Earl of Hearts(27)

"A legend? John, that's so exciting. You're used to being important and  serving a vital purpose, but I'm not. Women are often relegated to the  home, left to tend to the household and the children. Not that those  aren't important functions, but this …  this is wonderful." She took a  deep breath as she glanced at the page before her and a name suddenly  leaped into her mind. "Look! There's an O, and this must be an  apostrophe. And these are the rest of the letters except for the last,  D-O-O-L. This name must be O'Doole. So we now have the E as well."

"Nicely done. And this name must be Oliver. We now have the I and the V."

She pursed her lips. "This isn't very hard."

"Somersby isn't very smart. But he's hungry for power. I don't think  this cipher was ever intended to be difficult to break. He merely  intended that anyone looking over his shoulder at a page would not be  able to read it. He knows we'll figure out what he's written down.  That's why he's so desperate to stop us."

"Do you think we'll find any indication of who in my family he wants to destroy?"

He frowned. "I hope so, but not likely. So far, this looks to be an  account of his sales and purchases and contacts. Some of these pages  must contain names of rebels and weapons suppliers. I'm sure one of  those men, once they're rounded up by the king's guard, will talk in  exchange for leniency. They might give us a clue as to Somersby's hatred  for your family."

"I hope so."

They continued working side by side late into the evening. One of  Adela's maids delivered a hearty supper for them. They broke away from  their deciphering long enough to dine quietly in front of the fire. John  had donned his trousers when they, along with all their clothes, were  returned to them, freshened and pressed and the dirt beaten out of them.

Nicola remained in her robe, finding it quite comfortable and not  looking forward to putting on her itchy, woolen traveling gown just yet.  John did not bother to don his shirt. The room was warm and she'd  already seen and commented on his scars and those bruises from his  encounter with Somersby's ruffians. So there was no reason to hide them  from her.

They'd resumed their decoding after supper, but when Nicola rubbed her  eyes and yawned, John shut the book and placed it back in his pouch  which was now hanging over the footboard. She understood that he wanted  to keep it near while they slept. He also kept his knife, pistol, and  rifle close. "Let's get some rest. I'd like to be on the road before  sunrise."

She yawned again and nodded. "I think we've accomplished a fine day's work, don't you?"

"Yes, brat. An excellent day's work." He took her hand and led her to  the bed, but John did not climb in beside her. He grabbed a few pillows  and one of the coverlets, obviously intending to make a pallet for  himself beside the fire.         

     



 

Nicola scrambled out of bed and grabbed two pillows as well.

He eyed her quizzically. "What are you doing?"

"Sleeping wherever you sleep."

"Nicola-"

"I thought we had this conversation. If I'm to be your forever wife, then I want the benefits that come with it."

His chuckle ended in a groan. "I wanted us to get some rest tonight, for we have a long ride ahead of us."

"All the more reason to settle comfortably in that bed."

"If I'm in it with you, neither of us will get any sleep," he said with a  husky timbre to his voice that shot tingles through her body.

Her eyes rounded in surprise. "We won't?"

He grinned. "Not a single hour."

"I'm not certain what you mean by that, but if your intentions are as  wicked as those of the men in the scandalous books I've been reading,  then I don't think I'll mind not sleeping a wink. Are you suggesting  that I am irresistible to you?"

He sighed as he ran his fingers through his hair in obvious consternation. "Lord, you're a brat. Go back to bed."

"Not without you."

He groaned lightly. "Are you sure you're not one of Napoleon's agents  sent here to plague me? Very well, I'll join you in a moment. You do  realize that this marriage isn't proper under English law."

She tossed the pillows back on the bed and hopped on the mattress.  "We're in Scotland now. I am your wife under Scottish law. There is a  possibility we'll both be dead by tomorrow. I am not going to worry  about propriety."

"Bollocks, Nicola. I'm going to have a talk with your brother when we  reach London. He and your uncle have given you far too much  independence."

