Dr. Linford was to escort me to Himple, where I am to be met by Mr. Bulworth, who will see me the rest of the way to my friend Cassandra’s side. But this coach will also stop in Himple.”
Roan waited for her to say more. At the very least he expected her to say why she was on the stagecoach at all. But Miss Cabot merely shrugged as if that was sufficient explanation.
It was not.
“Why didn’t you go with him? Why would you put yourself in an overcrowded stagecoach with any number of potential scoundrels instead of in a coach with springs?” he asked, incredulous.
Miss Cabot rubbed her nape once more. She sniffed. “It’s rather difficult to explain, really.”
“Difficult? The only difficulty here is your reluctance to admit whatever it is you’ve done. I can’t begin to imagine what you’re doing.” A thought suddenly occurred to Roan, and anger surged in him. He abruptly grabbed her elbow and pulled her forward. “Has he attempted... Has he taken liberty with you?” he softly demanded and glanced over his shoulder at the others. He would get on the back of one of the horses from the coach and catch up with the bastard if that was the case. He’d break his damn neck—
“No! No, not at all! Dr. Linford is a good man, a decent man—”
“Then what in blazes is the matter?”
Miss Cabot drew herself up to her middling height, removed her arm from his grip with a yank. “I beg your pardon, but I owe you no explanation, Mr. Matheson.”
“No, you don’t,” he agreed. “And neither do I owe you my help. So I will explain to the driver that you must be met by a responsible party at the very first opportunity—”
“All right! I thought traveling with the Linfords would be tedious. I thought the stagecoach would be more...” She made a whirling motion with her hand, as if he should understand her and reach the conclusion quickly.
But he had no idea what she was talking about. He leaned forward, peering at her. “More what?”
“More—” her gaze flicked over him, top to bottom, and her cheeks bloomed “—exciting,” she murmured.
That made absolutely no sense. This cake-brained young woman thought a stagecoach would be more exciting than the doctor’s comfortable coach? That a stagecoach with its close quarters and ripe strangers was more exciting than a padded bench? Roan couldn’t help himself—he laughed. Roundly.
Miss Cabot glared at him. “So happy to amuse you.”
“Amused? I’m not amused, I’m astounded by your foolishness.”
She gave a small cry of indignation and whirled about, looking as if she intended to march into the woods, but Roan caught her arm before she could flee, pulling her back. She fell into his chest, landing like a pillow against him.
“All right, then, unlace your corset a bit,” he said. “But a stagecoach? It’s the worst sort of travel, second only to the sea if you ask me. Whatever would make you think it would be exciting? A walk over hot coals would be more pleasurable.”
Miss Cabot shrugged free of him and folded her arms across her body. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. Her flush had gone deeper. “I’m sorry you found it so reprehensible, Mr. Matheson.”
Roan blinked. Understanding slowly dawned, and frankly, he could not have been more delighted. Or flattered. But delighted, utterly delighted. “I see,” he said jovially, aware of the wide grin on his face.
“You don’t.”
“Oh, I think I do. You wanted to travel with me,” he said, and poked her playfully on the arm.
“You flatter yourself,” she said imperiously.
“There is no need for me to flatter myself, because you have flattered me beyond compare,” he said with a theatrical bow. “I’ll admit it, I’m surprised. Granted, I am highly sought after in New York, what with my handsome looks and fat purse...” He was teasing her, but that really wasn’t far from the truth. Just ask Mr. Pratt if it wasn’t true. “But to be admired so by a fair English flower makes my heart pitter-patter.”
“God in heaven, I could die,” Miss Cabot said, and turned her head.
Roan laughed. “Please don’t.” He put his hand on her shoulder and coaxed her around. “You’re far too comely to die, and after all, you’ve gone to so much trouble now.” He squeezed her shoulder. He meant to let it go, but his hand slid down her arm, to her wrist.
She clucked her tongue and turned her head away from him.
“I am teasing you, Miss Cabot. A rooster can’t help but crow, can he? I am truly flattered.” He moved his hand from her arm to her waist and pulled her closer. “If I’m to be admired, I am very pleased to be admired by someone as beautiful as you.”
“Oh Lord,” she muttered, blushing furiously. “Don’t trifle with me. I’m mortified as it is.” And yet she made no move to step out of his loose embrace.
“I am very sincere. Nevertheless, as pleasant as this has been for me, you know very well that you shouldn’t be gallivanting across the countryside with strangers. You could very well fall victim to some rogue on the road. At the next stop, I intend to put you in a private conveyance to Hipple myself.”
“It’s Himple,” she corrected him, and regrettably, stepped away from him. “And I will see myself there, you need not concern yourself.”
Just like Aurora. It’s my life to ruin, Roan. You needn’t concern yourself with it.
“Seeing yourself there is not inconsequential, Miss Cabot. You don’t want to have your reputation marked by an impetuous moment, do you?”
“No, it’s not inconsequential, Mr. Matheson,” she said pertly. “But the ruin has already been done. I highly doubt that I could make it worse.”
And what did that mean? Roan wondered. In what way had she been ruined? Or was she prone to overly dramatic interpretations of the events of her life as was Aurora?
“Ho! The coach!” someone shouted. A cry of relief went up from the other passengers, and there was a sudden flurry of activity, of gathering luggage. As the second stagecoach pulled in behind the first, Roan watched the men over his shoulder a moment, then glanced at Miss Cabot. He looked her over, the purse of her lips, the color in her cheeks. Why were the most alluring women the most trouble? He couldn’t imagine Pratt would never dream of doing what Miss Cabot had done today. Which he supposed was what made her the perfect wife. Didn’t it? At present, Roan would keep telling himself that. He hadn’t actually offered to make Susannah his wife, but it was expected that he would. He expected he would, for all the reasons Susannah was not standing here under this tree with him.
Yes, he would keep telling himself that.
Roan looked away from Miss Cabot’s hazel eyes. “I should make myself useful in the repair of the wheel.”
“Yes, of course.” She held his gaze, watching him closely. A smile slowly appeared. “Thank you for not revealing me to Dr. Linford.”
He sighed. “I am unduly swayed by the smile of a beautiful woman. It is my cross to bear.”
Her smile deepened. “I’ll wait on the rocks.” She walked past him—gliding, really, with an elegance that was not learned, he knew from experience. She took a seat where they’d gathered previously, picked up her valise and balanced it on her lap, her hands folded primly on top. She looked straight ahead, as if she were at a garden party.
Roan couldn’t help his smile as he walked past her and touched her shoulder. “I didn’t thank you.”
“Thank me?” she asked, looking up at him.
“For your great esteem,” he said, and winked.