Chapter 11

T he following morning, Latimer attempted to open his eyes. The moment he did, a flash of sharp, piercing, light, briefly blinded him.

With a groan, he promptly shut them to ward the brightness off, but specks of white orbs specked his vision.

What in hell? His mind muddled, Latimer scrubbed his hands up and down his face and pressed his palms against his eyes to get his vision right again.

He let his arms fall to his side and attempted to open his eyes. This time, he did so with greater care.

That still bright glare met him and proved to be nothing other than the goddamned, golden sun; big, bright, and high enough east to gather the late morning hour.

Cursing, Latimer rolled his shoulders, stretching the tight muscles.

Christ, he’d never had a harder time getting to sleep, which given the miserable places he’d found himself resting throughout his life, was saying a lot. But then, when he’d finally drifted off last night, he’d slept like the actual dead.

As such, he now found himself struggling to make sense of his surroundings.

His bags rested next to him.

A small table with a wooden plate, filled with eggs and crusty-looking bread sat in the corner.

His gaze slid to a perfectly tidied bed; one so immaculately made it gave no indication there’d been anyone to sleep there.

Latimer went still.

But…there had been someone.

Then the fog of sleep lifted, and it all came rushing back.

Livian Lovelace.

First, the fight between them, then the taproom, and the night passed, speaking.

There was no indication she’d ever been here, and for a moment, he wondered if he’d merely imagined the beautiful, spirited, proud minx.

He jammed a hand inside his jacket and felt about; his fingers collided with an older sheet of parchment, and he froze.

Real.

She’d been all real. Unlike any woman he’d ever known, but very much, flesh and blood and decidedly the reason for his particularly painful morning erection.

Frowning, Lachlan got himself up into standing and glanced about.

She’d just… left ?

Granted, that’d been what she’d always intended to do, just as he had originally planned.

And Latimer had just slept right through it. There’d been no goodbye. His frown deepened. Just as he’d intended to do, she’d slipped out, before anyone was wiser to the fact they’d shared a room…but not before, leaving a plate for him—which he wasn’t sure he’d have been considerate enough to do, because he, well, hell, he’d been looking after himself for so long he wasn’t accustomed to looking after others.

Not that he needed to look after Livian Lovelace, or she him.

But she had . She’d been the first—and would be the only—person, in his entire life who’d thought to look after him the way she had. Livian’s was a small, but intimate, gesture. Having never been a recipient of that care, he found himself grappling with the unlikely discovery of how bloody nice it actually—

“ Fuuucck .” Confounded, Latimer swiped his hands up and down his face. “I need to get the hell out of here.”

Even more than that, he needed to purge Livian from his goddamned head. He had business matters to finalize, a marriage to see to—marriage to a cool, haughty, pampered duchess.

A fate that’d already been unpalatable now left an appallingly bad taste in his mouth.

Determined to put Livian from his thoughts once and for all, Latimer went about his daily ablutions, and even that casual task froze him in his tracks.

Two, not one, but two, porcelain pitchers rested there: one empty, the other full. One empty basin. The other filled with filmy water.

He reached for the chipped, porcelain pitcher and while he filled the bowl, his gaze remained locked on the one Livian had used.

Did she rinse a cloth and wipe it over her face or splash that cold water upon her—

Latimer dunked his whole head under the freezing depths. Opening his eyes, he stared with blurred vision to the bottom of the bowl.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he mumbled, more bubbles than sound releasing from his lips.

Latimer remained that way until the only option other than air, was death by drowning. At the last possible moment, he wrenched himself free from the water. Clutching the edge of the table, he puffed and wheezed for breath.

Latimer gave his head several hard shakes, sending drops splattering and scattering. Stripping off his clothes, he tossed the rumpled garments aside, ignored the crisp, dry, folded cloth in favor of the damp, and also perfectly folded one, beside Livian’s pitcher.

This time, he didn’t let his mind dwell on why. He hurried through the rest of his morning routine.

A short while later, clean, properly attired in new garments fit to meet his future wife, the duchess, Latimer snatched the hunk of crusty bread and stuck it between his teeth.

His old, leather pack strapped on his back, and a saddle bag in hand, Latimer found his way to the taproom.

When he arrived downstairs, he glanced about. Unlike the peaceful calm shared with Livian, the room bustled as it had when he’d taken refuge from the storm. The difference being, last evening’s occupants, as evidenced by the quiet in which they sat and the dearth of conversation among them, now sported the effects of their overindulgence.

