“You will be Lady Harper from tomorrow on,” he told her. “Oh, do not worry for your virtue. We will take separate rooms at the inns where we stay. My injuries make me restless and so make it imperative that I sleep alone. Not that we will be called upon to explain ourselves.”
“I think, Sir Benedict,” she said, “you are a bit stuffy. As well as tyrannical.”
“What Iam,”he told her, “is concerned for your reputation, ma’am. And that is going to have to beBenedictandSamanthatomorrow. We will be husband and wife.”
“I suppose,” she said, “you would be happier if I were shrouded in black for the rest of my life.”
“You may wear scarlet every day until you are eighty,” he said, “after you have been delivered safely to your cottage and I have gone on my way.”
“Delivered,”she said. “Like an unwanted package.”
The door opened behind him, and a maidservant carried in a large tray with their evening meal.
“Come and sit down,” Mrs. McKay said to Ben. “You are in pain.”
Well, it was all the result of being brought up short inside the door by her appearance. He was still in a lot less pain, though, than he had been an hour ago.
He moved toward the table without comment.
“You were in pain most of the afternoon, were you not?” she said after they had taken their seats and the girl had withdrawn. “I did not say anything then. It seemed like an impertinent intrusion upon your privacy. But perhaps I ought to have. Are you always in pain?”
“I make no complaint, ma’am,” he said. “You must not concern yourself.”
She clucked her tongue. “Matthewalwayscomplained,” she said, “and I sometimes wished he had exercised a little more restraint. You will never complain, I suspect, and I will probably find your heroic fortitude just as irritating.”
He laughed despite himself.
“Riding for hours in a carriage is not the most comfortable experience even for the most nimble,” she said. “I suppose it is the worst thing in the world for you.”
“Probably not theveryworst,” he said.
“You make me feel selfish and insensitive,” she told him. “First my appearance and now this. We will not travel so far tomorrow or any other day after that. If we take two weeks, even three, to complete this journey, then so be it. We are in no particular hurry, are we?”
Shemight not be.
“I will not have you put yourself out for me,” he said. “I have grown accustomed to my condition. No one else need be burdened with it.”
She had taken his plate and was dishing out his food for him just as if she really were his wife and they were seated cozily at their own dining table.
“We will travel in a more leisurely fashion, beginning tomorrow,” she told him. “Perhaps we are on our honeymoon. Do you suppose we are?”
Her sudden smile looked impish. He could have wished, though, that she had found some other subject to joke upon. Their honeymoon, indeed! Drat and blast it all.
“You told me earlier today, Mrs. McKay,” he said, “that you were thankful I was not your husband. I replied in kind. I repeat that sentiment now. I have the feeling you would be one devil of a handful.”
“A devil of a handful.” She put down her knife and fork, set an elbow on the table, and rested her chin on her fist. “Indeed, Sir Benedict? How?”
Her voice had lowered to a throaty whisper, but her lips were curved up at the corners, and her eyes were dancing with mischief.
“Eat your dinner,” he told her. He was feeling overheated again and there was not even a fire in the hearth.
12
After that first day they traveled onward as man and wife. It was better that way, Samantha decided, for she could wear her own clothes again and forget about the ghastly oppression of her blacks. She had nothing particularly new and nothing very fashionable, but they were clothes she had chosen herself and, in a few cases, clothes she had made herself, and they suited her well enough. Wearing them again made her feel younger and more hopeful. They made her feel herself again.
She called him Ben. She had remarked—after one of their brief flare-ups—thatBenedictmade him sound like some sort of monk or saint and that no one had ever been more inappropriately named. Surprisingly, he had agreed with her and confided that he had always been uncomfortable with his name and far preferred the shortened form. She had told him that if he ever called her Sam she would have a temper tantrum. He had immediately called her Sammy and waggled his eyebrows at her. She had poked out her tongue and crossed her eyes in retaliation.
It actually felt good to act childishly. They had both ended up laughing.
