8. Something Impressive

8

SOMETHING IMPRESSIVE

"Go on, now. It's time we both got to Nod." Reaver the Impressive turned his no doubt doleful expression toward the man who spoke. "Dawn comes early enough, sun or snowstorm."

Mikey was using his Midlands-middling voice, as Reaver had named it. 'Twas the one "stable master" tended to use each evening, but only after the hour grew ever later, the coins and cards flying across the rough table had first slowed and then stopped, and any visiting coachmen, various grooms and the inn's two stable boys had drifted off.

'Twas the voice the man used when it was the two of them, or occasionally the human and one of two others, either Reaver's man, Tucker, or ol' Benny Wrath.

It was a far cry different from the street-bumpkin-lout voice Mikey reserved for guests of The Filthy Pig, and travelers who stopped only long enough for a change of horses.

A far, far cry different from the priggy, officious one the man employed in London.

Looking longingly past the long (but not impressive) rows of stalls, past the sleeping, snuffling and, occasionally, stomping (often snoring or snorting) horses, Reaver gave a single whine.

"I know, boy. You want to go to work at Tucker's side. He will be back for you come morning. Now go curl up next to my bunk."

Reaver swung his head, long snout impressive (but not as emphatically so as the tongue it housed), and aimed himself toward the even smaller room off to the side where Mikey had stowed some stray he'd caught thieving from guests earlier.

A two-legged youngling, now slumbering, who hailed from somewhere along the coast, given the scents of ocean and brine Reaver had picked up from the lad's clothing.

But more importantly? What caused his impressively large paws to pad forward without excessive delay? 'Twas the scent of juicy meat his impressive nose had picked up as well….

Laughter. Tranquility.

Tingling lips and a riotous belly from kisses given—not taken.

"Not expecting a cuff to the shoulder or a sharp curse every moment Mr. Mitchell was at home?" As her wearied muscles loosened from the well-guarded, well-remembered anguished clutch, so did her mouth.

Susanna rambled. Knew it was so, spoke more to the incredible beef pasty wrapped in a bit of waxed paper making its way back to her chattering lips after that first bite that had near sent her into rapture. "Not counting the reprieves I had helping first Ellen and my nieces, and then caring for the girls at their house those last months before Nate returned home, why, I cannot count myself having a more splendid meal."

Another swiftly chewed, vastly appreciated bite of the thick savory pasty he'd insisted she have the larger portion of and she was hieing off again, filling the comfortable silence between them—because she could.

"I had not realized how very dowd I had become, in spirit if not in person." She flicked her gaze from the remaining pasty to his countenance. His stormy eyes stirred, alit, as though her chatter amused him. Didn't frustrate or anger. How refreshing, that!

Not that she was typically overly loquacious, not since long before the reality of her marriage crashed down upon her. But now? In this unique moment that felt heavy with anticipation yet light with possibilities, across from this man who intrigued her like no other? Whose protective nature mingled with his physical allure?

Well, despite more than one poor experience in the sexual realm, all Susanna could think was, Let my adventure begin!

"I vow, I had quite forgotten the sheer joy to be felt in the presence of a handsome man."

She knew he couldn't hear her. Couldn't understand anything, but the circus in her belly jumped about, exquisitely so, and bade her lips to somehow release her joy.

Knowing that she could ramble whatever she wanted and he would remain mostly unaware made her sad. And yet relieved as well, because she could admit out loud things that would ordinarily remain stifled. "I may not have known you long, sir, but I like what I know. I like it very, very much."

Tucking a bit of beef past her bottom lip with the back of one finger, she chewed, swallowed, and met his rapt gaze. Finding all that intensity focused on her, admiringly so, the acrobats in her middle turned even more fervent flips. "Aye. I find you very pleasing."

She took another bite, the savories meeting her tongue nothing close to warm but no less wondrous, and smiled at him, laughing at the slightly crinkled forehead, the perplexion his half-bemused frown, half-curious smile couldn't hide.

This close, she saw the short stubble covering his lower cheeks and jaw. A shade lighter than his hair thanks to the smattering of white hairs among the darker blond. Her palms itched to stroke the firm jaw beneath. How prickly might his facial hair be? How soft?

She swallowed past a delightfully tight throat—tight with attraction, not anxiety for once—and gestured to her mouth and then her ear, her fingers flying as raptly as her words. "I know. You have not a single notion of what I prattle. It is all right, for I can hear well enough for the both of us this eve."

Pasty gone, nuts and ale still beckoning, she wiped her hands on the paper, and then firmed both palms flat on the squabs and faced him squarely.

The puzzled expression had eased, once he realized she didn't expect him to acknowledge or respond to her words. If anything, his intriguing face had relaxed. Yet still he studied her in a way that showed he saw past the surface.

Uncomfortable at what he might glean, she stared back. Pleased when, despite the tumblers in her stomach, she continued to meet his gaze.

"You." She pointed to his chest, spoke slower, on purpose, and then motioned to his face. "Are quite handsome." Laughed outright when his sandy eyebrows arched upward, disbelief writ across his sun-weathered features.

"Aye." She gave an emphatic nod. "You heard. Hand." She opened hers right in front of his eyes. Then lowered it so he could see her mouth. "Some. Handsome."

There! I said it and I am not going to apologize for thinking it.