Latimer’s gaze wandered to the fireplace.

With his spare hand, he removed the bread Livian had left for him from between his teeth.

He’d…almost expected to find her seated at that same table with her book in hand. She’d look up, this time, she’d wear that generous, even, white smile on her lush lips and would give him an exuberant wave.

Only, instead of that fetching sight, there sat a pinch-mouthed, bony-thin chap, sipping tea and reading a newspaper.

“Ah, good morning, sir!”

Latimer looked to the owner of that jovial greeting.

Mr. Hitchin reached him. “I trust you slept well, sir?”

“Given the ease with which you gave my room away,” he said dryly. “Do you really trust that?”

The small proprietor gave a nervous laugh. “Yes, well, the young miss indicated you were generous enough to give up your quarters, and took those initially reserved for her servant. As such, I’m happy to know it worked out for the both of you.”

He started. The clever minx had thought of everything.

“Can I have breakfast read…?” Mr. Hitchin’s question faded off, and he tipped his head in befuddlement at the crusty bread in Latimer’s hand.

The lanky fellow scratched at his brow.

To stave off suspicion from the suddenly not-so-simple innkeeper, Latimer reached inside his jacket for a purse.

Even as his fingers set the coins a’jingle they also collided with the note Livian insisted he take.

As if burned, Latimer snatched his hand back and withdrew the purse. “Here,” he said evenly, giving the generous velvet sack over to Mr. Hitchin.

All suspicion vanished, and the garishly clad man, brightened. “I’m happy you were pleased with your stay,” he gushed, and quickly pocketed the gift. “With the weather improved and the roads passable for most, I do happen to have many more rooms open.”

Latimer should be relieved as hell at getting out of this place and would have, had the duchess been waiting at the last leg of his trip. “I have to be on my way,” Latimer said.

Mr. Hitchin bowed. “Allow me to wish you safe travels. Please, visit again sometime soon.”

With the promise of more coins gone, the proprietor had already trained his eye on the others seated around his tables, whom he could get more money from.

Latimer took one last look about. Alas, quick-witted, resourceful as she was thoughtful, Livian had indeed got a large jump on him.

Latimer headed outside, and, amidst the bright, sunny afternoon, went to collect his horse.

He’d never intended to wed, and the only reason he would now do so at this juncture in his life was to build up a new, unrivaled, gaming hell, and establish a legacy that could not be broken by betrayal. But if he had ever married of choice and not necessity, it’d have been to a woman like Livian as equally skilled at fighting as she was gloriously proud and intelligent.

I need another blasted dunk in cold water…

A young lad went running through the sodden, puddled, grounds, splattering and splashing mud about as he went.

Only when the child reached Latimer, it became apparent, the small ‘he’ was in fact, a ‘she’, with blonde curls tucked under her cap.

“Can I help fetch and saddle your horse, sir?” she piped in a small, sing-song voice.

Normally, he’d attend his own mount, but the girl with her big, blue, eyes staring up at Latimer gave him pause and made him think of Livian as she’d reluctantly shared parts about her past.

“…When we were really struggling and Verity was working, Bertha would take me out to beg in various parts of London. Begging was less lucrative…While I begged, Bertha scouted out lords who’d be easy marks for a little girl…”

In his mind’s eye, Livian from long ago and this nameless waif got all tangled up.

“Sir?” the little girl asked again.

He forced aside those aching imaginings of what Livian lived through.

“Fortune is a big stallion,” he explained. “Well-mannered and clever, but big enough to scare most men.”

“Men,” the girl pushed her lips together and blew. “I never met a horse I could not tame. Me da is the stablemaster,” she explained.

“Ah.” Latimer dropped to his haunches. “That would be most appreciated…?” He left a question at the end of his sentence.

“Moira, sir!” she said, in an adorably sweet voice.

“Moira. That’s a lovely name.”

Upon his praise, the little girl’s spine grew several inches.

“I’m no ‘sir’, just a mere mister. But you can call me Latimer.” He winked.

Drawing out another purse, he pressed it gently into her small, callused fingers.

The little girl’s eyes grew so round they could have rivaled the fullest moon.

“There’ll be more,” he promised, giving her a little wink.

“Gor, sir!” she whispered, and then sprinted off in the direction of the stables.

As he stared after the resourceful child, an image whispered forward of a small girl in Livian’s exact image.

He smiled wistfully.

Without a doubt, any babes born to Livian Lovelace would be formidable imps, possessed of their mother’s feisty spirit.

