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“I would rather a man-eating Cyclops than any more rain.”

She laughed. “At least we haven’t run across any goddesses.”

“How is that?”

“Don’t you remember your Homer?” she teased. “Calypso, Circe. The goddesses always tempted Odysseus to stay with them, and it was only with great strength that he resisted their charms and made his way home.”

He reined in his horse as they stopped at the head of the path leading up to the door, but when he looked at her, his eyes were shadowed with a promise that made her shiver.

“And who’s to say that I haven’t met a goddess on this trip?”

His words knocked her back, but before she could respond, he’d jumped down from his horse and was jogging up the path to rap on the farmer’s door.

A goddess? Goodness, that was a first for her, but then again this had been a trip of firsts. Never before had she traveled alone with a gentleman. Never before had a man called her his wife. Never before had a man kissed her. Never before had a man made her want to be touched, caressed, tempted, pushed, shocked, and seduced like he did.

It was becoming harder and harder to tell herself that he didn’t want those things too. That she didn’t feel the jolt of awareness that jumped between them whenever—something he did far more often than was probably necessary. She didn’t want him to stop. Far from it. She looked forward to the moment that he’d help her down from the saddle at each inn, his hands on her waist and his body close to hers. If she let her eyes flutter closed, she could almost imagine that they were two different people who’d met some other way. That at the end of their journey, this all might amount to something.

“Lady Hollings!” Nicholas’s voice broke through the dark as raindrops began to hit her square on her cheeks.

She looked up to him sprinting down the path, his body illuminated against the golden glow of a warm interior. Another man ran behind him, his gait heavier as he moved more slowly.

“Good news, my dear,” he said, beaming up at her with a smile that could have slayed a thousand women if he’d only thought to deploy it in the right drawing rooms. “Mr. Pritcher has kindly offered us room and board for the night.”

“Oh,” she said, her mood lightening considerably. “Thank you so much, Mr. Pritcher.”

“We never say no to weary travelers in this house,” said the farmer as he caught the reins of Nicholas’s horse. “We don’t have much to offer, but we’ll gladly share what we can.”

“It’s much appreciated,” said Nicholas.

“Well, I hope you like Lancashire hot pot, because that’s what Mrs. Pritcher’s been cooking up all day.”

The mention of the hot lamb and potato dish made her stomach growl. “That sounds like just the thing.”

Nicholas grasped her horse’s bridle, which was fortunate because as soon as rest was in sight, exhaustion crept up on her. He led her horse as he followed Mr. Pritcher to a modest barn.

The sweet smell of hay filled her nose as Nicholas tied off her horse and held out his hand for her. She thought about holding back and insisting that he lead her to a mounting block, as she’d tried before, so that she could slide down without having to touch him and save them both the difficulty of desire. But then she looked down into his handsome face, so warm and open despite the exhaustion that he too must feel, and she couldn’t help herself. After a lifetime of feeling set apart, she craved the connection a mere touch gave her.

She placed her hand in his and let him sweep her up off her feet. The moment she touched the ground, her legs gave under her. She stumbled into his chest, her hands bracing against the wet cloth of his coat.

“I seem to recall that we’ve been in this situation before,” he said, his grasp tightening around her.

“My apologies.”

Her cheeks burned, although why, she wasn’t entirely sure. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t touched Nicholas before. Perhaps it was that this time they had an audience.

He lifted her chin with one finger. “I’m more than happy to be of service.”

Behind them, Mr. Pritcher chuckled. “What I wouldn’t do to be a newlywed again. Always sneaking little moments here and there.”

Nicholas cracked a grin and glanced over her shoulder. “You can hardly blame a man when he has a wife as pretty as mine.”

False words. She knew that’s what they were, and yet she reached for his hand to keep up this little charade all the same. She didn’t let go all the way to the farmhouse. Not for one moment.

Being only tired as opposed to tired and hungry can do a great deal to change a woman’s outlook. After their meal and a tankard of ale Mr. Pritcher insisted she take, Jane was floating on a cheery haze of tipsiness and exhaustion. Her back still hurt from jostling in the saddle all day, but she was dry and fed, and she knew that Nicholas had arranged a place for her to rest that night. That was enough for now.

They’d sleep in the barn—or above it, rather, in the hayloft. Mr. and Mrs. Pritcher had tried several times to convince them that they’d happily give up their bed to accommodate Jane and Nicholas, but both flatly refused to force the kind farmer and his wife from their bed or, for that matter, confront the awkward truth that they weren’t actually married. Nicholas made a great show of saying how much he looked forward to sleeping rough, as he once had when he was a boy, but it wasn’t until Jane insisted that she was so tired she would doze off in her chair that the Pritchers finally agreed to stay in their home. Mrs. Pritcher sent them out to the barn with a mountain of knit blankets and patchwork quilts so they wouldn’t be cold.

There was no chance of that, Jane thought as she climbed the stairs to the hayloft. The natural warmth from the animals was enough to keep the enclosed loft warm. Fortunately for them, Mr. Pritcher and a local boy had mucked out the stalls that very afternoon and spread fresh hay. With the pitter-patter of rain on the roof, it felt almost homey in the barn.