he did not expect any pursuit, he still felt it wise to put as much distance between them and Bramble Hall as they could in the first day or two. One never knew when one would come up against someone who would know and recognize Mrs. McKay. Besides, it would be very much to his advantage to get this journey over with as soon as possible. He was not made of stone, after all.
By the end of the first day, he did not know quite how to sit still or how to keep a smile or at least a look of alert interest on his face as they conversed. And he did not know how he was going to descend from the carriage that final time. He did it, however, and even managed to stand at the reception desk of the inn his coachman had chosen long enough to pay for two bedchambers, one for himself, Major Sir Benedict Harper, and one for Mrs. McKay, the recent widow of his military friend. He also reserved accommodation for the two servants as well as kennel room for the dog.
He supposed the explanation had not been necessary, since it could not matter to the landlord what the relationship was between the two people staying at his inn. Ben escorted a black-veiled Samantha to her room, made arrangements to join her later in the private dining room he had reserved, and collapsed on the bed in his own room before throwing one arm over his eyes.