Claire cringed—it needed a good oiling. “Please dial the number of the service required,” it crackled in a heavy brogue. “Dial one for a porter, two for a cab, three for a porter and a cab. . . .” Alastair—she had to get used to thinking of him as such—turned the dial to three. The automaton responded by lifting its bowler hat to reveal a steam whistle coming out of the top of its head. It rent the air with three sharp blows. Then it ground back into its original position.
“That was painful,” Alastair remarked with a wry grin.
“Modern innovation at its finest,” Claire retorted.
His only response was a dry chuckle before a porter hurried to greet them with a luggage cart in tow.
Now they were in a richly appointed steam carriage driven by a man with an accent so thick, Claire hadn’t understood a word he said. Wolfred didn’t have the same trouble, it seemed. He even laughed at something the old man said before climbing into the cab. Porters had taken care of their luggage, carefully stacking and securing it high on the back of the vehicle.
They were alone, and entirely too close in the confined space.
Claire opened the shade to let moonlight inside. She didn’t like tiny little quarters like this. Large rooms like the train car or even the cell the Wardens put her in were fine because they were spacious enough for her to move about comfortably. This wasn’t much bigger than a closet.
“Are you all right?” Wolfred asked.
“I’m fine,” she lied. “I just wanted to see some of the countryside. I’ve never been to Scotland before.”
He glanced at the window. “Can you see much of anything?”
“No, but the moon is very pretty.”
She could feel him watching her, damn him. “What am I to call you when we arrive at our destination? If we are to be lovers, we should have a degree of intimacy, shouldn’t we? I can hardly call you Lord Wolfred all the time.”
“Many people refer to me by my title,” he said, the gravel of his voice filling the ca [illt ourriage. It was soothing. “You could call me Wolfred, or better still, call me Alastair. There will be no doubt as to the nature of our relationship, and it will lend a slightly scandalous cast to the whole thing.”
Claire raised a brow. “Using a man’s Christian name is scandalous?”
“You’re in Britain, Miss Brooks; table legs are scandalous here.”
She chuckled. “Call me Claire. Might as well if we are to be lovers.”
He leaned back against the faded velvet seat. A glimmer of moonlight reflected in his left eye, and for a moment it shone like a mirror. She envied his enhanced vision. He could see her so much better than she could see him.
“Yes, I reckon I ought. I should have a pet name for you,” he mused. “Something obnoxious that will make me sound terribly infatuated with you.”
“Such as?”
“I’ve no idea. Bunny, perhaps. Or maybe sweetling.”
Claire winced. “Surely you can do better than those, Mr. Love Cannon.”
He laughed. “I will have to put my mind to it, if for no other reason than your superior ability to come up with obnoxious and humiliating monikers.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She hid a smile and went back to looking out the window. His gaze was unsettling—it made her feel as though he could see into her soul.
They arrived at the Hart and Hound Inn shortly after two o’clock in the morning, waking the innkeeper—an ill-tempered, round little man with florid cheeks and thick white hair that stood out around his head like a cloud. His mood changed drastically when he realized his late guest was an earl who appreciated his kindness and paid generously for it.
“You gave him far too much money,” she commented over her shoulder as they climbed the stairs to their room. The staircase was so narrow, she was forced to walk in front of him.
“If it gets us a decent room with a comfortable bed and a hot meal in the morning, I don’t give a damn.”
She shrugged. “Your
“That was painful,” Alastair remarked with a wry grin.
“Modern innovation at its finest,” Claire retorted.
His only response was a dry chuckle before a porter hurried to greet them with a luggage cart in tow.
Now they were in a richly appointed steam carriage driven by a man with an accent so thick, Claire hadn’t understood a word he said. Wolfred didn’t have the same trouble, it seemed. He even laughed at something the old man said before climbing into the cab. Porters had taken care of their luggage, carefully stacking and securing it high on the back of the vehicle.
They were alone, and entirely too close in the confined space.
Claire opened the shade to let moonlight inside. She didn’t like tiny little quarters like this. Large rooms like the train car or even the cell the Wardens put her in were fine because they were spacious enough for her to move about comfortably. This wasn’t much bigger than a closet.
“Are you all right?” Wolfred asked.
“I’m fine,” she lied. “I just wanted to see some of the countryside. I’ve never been to Scotland before.”
He glanced at the window. “Can you see much of anything?”
“No, but the moon is very pretty.”
She could feel him watching her, damn him. “What am I to call you when we arrive at our destination? If we are to be lovers, we should have a degree of intimacy, shouldn’t we? I can hardly call you Lord Wolfred all the time.”
“Many people refer to me by my title,” he said, the gravel of his voice filling the ca [illt ourriage. It was soothing. “You could call me Wolfred, or better still, call me Alastair. There will be no doubt as to the nature of our relationship, and it will lend a slightly scandalous cast to the whole thing.”
Claire raised a brow. “Using a man’s Christian name is scandalous?”
“You’re in Britain, Miss Brooks; table legs are scandalous here.”
She chuckled. “Call me Claire. Might as well if we are to be lovers.”
He leaned back against the faded velvet seat. A glimmer of moonlight reflected in his left eye, and for a moment it shone like a mirror. She envied his enhanced vision. He could see her so much better than she could see him.
“Yes, I reckon I ought. I should have a pet name for you,” he mused. “Something obnoxious that will make me sound terribly infatuated with you.”
“Such as?”
“I’ve no idea. Bunny, perhaps. Or maybe sweetling.”
Claire winced. “Surely you can do better than those, Mr. Love Cannon.”
He laughed. “I will have to put my mind to it, if for no other reason than your superior ability to come up with obnoxious and humiliating monikers.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She hid a smile and went back to looking out the window. His gaze was unsettling—it made her feel as though he could see into her soul.
They arrived at the Hart and Hound Inn shortly after two o’clock in the morning, waking the innkeeper—an ill-tempered, round little man with florid cheeks and thick white hair that stood out around his head like a cloud. His mood changed drastically when he realized his late guest was an earl who appreciated his kindness and paid generously for it.
“You gave him far too much money,” she commented over her shoulder as they climbed the stairs to their room. The staircase was so narrow, she was forced to walk in front of him.
“If it gets us a decent room with a comfortable bed and a hot meal in the morning, I don’t give a damn.”
She shrugged. “Your
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