Although they could have easily made Yorkshire in two days, they allowed for three, pacing the horses and enjoying the slow discovery of each other for two nights on the road. There were so many stories of Joseph and Stoker and Cassin, each one more fascinating than the next. Such unlikely friends with such a strong bond.
Their third and final night on the road was spent in the village of Harrogate, just ten miles from Caldera. Cassin had been torn between the desire to press on and the value of appearing relaxed and confident when they arrived to Caldera. If they galloped up, wild-eyed and frantic, the vanquishing effect would be lost on his uncle.
And so they cantered into Harrogate after sundown and took a room at an inn that delighted Willow, a fairy-tale cottage come to life, aglow in candlelight, with an inn keeper and his wife who went almost prostrate with affection when they recognized Cassin as the earl returning home. He was generous and kind, far more lordly than ever she had seen him, and he swore the inn staff to secrecy about his arrival and ordered a private supper sent to their room. To a man or woman, each reverential staff member whispered, “I’m sorry for your loss, my lord”—clearly still mourning his father, the late earl. Cassin accepted the sentiment somberly, despite the five years since his father had died.
Once inside the snug little room, Cassin collapsed into a chair while Willow went through their sole bag of hastily packed clothing, unrolling the wrinkled wad of his best suit and her green riding habit. She sent them down to be washed and pressed, along with Cassin’s new boots, which she ordered polished to a high shine.
“And a bath,” Cassin called to the maid as she hurried away with the armful of clothes.
“Begging your pardon, my lord?” said the young woman.
“A bath?” he repeated. “Can I trouble the staff to have one brought up?”
“With all due respect, my lord,” said the girl, “you might remember that we have a bathing room right here in the inn. Quite popular, actually. Fed by the hot spring, with steaming hot water, if you like. One for the ladies and one for the gentlemen. Just downstairs.”
Cassin grimaced and dug in his pocket for a handful of gold coins. Shoving out of the chair, he gestured, and the girl carefully held out her hand. With eyes wide, she watched him drop the coins into her palm with aclink, clink, clink.
“The countess and I should like to avoid public bathing, if possible. I know I can rely on you to locate a stray tub and fill it with kettles of steaming water right here in our room.”
“Oh,” said the girl, still gaping at the pile of coins in her hand, “of course, your lordship.” She bowed to Willow, “Your ladyship. Right away, my lord,” She closed her fingers around the coins and bustled out.
“I’ve never had a bath drawn from a hot spring before,” Willow mused out loud, glancing at him. “Was it necessary to burden the staff with the trappings of a private bath?”
“I’ve never had a bath with my wife before,” Cassin said, dropping back into the chair. “Hot springs abound in this part of Yorkshire; Caldera has more than one—a bathhouse, too, actually. Ancient Romans left aqueducts and bathhouses in their conquering wake some fifteen hundred years ago. Yorkshire is dotted with mossy mosaics and strange-smelling waters, gurgling to the surface. You may enjoy the hot springs to your heart’s content when we reach Caldera, but tonight you shall bathe with me, in the privacy of our very own tub.”
“Yes, my lord,” she teased, mimicking the reverence shown to him by the maid. There was a mirrored vanity in the corner of the room, and she sat and began to pull the pins from her hair. She glanced at him in the mirror.
“You’ve picked up on the respect I so rightly deserve, I see,” he mused, cocking a brow. His eyes were half-lidded. “I am the bloody earl, or so I’ve been told, and you’d better be on your best, most deferential behavior, or I shall be forced to lock you in the dungeon of my castle.”
“Oh yes, my lord,” she teased again. She removed the last of the pins and began to unbraid the long ropes of her hair. “Your castle is so authentic as to have a dungeon, is it?”
“Of course it has a dungeon. This is where I lock up impertinent wives who resist giving me a bath when I order it.”
“Oh, and now I’m meant tobatheyou?” She laughed. Her hair was free now, hanging long down her back, straighter than usual because of the restricting braids. She brushed it in long, even strokes.
“On second thought,” he said, watching her as she brushed her hair, “perhaps I will bathe you. And you will call me Brent, instead of Cassin. And I will refer to you only as Countess.”
Her brush went still, and she turned to face him.
“Do you really wish me to call you Brent?”
He shrugged, looking away. “You did it once before, and I almost pounced on you at the garden party.”
“Brent,”she tested, smiling, and resumed her brushing. “Brent.” She glanced at him. His eyelids had dropped even lower, and he looked at her with an expression that she had come to know in the days since his return. A tremor of excitement thrummed through her.
“Come here,” he said.
“I’m brushing my hair.”
“Comehere,” he repeated. “And bring the brush,Countess.”
She rose before she realized it, responding to the underlying command in tone. He made no effort to move from his slouch when she reached him, and without hesitation, she hitched up her skirt and climbed into his lap.
He took the brush and reached for her hair, but she was upon him before he managed it, kissing him, yanking his cravat from his neck, and diving her fingers into his collar. He dropped the brush to the floor and caught her up.
“Brent,”she sighed, arching her neck to feel the rasp of his whiskers on her skin.
“Countess,” he growled, and they clung to each other, indulging in a long, slow, languid kiss until the stable boys knocked on the door with the tub and the first steaming kettles of water.
