others?
He ran a hand through his hair and turned away from the window, agitated and anxious. What if she was discovered in there? What if something happened to her? What if their whole scheme was found out because they were no longer convincing as husband and wife? What if…
He had to stop with the “what if” scenarios or he was going to drive himself mad. Moira would be fine. She was clever enough to avoid discovery; she was indomitable enough that anyone who may come across her and wish her harm would flee in the face of her wrath. She would be fine for one night.
He knew all of this was true, but it only served to make him feel guiltier than he already did. He moved to the window again, and shut it only slightly, keeping it open enough so that he could hear if anyone would shout for help. He would be able to get to her quickly if she needed him, and that, at least, was a comfort.
He looked around the room for some sort of distraction, anything to take his mind off of the woman that was surely going to be the death of him and her incredible ability for conceiving foolhardy ideas. He saw her dress from the day spread out before the fire, no doubt nearly dry already, and the hated bonnet on the floor next to it, along with her jacket. Next to them was a neatly folded nightgown, no doubt the best the Fletchers had to offer. That was apparently not to be used tonight.
Involuntarily, his thoughts went back to the extraordinary ensemble Moira had chosen to don that evening. He had to swallow in spite of himself at the memory of how her legs looked in those breeches. They had not been a tight fit, thankfully, but even so, he had never imagined how long and trim her legs would actually be. He had not thought of her legs at all before now, and it seemed a perfectly good waste of human creation to hide them.
“Steady there, Nate,” he muttered, desperately trying to clear those less than appropriate thoughts from his mind. Moira deserved better than his gawking. Then again, she did bring it upon herself. “Oh, now really,” he scolded aloud, “it’s not as though she wore them so you could stare like an idiot.”
That was true, but even so, he was a man.
“I am a gentleman,” he reminded himself aloud as he paced a bit.
Gentleman or not, they were some exceptionally fine legs…
“I’m a gentleman, I’m a gentleman, I’m a gentleman,” he mumbled over and over, pacing and rubbing his hands through his hair in agitation. This was getting entirely out of hand. “I am a bloody gentleman!” he finally bellowed, his voice ringing off of the walls.
Faintly, he heard from somewhere else in the building, “Well, all right, then! Don’t get so excited!”
He growled in frustration and moved quickly around the room. Excited, that was a good way to put it. He was too excitable, he needed to be controlled. After all, Moira was not something to stare at; she was a curse sent from all of his enemies past, present, and future to torment, agitate, and infuriate him. She tested his patience, his resolve, and his character, and he did not know how long he could last under these circumstances. There was only so much a man could be expected to endure before enough was enough!
Rationality soon swept over him as he sat down moodily in a chair before the fire. There would be no giving up, there would be no abandonment, and there would be no overpowering her opinions and claiming authority over her. She had spirit, that much was evident, but it was fragile, much more so than she probably thought. Any overbearing actions on his part would send her storming off on her own. And he would no longer be able to help her. She would be closed off to him forever. He could not do that to her.
And so he would just have to endure her maddening traits, wearing breeches and sleeping in stables now being added to the ever-growing list.
He groaned and pushed himself out of the chair. There was a pitcher and bowl of water in the corner,
He ran a hand through his hair and turned away from the window, agitated and anxious. What if she was discovered in there? What if something happened to her? What if their whole scheme was found out because they were no longer convincing as husband and wife? What if…
He had to stop with the “what if” scenarios or he was going to drive himself mad. Moira would be fine. She was clever enough to avoid discovery; she was indomitable enough that anyone who may come across her and wish her harm would flee in the face of her wrath. She would be fine for one night.
He knew all of this was true, but it only served to make him feel guiltier than he already did. He moved to the window again, and shut it only slightly, keeping it open enough so that he could hear if anyone would shout for help. He would be able to get to her quickly if she needed him, and that, at least, was a comfort.
He looked around the room for some sort of distraction, anything to take his mind off of the woman that was surely going to be the death of him and her incredible ability for conceiving foolhardy ideas. He saw her dress from the day spread out before the fire, no doubt nearly dry already, and the hated bonnet on the floor next to it, along with her jacket. Next to them was a neatly folded nightgown, no doubt the best the Fletchers had to offer. That was apparently not to be used tonight.
Involuntarily, his thoughts went back to the extraordinary ensemble Moira had chosen to don that evening. He had to swallow in spite of himself at the memory of how her legs looked in those breeches. They had not been a tight fit, thankfully, but even so, he had never imagined how long and trim her legs would actually be. He had not thought of her legs at all before now, and it seemed a perfectly good waste of human creation to hide them.
“Steady there, Nate,” he muttered, desperately trying to clear those less than appropriate thoughts from his mind. Moira deserved better than his gawking. Then again, she did bring it upon herself. “Oh, now really,” he scolded aloud, “it’s not as though she wore them so you could stare like an idiot.”
That was true, but even so, he was a man.
“I am a gentleman,” he reminded himself aloud as he paced a bit.
Gentleman or not, they were some exceptionally fine legs…
“I’m a gentleman, I’m a gentleman, I’m a gentleman,” he mumbled over and over, pacing and rubbing his hands through his hair in agitation. This was getting entirely out of hand. “I am a bloody gentleman!” he finally bellowed, his voice ringing off of the walls.
Faintly, he heard from somewhere else in the building, “Well, all right, then! Don’t get so excited!”
He growled in frustration and moved quickly around the room. Excited, that was a good way to put it. He was too excitable, he needed to be controlled. After all, Moira was not something to stare at; she was a curse sent from all of his enemies past, present, and future to torment, agitate, and infuriate him. She tested his patience, his resolve, and his character, and he did not know how long he could last under these circumstances. There was only so much a man could be expected to endure before enough was enough!
Rationality soon swept over him as he sat down moodily in a chair before the fire. There would be no giving up, there would be no abandonment, and there would be no overpowering her opinions and claiming authority over her. She had spirit, that much was evident, but it was fragile, much more so than she probably thought. Any overbearing actions on his part would send her storming off on her own. And he would no longer be able to help her. She would be closed off to him forever. He could not do that to her.
And so he would just have to endure her maddening traits, wearing breeches and sleeping in stables now being added to the ever-growing list.
He groaned and pushed himself out of the chair. There was a pitcher and bowl of water in the corner,
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