That was…if whatever bloody nob she married tolerated sprightly offspring. While everything Latimer knew to be true of the nobility gave him all the answers he needed.

Latimer’s grin withered and even more insidious, poisonous thoughts surfaced—ones with some cold, pompous lord visiting Livian’s chambers. Without a doubt, she’d marry a fellow who insisted they be as decorous as all the peers and keep separate chambers because that’s the manner of fools all those bastards were.

The nob would bed Livian to get an heir and a spare on her.

A dark, murderous, rage rose up inside him.

Then, that same stodgy gent would most likely pay a visit to some scandalous hell—maybe even Latimer’s—and seek out the services of some skilled, but jaded Cyprian.

Not like Latimer. No, if she’d been his wife, he’d have spent every single night fucking her, and leaving the both of them sated, until they fell into a sex-induced stupor.

There came a sudden rush of blood flow to Latimer’s extremities, and he focused on breathing slowly in through his nose.

It wasn’t his business. Livian wasn’t his business.

That understanding didn’t have any diminishing effects on Latimer’s white-hot fury.

His nape prickled. That same feeling of being watched wrenched him to the present.

Coming slowly to his feet, Latimer turned and did a search over the courtyards.

He stopped in his tracks.

When he’d arisen to discover Livian gone, he’d believed that’d been the last time he ever saw her.

But here, as if he’d conjured her, Livian stood, some twenty yards away. The generous smile on her generous mouth was made even more generous by her cheerfully red cheeks.

And last night, came rushing back in a flash.

The taste of her tongue, a sumptuous treat of sweet honey and spicy peppermint.

The gentle swells of her buttocks in his large, coarse hands.

The hungry, honest sounds of Livian’s desperate desire which Latimer had swallowed and consumed.

Then, Livian lifted her fingers and gave Latimer a happy wave.

With a rapidly rising hungering, and some other sensation he couldn’t pinpoint on account he’d never before felt, stirred inside his chest.

A powerfully potent wave of emotion kept Livian paralyzed.

She was not well, and never again would she be.

For, until she drew her last breath, the sight of Lachlan conversing so easily with the little girl in breeches would forever live in her mind.

That’d also been part of the great dream she’d carried but inevitably would forsake upon the completion of her plans to marry.

Lachlan started over to her.

Livian’s throat swelled. She made herself shove aside regrets over what would never be.

He is still here.

She’d thought she would never see him again.

As she’d arisen early and gone about her morning ablutions, all the while, she’d continued to look Latimer’s way.

He’d lain upon his back, with his right arm flung across his forehead; he’d emitted the occasional, slight and quiet, snore.

She’d hoped he’d awake so she could speak with him once more, but had been equally comforted in knowing he found rest which he clearly deserved.

But he was still here.

A pervasive, radiant, warmth flooded her chest.

Then, Latimer reached her.

Livian’s heartbeat tripled. She tipped her head back to meet his bemused gaze.

“We meet again, darlin’,” he murmured.

“We meet again,” she confirmed.

They smiled at the same time, and somehow that synchronal happening carried with it an almost greater intimacy than being in his arms.

Almost.

“I thought you’d have been gone by now, darlin’,” he remarked.

“Yes. Well…” Alas, Mr. Dryver’s inspection of their carriage and the conditions revealed it would be far quicker for him to return with the other conveyance. As such, he’d set out on horseback some hours ago.

Lachlan looked around the courtyard. Frown lines appeared in his brow; a brow far nobler than any lord she’d ever met.

Before he could ask any questions, Livian cleared her throat. “I trust you are also on your way,” she said needlessly, given the pack strapped to his back and in the other bag he set down beside him.

“Aye.”

Neither of them spoke.

For Livian, profound, pained regret kept her from being the one to put their time together to its final and inevitable end.

Lachlan drifted a step closer and glided his gaze over her face. He froze. His black lashes dipped.

He slanted a heated, narrow-eyed stare upon her mouth.

Her breath contracted.

He’s going to kiss me…

Melting inside, Livian’s legs went weak under her.

“I wanted to thank you, sweetheart,” he murmured.

Confronted with not the passionate embrace she craved, but polite, impersonal appreciation stole the last of the welcoming warmth within her.

With her head clouded, she could only just look at him.

“For the meal.” He held a large hunk of partially eaten bread aloft. “For the fresh wat—”

“There’s no need to thank me,” she interrupted, hurting inside. “I was happy to do so.”