She ignored his complaint and settled herself under the covers,  determined to allow whatever might happen between them. The men in the  stories she'd read seemed to be ruled by lust, but that lust also seemed  to be spent rather quickly in the heat of satisfying themselves.  Indeed, the act of love did not appear to be particularly comfortable or  romantic, just fiery and fast.

Yet, it was precisely the wild intensity of it that intrigued her.

She plumped two pillows under her head and sank back against them,  intending to close her eyes for just a moment. Would John be tempted?  She meant to remain awake to find out, but her eyelids suddenly felt  like leaden weights and within moments, she fell sound asleep.



JOHN WAS GOING to wait to the count of twenty before daring to turn back  to look at Nicola. He did not think he could resist her, but running  for their lives was no jest. They needed all the rest they could get,  for they weren't likely to find such comfortable lodgings anywhere else  along their journey. He had only counted to twelve before he heard her  even breaths and soft snores.

"That didn't take long," he said in a whisper, although he was not  surprised. Nicola was not used to the mountain chill or riding hard all  day. Nor was she used to her life being threatened. The sight of  Somersby's men lying dead at her feet, their blood spilled on the  ground, must have frightened the wits out of her.

Also, he doubted she'd slept comfortably in Maeve's bed. It had been too  small for both of them to fit. Even if it had been as big and soft as  his enormous bed at Bainbridge Hall, her sleep would have been fitful.  Visions of death and threats from Somersby's men would interfere with  anyone's peaceful rest.

Somersby's men had meant to kill Maeve, Sammy, and his boys.

Those men also intended to kill Nicola.

Although she'd tried to hide it, he knew that she'd fretted about last  night's incident all day long to the point of exhausting herself with  worry.

He strode to the bed and looked down upon Nicola. The sleep of  innocence. He felt a tug to his heart. She looked irresistible, curled  like a kitten under the coverlet, only the auburn curls at the top of  her head showing. He eased the cover down just the littlest bit so that  her nose and mouth were no longer hidden.

"Sweet dreams, brat." He eased down beside her and planted a soft kiss  on her forehead. He considered setting up a pallet once more by the  fire, but changed his mind. He was exhausted, too. He needed a good  night's sleep.

Unfortunately, it was something he rarely accomplished.

He stretched out beside Nicola and drew her body against his, telling  himself it was for her comfort when, in truth, it was more for his.  There was something oddly healing about having her beside him, her  sweet, warm body curled against him.

She looked as innocent as an angel when asleep.

However, he liked that she was a hellion when awake. No helpless,  frightened creature. Not like his mother. He cursed silently. He was not  going to have that dream tonight, not while lying beside Nicola.         

     



 

But he felt the darkness coming on the moment his eyes closed, that rage  borne of frustration and terror. He fought against it, but it swamped  his body as his deepening sleep began to tear down all of his defenses.  The wall he maintained around his heart crumbled. Grab the pistol. Shoot  their leader. That's what he remembered calling out to his mother when  he was a little boy and they'd been attacked. Grab the pistol.

Even at that young age, he'd understood. Shoot the leader. The others would flee.

But his mother had been frozen in fear, leaving it to him to crawl  across the room and pick up the pistol to fire at the big man who was  beating and kicking his father even as he collapsed to the ground. John  had meant to fire at the man's chest, but the pistol recoiled in his  little hands and the shot went wide.

"John, is something wrong?" Nicola asked in a sleepy murmur, her caring voice penetrating his senses.

But thoughts of his past now had him by the throat. He tried not to  think of that night, did not want to think of his father unconscious and  bleeding, or his mother cowering in a corner and doing nothing to save  herself. Nor did she do anything to save him, her only child.

It was left to him to try to save her, but he was a weaponless,  six-year-old child and could do little to protect those he loved. He'd  tried to stop the beast when he'd turned on his mother, but he had no  way to reload the pistol.