Page 41

Three days later, Vangie thumped the inn’s lumpy pillow for the umpteenth time. Giving up on sleep, she flopped onto her back. As usual, slumber eluded her. She reached under the pillow, seeking her dagger. She closed her hand on the familiar silver handle, her wedding ring clinking against the metal. Though physically fatigued, her mind refused to stop ruminating, replaying the past trio of days.

They stopped only long enough to switch the team and see to their personal needs. Ian even insisted they eat while on the move. He’d set a punishing, exhausting pace. More than once, she’d fallen asleep, and he’d woken her as the coach rolled into a lodging house’s dark and dusty courtyard. Tonight, as she had every other night, Vangie sought her lonely bed immediately after supping.

She shifted on the mattress, trying in vain to find a comfortable position. Her backside ached from the hours and hours of sitting and bouncing along in the couch-and-four. However, her heart ached far more. After their wedding night, Ian hadn’t come to her bed again. Each night, he dashed her hopes once again when he procured separate rooms for them at the posting houses along their route.

Staring at the fingers of moonlight dancing across the ceiling’s beams, she played with an escaped curl. Except to hand her in and out of the coach, he touched her not at all. Neither did he keep her company within the conveyance’s boring and stuffy confines. He rode his stallion during the day, only joining her after sunset.

His demeanor remained coolly polite, but a few times she thought she might’ve glimpsed remorse in his quick-silver eyes. Did he already regret marrying her? Had she so dissatisfied him on their wedding night that he was now averse to touching her?

A nasty twinge gripped the region near her heart, and she absently wrapped the strand of hair around her finger several times. She’d tried to show him she’d been willing, and his eagerness hadn’t disgusted her. The things Ian had done to her…

A wistful sigh escaped past her lips as she blinked into the darkness, reliving the sensations. The way he’d made her feel had been utterly exquisite, beyond anything she’d ever imagined. Those delicious little quivers still fluttered along her senses when he looked at her.

One touch from him, and she was willing to throw herself into his arms once more. She wasn’t immune to her husband. In fact, he intrigued her. At least that’s what she called her growing fascination.

Forgiving by nature, she’d hoped to bear a child from their marriage, someone to love, and who’d love her unconditionally in return. A difficult task, to be sure, when one’s husband declined to share one’s bed. Even if the initial experience had been something short of ideal. Mortifying heat swept her face. It was beyond demeaning to be spurned so early on.

If Ian would let her, Vangie intended to be a good wife to him. Yes, he was angry and disappointed at being forced into marriage, but hadn’t the settlement tempered his disenchantment even a little? She grimaced, pulling her mouth into a taut line. And she wasn’t wholly repugnant, else why would those gentlemen in London have been so attentive? Albeit, usually inappropriately so.

Rolling onto her side, she dangled a foot off the mattress.

She’d attempted to talk with him their first evening of traveling. He’d climbed into the coach, settling across from her, his legs stretched before him.

“It’s cooling rapidly this evening.” Oh, bother, she’d scolded herself. Couldn’t she contrive something cleverer than that drivel? Talk of the temperature? Every featherheaded ninnyhammer in London babbled on about the temperature or the weather or their latest bonnet.

“Indeed,” he’d replied. Polite. Cool. Reserved.

“Have we far to travel yet?” In the darkened carriage, she had rolled her eyes in self-disgust. Simkin. Naturally, we do. We’ve but started the journey. Vangie had floundered a bit more, “Today, er, tonight, I mean.”

“A bit.”

“Your stallion, he’s Arabian, is he not?”

“Yes.”

“Do you travel this route often?”

“Yes.”

That was it. She’d given up.

He’d obviously not wanted to converse with her, and she’d retreated into confused silence. Moments later, she’d heard the striking of flint as Ian lit the oil lamp. The revealing light wasn’t welcome.

Through lowered lashes, she’d watched him settle into his corner of the carriage—without uttering a sound. The man certainly was a miser with his words.

Idly twisting a loose button on her emerald-green jacket, she’d frowned and looked downward. Best to stop before it came off. She brought no other jacket. Yvette had pressed Vangie to take some of her clothes, but she’d refused. Her kind-hearted cousin didn’t understand how demoralizing it was to always accept charity. Besides, her aunt, uncle, and cousin had already been too generous by far.

Rather than face Ian’s indifference, Vangie had peered out the window into the passing darkness. The painful truth was, she was far more likely to see a shooting star than receive a morsel of kindness from her husband. A wistful sigh escaped, but she swiftly suppressed it lest he hear. She wouldn’t wallow in self-pity.

She’d fingered her spencer’s worn, faded cuffs. She hadn’t many clothes, and those she owned were castoffs, showing signs of constant wear. Tucking her scuffed half-boots beneath her skirt, she’d removed the plain straw bonnet atop her head. Undoubtedly, she’d doze off again and wouldn’t chance crushing the humble accessory. She only owned one other bonnet, and the hat was too warm for springtime wear.

The clothing Uncle Gideon and Aunt Adélaid had purchased for her always remained with them when she departed. She’d taken to borrowing Yvette’s rather than have them go to the unnecessary expense of purchasing garments she’d only leave behind. The first few times she’d returned home with new clothing, Uncle Percival and Aunt Eugenia had confiscated them. They’d sold the garments for her keep, as was their right, they claimed. They’d also made it clear she’d been a tiresome, unwanted burden these many years.

Greedy buggers.

Vangie had earned her way, and she suspected Uncle Gideon continued to send them monies regularly. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if Puri Daj hadn’t compensated them too.

Despite begrudging her every meal, Aunt Eugenia and Uncle Percival would not be pleased she’d wed. They quite liked the monies her presence afforded them. Placing the hat atop the reticule she’d crocheted herself, Vangie had turned her attention to the inglorious night once more.

She’d awoken to the coach bouncing as Ian hopped to the ground. After eating a quick meal, she’d bathed and gratefully crawled into bed. And lain there for hours, wide awake, her mind churning. Just like tonight.

Now, eyes gritty with fatigue, she stared at the dancing moonbeams cavorting across the rustic ceiling and walls. The moonlight, bright as day, taunted her, daring her to seek slumber’s peace and its welcoming forgetfulness. But she didn’t want to forget.

Three nights ago, Ian had bedded her.

In her mind she replayed his tenderness, the regret and undisguised shame, the genuine remorse he’d expressed after discovering his error. Absorbed in her own unhappiness, it had only now occurred to her that he must be suffering too. Every instinct told her he was a bari man—a good man—at heart, and Puri Daj always said, “God looks at the heart.”

Yawning, Vangie turned over. She smiled into the bumpy pillow knowing she could sleep now. She had a plan.