Make Me Yours

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5

A GLOSSY, black-lacquered coach arrived at the front door of the inn the next morning at nine in sunny weather that belied the tightening chill of the season. Mariah sent her trunk out with Old Robert while she waited in the hall with Mercy, whom she had drafted to accompany her.

The old woman tugged at her straining jacket, grumbling that it had somehow shrunk since she wore it last. Mariah smoothed her own navy woolen skirt, resettled her military-style jacket at her waist, and drew her kidskin gloves higher on her wrists. After a moment, she stepped back to check herself in the hall mirror. The vivid blue of her eyes and pink of her cheeks surprised her. She was positively glowing.

Stop that, she ordered herself.

An instant later, the sunlight coming through the open door dimmed. She looked over to find Jack St. Lawrence’s tall, broad-shouldered form silhouetted against the brightness. Her heart dropped a beat.

“A steamer trunk?” His irritation seemed to push some of the air out of the hall as he leaned inward.

“Who knows how long we’ll be gone?” she said, forcing a deep breath as she retrieved her reticule and lap blanket from the hall table.

“One and a half days,” he declared. “Thirty hours, give or take. How many changes of clothing can you possibly need in thirty hours?”

He was eager to be rid of her. Too blessed bad. She was in no hurry to select one of the men on his list as her lord and master. Her only hope, she had realized, was to draw out the process either until she could find someone she could bear to marry or until she exhausted the prince’s patience without simultaneously invoking his wrath.

“That is an absurd time estimate under the best of circumstances,” she said. “Should Mr. Bickering prove suitable, there will be certain formalities to conduct, some of which may require days to complete. To say nothing of the shopping that will be required.”

“Shopping?” His horror was palpable.

“I believe the baron mentioned new clothing.” She lowered her voice and gestured to her serviceable but uninspired skirt and jacket. “I simply cannot undertake my new role in such garments. And should Mr. Bickering prove unsuitable, we shall have to go on to the next candidate.”

Muttering something unintelligible, he turned and stalked down the steps to the coach. When she approached the vehicle with Mercy in tow, he suddenly registered the old girl’s hat and traveling gear.

“What’s this?” He looked to Mariah in exasperation.

“My maid.” She met his incredulity full-on. “A respectable woman never travels without assistance.”

Mercy lifted her chins with exaggerated dignity and held out a hand for assistance in mounting the steps. Jack first extended his arm and then hefted and grappled and finally pushed her substantial frame through the door. Red-faced, he collected himself and then helped Mariah up.

Mercy, unused to coach travel, had ensconced herself on the forward-facing seat. Mariah settled beside her without correcting her gaffe, leaving the rear-facing seat for Jack, who bit his tongue, settled back against the tufted leather, and rapped the upholstered roof of the coach with his walking stick. The vehicle lurched forward, pulling a gasp and giggle from Mercy.

As it happened, Mariah needn’t have bothered with the lap blanket; the sun coming through the windows warmed the coach…too well. The smell of naphtha soon permeated the air, courtesy of Mercy, who had pulled her traveling clothes out of storage only that morning. The combination of riding backward and the smell of mothballs soon had Jack looking a little green. He let down one of the windows for some fresh air and it wasn’t long before Mariah was spreading that lap blanket after all.