'Twas a mature face. One of experience. Of, mayhap, a dozen or so winters more than she claimed. Perhaps a couple fingers more. But nowhere near old.

And those lips?—

Had she seen a man's mouth so lush before? Not pursed in anger nor pinched in irritation?

You have not.

Hers tingled the more she stared. She wanted to touch those lips again.

Wanted to experience his unique blend of intense yet gentle passion, and she vowed to do it before she slept.

"How long were you out in the storm?" His words rumbled quietly into the space between them, bringing forth more heat than she had any right to feel beneath the soft linen of his shirt. "I fear your wits have yet to thaw."

"You jest!" She nearly choked on a nut, coughed into her hand, smiling widely, breathing in his clean, masculine scent from the long sleeve that fell about her palm. But before she could assure him of her sincerity, he spoke again.

"What made you travel by yourself? Without anyone to accompany you? Are you evading the one who hurt you? Escaping him?"

Her mirth faltered. Smile fell.

Bastard! Look what you did.

Leo hated how he'd stolen the joy from her face. Replaced it, not with fear thank God, but with a look of mulish determination. To resist his efforts at inquiry? Or perhaps, someone else's efforts to return her where she did not choose to go?

"Will you tell me why you are traveling? Or where you are headed?"

"…my brother…family…holidays. And you?"

What did he tell her that wasn't a lie without revealing overly much? "Work brought me here."

"Work." Her eyes narrowed, flicked toward his haversack. "Not…navy work, surely? …far inland?"

Damn. Perceptive little puss. Too bad he could not enlist her aid in his search for information.

"A favor for my superior who…" He wasn't in a position to explain. "Ah…"

"You…dither." At least he thought the last word was dither . She held up her hand, palm out. "I…enough. Were you strangled here too?"

Strangled? Strangled… Stranded!

"Aye, in part."

"And you travel…only your dog and Nelson Rambler?"

"Correct. 'Tis only the three of us."

Her soft smile bloomed again as she turned her attention back to unwrapping the nuts, and it was as though the sun burst forth, illuminating all the shadows he had become adept at hiding among.

That quickly, he had returned contentment to her features? Eased her heart? And as to his pathetic explanation, she did not feel the need to press for more? Was appeased with his minim explanation, as to why he was here? A rare woman indeed.

Reaver's long (impressively long, he knew) canine tongue swept up and out, over his muzzle, gleaning every bit of grease that clung to his fur and short whiskers.

He'd already cleaned the empty waxed papers to a shine. After wolfing down ( wolfing , heh-heh) the remaining portion the young and clueless simpleton had left unguarded.

"Hey ho, old man. I'm alone."

"Benton!" Mikey moved faster than his stooped posture of late might indicate, scuttling to stash away the mirror and tooth black he used to keep his smile offensively grimy. "What are you doing out here?"

Licking at front paws (the ones also impressive in size) with pre-nap thoroughness, Reaver glanced over at the newcomer Mikey spoke to, giving his own, single " Wrrooof! " of welcome.

"Hey ho, Reaves." Bearded Timothy Benton, who in London went by Lord Wrothington, ambled over in his somewhat ragged country attire and placed fingers on the dog's neck, giving an appreciated scratch before heading to the "old" stable master, where the two conversed in hushed voices that Reaver could nevertheless hear with ease.

Because, aye, his auditory skills were impressive indeed.

Was that not why "Old" Mikey had chosen him—Reaver the Impressive—to work so closely with Captain Leo Tucker?

Speaking of Tucker, Reaver missed his man's foot. Or palm. In the months they had traveled together, Reaver had grown used to Tucker's light, comforting touch any time he slept.

Being here—in the equine-crowded, straw-filled (equine- excrement -straw-filled) place—without his person to look after set Reaver's fur on edge. His whiskers to twitching.

Tucker might have told him to Remain in the stable, good boy , but that didn't mean Reaver had to like it.

"What prompted you to risk coming out here?" Mikey whispered so low no one else would overhear. No human, that was.

"You see Tucker? That filly he rescued?"

Mikey grunted in agreement. "They're safe for the night."

"Keep them hid," Wrath, as he was called in London society, said. "Beyond riled Haggart and Bowyer and their cringers. Every minute that's passed got them to fuming hotter over not taking Tucker down and claiming her. Did what I could to stall and detour, but now Haggart aims to make an example of them both. Went out blustering a few moments ago, gunning for their trail. Idiots. Why can their liquored brains not give it a rest for one god-damn night?" Wrath's hands went to his falls. "Claimed I was heading out for a shit. Just need to piss, but need to get to it and back in there. Tucker get anything yet?"

"Have you?" Mikey countered rather than waste time answering.

"Rumblings. Nothing worth spending Christmas in this godforsaken place for."

"Storm has made everyone batty."

"Booze did that. They're all pissed as a newt, they are."

"Snow will help. Still coming down?"

"In sheets."

"Good. They'll give up soon enough."

Good, indeed. Grand, in fact. Anything was better than the incessant rain that persisted in muddying his impressive paws.

Reaver flexed one in front of him. His thick brown fur shone in the lantern light.

A soft snort, followed by a plopping-squish hit his ears seconds before the awful offal smacked his nose.

Blasted horses.

Smelled up the stable something fierce.

When could he retrieve his human and leave?