To hide the husk of emotion that left her mouth dry, Livian cleared her throat. “You were kind and gentlemanly.” She paused and made herself give Lachlan a teasing smile. “That was, with the exception of our initial meeting.”

He flashed a sheepish grin. “Not my finest moment.”

A man such as he could never have a bad one.

Livian clamped her lips down hard on the side of her cheek. Stupidly, she’d wanted his kiss. She wanted it still. No, she yearned for far more. She ached for—

What? a mocking voice in her head, taunted. For him to declare his love?

Love?

Reeling, Livian took a quick, frantic step backward.

Concern radiated from within his eyes. “Livian, are you—?”

She panicked under the rest of the question coming.

Fortunately, the high-pitched call of a child saved Livian from having to answer. “Here you are, Mr. Latimer!”

All of Lachlan’s attention went to the young girl, with the reins of his enormous, black stallion in her small but capable fingers. Just six or so inches past four feet, and by Livian’s estimation ten or eleven, the mount dwarfed the child, and yet, she displayed not a fleck of fear.

“Miss Moira,” he welcomed.

Miss Moira? He’d taken the time to learn a small servant’s name.

Livian briefly closed her eyes.

I’m never going to recover from this. In less than a day, she’d met a man who was perfect in all the ways Livian had wanted a sweetheart—or husband—to be.

“He’s a beautiful creature,” Moira praised like a most skilled aficionado of horses. “Well-behaved and clever, just as you said.” She gave the horse an affectionate pat.

“And you’re as skilled as you said you were.”

The girl grew another inch under Latimer’s latest praise. “I’ve learned it all from my da, Mr. Latimer.”

Livian drank in the tender exchange.

Lachlan removed an enormous purse and handed it gently to Moira. “Well, if the time ever comes you’re looking to care for prime horseflesh, you’ll have a place waiting for you at any one of my stables.”

“Gor, sir,” she whispered. “I’d love that, I would.” She paused. “If my da ever doesn’t have a need of me, of course.”

“Of course,” Lachlan said, all proper solemnity.

Moira made her goodbyes to Lachlan and Livian and took off running.

With the girl gone, and Lachlan partnered with his mount, and bags, there was no reason left for him to stay.

At least, we’ll have a proper goodbye.

She’d thought it’d be best to leave while he slept, but promptly discovered their meeting hadn’t felt complete. They’d needed these last moments.

At least, Livian, had, anyway.

They spoke at the same time.

“I—”

“I—”

Lachlan inclined his head. “You first, darlin.”

Darlin’.

I’ll miss that tender endearment that he never even really meant as an endearment.

“I…” She took a breath and held her hand out. “I wish you godspeed and safe travels for the rest of your journey.”

“And I you, Livian.” Lachlan moved an inscrutable gaze across her face. “Just don’t go…stealing any other fellow’s rooms.”

They shared one last smile.

Lachlan hesitated; he stared at her palm a moment. Then, he took her hand in his dwarfing her fingers with his longer, more powerful ones.

She took in a slow, inaudible, breath.

Even with his leather riding glove acting as a barrier between them, an electric charge passed at the place where they touched. Her entire hand radiated with heat that traversed along the length of her entire arm.

Then, all too quickly, he removed his hand from hers. All that delicious heat vanished, leaving in its place an empty coldness.

“I should be going,” Lachlan said.

Still, he didn’t make any attempt to go.

“Yes,” she murmured. “As should I.”

Several creases popped up on his noble brow.

She’d inadvertently roused questions in the all-too-perceptive gentleman. Livian silently cursed.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said swiftly, taking a step away. “I must fetch my things. Mr. Dryver will be wondering where I am.”

“Of course.”

Lachlan’s tone revealed nothing.

Although she yearned to stay here and prolong this moment with him, to do so would only invite further inquiries, ones that would likely lead to questions about Mr. Dryver and Livian’s carriage and if he discovered she was, in fact, stranded here still, knowing him but a short while, he’d feel compelled to stay. And she didn’t want that.

He had business to see to and she had a future husband to face.

It was best for the both of them if it ended here, just like this.

Mustering a smile she didn’t at all feel, Livian gathered her muddied hems, and headed in the direction of the inn.

The entire time, her body maintained its heightened state of alert of Lachlan’s every move, from the sounds of him packing his horse to the shift in leather as he swung himself astride.

Only when the clean, rhymical trot he’d set his horse to began to fade, did she allow herself a final look back at Lachlan Latimer.