He’d been odd after we returned to the carriage, quieter, more formal. The jest about the brothel may have been a step too far, in retrospect.
I couldn’t recall the precise moment I fell asleep, but it could not have been long after I abandoned my efforts to coax him into more conversation and more whiskey.
Warily, I pressed myself up to a seated position, then glanced over at him nervously. A relieved sigh escaped when I saw that he was asleep. Given the coat’s placement, it was entirely unlikely he had missed my unconscious familiarity, but I could only hope.
His forehead was pressed against the seam where the carriage and door met. At some point in the night, he had loosened his cravat, leaving the ends to hang down his chest.He’d rolled up his sleeves as well. His forearms were bare and surprisingly intriguing.
In all my mischief, I’d never seen a man dressed so informally, at least not one who bore no relation to me. Mr.—Kit’s arms were stronger than I would have guessed, not bulky, but definitely not delicate like mine. The muscles there were corded, defined, and he had a trail of dark hair that ran along the backs of them. His fingers, curled around the black wool edge of his coat, were long and squared at the tips. His nails were neatly trimmed and clean underneath but for the middle one of his right hand. Ink-stained, that one, and seemingly permanent. They were nice hands, strong, probably dexterous.
I wasn’t sure why the sight fascinated me so. I’d never once considered a man’s arms or hands, unless they were remarkably long, or worse, notably short. But I hadn’t seen them before either. It was probably the novelty.
That was how I assured myself when my gaze traced up those arms to his newly bared inches of chest. There was a divot in the precise center, and a carved line of muscle began just below. His collarbone, too, seemed to be etched in a way mine wasn’t. And then there was the dusting of dark hair, just barely peeking over the neck of his shirt.
More intriguing, though, was the beginning of a beard that had sprung up overnight. The beardfithim in a way I couldn’t quite define. If pressed, I would have called him attractive without it. With it… he was devilishly handsome. It defined his jaw and drew the gaze to his full lips, shaking off the boyish quality.
Whatever pomade he used to tame his hair had forsaken him. Kit’s hair wascurly. Very curly. The dark, almost black curls kissed his loose collar, escaping from behind his ear. The locks were messy and poorly defined, spilling from the off-center peakin his forehead. How had that escaped my notice before? It was charming.
His eyebrows mimicked the V in his hairline, a disorganized revolution in the center before falling over in line as they went along. They sat above impossibly long lashes. Men always had the most lovely eyelashes and it was entirely unfair.
A breeze whispered in from the—perpetually—open window, brushing a curl across his cheek. His nose scrunched adorably before I recognized a fact that had entirely escaped my notice since I woke. We weren’t moving.
A glance out the window held the answers. A thick blanket of fog carpeted everything as far as the eye could see. Now that the outside world had caught my attention, it was impossible to miss the great sawing sound emanating from outside. Alfie, no doubt, if the register was any tell. He was lucky Rory hadn’t stabbed him for that racket.
It was impossible to guess how far we’d made it before they had to pull off or risk a calamity, but it would be some time before it warmed enough for the fog to dissipate.
And that was when I recognized a more pressing issue. Distracted by our position upon waking, Kit’s intriguing wardrobe changes, and the fog, the needs of my own body had been pushed aside. Now they were back in full force. And I was quite trapped.
Kit slept between me and the only door. And the only door had to be belted on, which meant even if I woke him, I’d have to wake Alfie—or more likely Rory—overtop the sound of Alfie’s snores.
I shifted back on the hard seat, already lamenting the loss of my pillow. Inappropriate it may have been, but it was also quite comfortable. There was nothing for it. I would just have to ignore my discomforts, all of them.
No sooner had I made up my mind than movement caught my attention out of the corner of my eye.
My body recognized the danger before I did—releasing a scream that startled even me.
Suddenly, a board smacked me across the chest and I was shoved unceremoniously behind Mr. Summers. Or… not a board. His arm.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” he demanded, head swinging back and forth rapidly. His body coiled tight in front of me, shielding me from the danger.
Reluctantly, I raised a finger from behind his back, pointing to the enemy across from me.
“A spider?” he questioned, voice hoarse. “That screech was over a spider?”
“It’s massive!”
“What is it?” cried a winded voice from the window—Alfie. From my perch behind Kit’s shoulder, I could see Rory in front of him, guarding his back.
“She saw a bloody spider,” Kit replied.
“‘s just a spider, Rory. Ye can stand down,” Alfie repeated as though the lady in question could not have heard Kit.
“It’s not just a spider,” I insisted. “It’s a gigantic, blood-thirsty demonic spider.”
Rory peered around Alfie’s shoulder to see inside. “It’s a wee lil’ house spider. Damn near pissed myself over a wee lil’ house spider.”
“Can you unbuckle the door please, Rory?” Kit asked, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Why haven’t you killed it yet?”
