His chin rubbed against the sensitive skin of her own as the passion of their kisses grew more fervent.
“I-I…” He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, his gaze stoking the growing fire within her. “I can’t,” he finally managed.
He grasped her waist and moved her away from him. “We can’t, unless we put an end to our pursuit of Mr. Archer.”
Mary blinked, feeling suddenly light-headed. “What are you saying?”
He looked into her eyes. “We…we could remain husband and wife.”
What? “Remain married? Are you mad?” Mary straightened her back, and her gaze darted around the carriage cabin in her disbelief. “You must be. That is the only explanation for what you are suggesting.”
“Are you forgetting that I ruined you-in this very carriage, no less? And would have lain with you again had we not separated just now?”
“Yes, I must remind myself to avoid riding in carriages with you in the future.” She flicked up an eyebrow.
“I am serious, Mary.”
“I hardly feel damaged, so unless you announced our…encounter to the ton, no one will know, and I shall not suffer in the least,” she retorted quickly, drowning out the pounding of her heart.
“I have wronged you, therefore I think it only fair to you that we remain married.”
Mary’s eyelids raised up, and she shook rigid hands in the air. “Are you forgetting that you do not want to be married to me?” She sighed with exasperation, and yet the backs of her eyes began to sting.
“Are you so certain of that?” Rogan’s gaze searched her face, as if delving inside her, looking for her answer.
The tenderness in his expression and his words surprised her and inexplicably propelled Mary to her feet.
Pursing her lips, she sucked in a breath in utter astonishment and pressed a hand to the cabin ceiling to brace herself so she wouldn’t fall. What a goose she was being standing inside a carriage racing down a pitted, gravel road.
There was nowhere to go. No place to collect her thoughts. No room to craft a pithy reply.
And so she sat back down, folded her hands in her lap, and stared wordlessly out the window.
Remain Rogan’s wife. She huffed out a broken breath.
What a preposterous idea.
Chapter 17
The carriage driver had stopped for fresh horses several times during the long night, making it impossible for Mary to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time.
She had tried leaning her head against the leather squabs, but the constant jostling of the carriage as its wheels hit holes in the packed surface of the road-in addition to the fact that whenever she’d opened her eyes Rogan had been watching her-had kept her awake.
By nearly four in the morn, Mary had had enough. She begged Rogan to temporarily stop their chase in Baldock to rest and take their breakfast.
To her surprise, he did not resist the idea at all but rather proclaimed it a wonderful suggestion.
The only problem with the notion was that The White Horse Inn was completely filled. In fact, had Rogan not had sufficient coin to bribe another guest, who had risen early to catch a mail coach, to relinquish his room to them, there would not have been a room at all.
As it was, Rogan informed her that they would have to share a bed.
Mary was far too tired to argue, so she tucked the book of maladies and remedies under her arm, just in case she suddenly had need of either, and followed the glow of the candle the innkeeper had given Rogan up the dark staircase and into a small bedchamber.
Rogan settled the chamber lamp on a night table beside the bed and immediately began to remove his clothing.
“Um, Rogan.” Her words came out thin and strangled. “I know you do not see a need for bedclothes, but might you wear something to bed? I realize that we are husband and wife, but with any good fortune at all, tomorrow we shall no longer be so joined.”
“Very well, my darling,” Rogan laughed. “You needn’t fear. I shall remain clothed.” He glanced at the book of maladies cradled in her arms. “And though this is our wedding night, you are safe from any advances in this bed.”
“Oh, I know that,” she replied with feigned innocence. She set the book down and slid beneath the coverlet. “This is a bed. Not a carriage, after all.”
Rogan laughed and climbed into bed beside her.
She didn’t know when it had happened, or why, but there was an ease between them. A comfort she had not noticed before. But she felt it now and could not deny it.
Within minutes, though she was lying in a narrow bed with the one man who made her heart beat like a fresh team at full gallop, to her surprise, Mary felt herself falling asleep.
Three hours later, the sun streamed through the threadbare curtain stretched across the window.
Mary stood in the sunlight and held a hand mirror before her face. She grimaced into the looking glass. “Red. It’s completely red.”
Rogan rubbed his eyes as he awoke, and blinked up at her. “What is red?”
“This.” She whirled and pointed at her chin. “Your Grace, I take back my words. I am damaged. Just look at what you’ve done.”
He propped himself up on his elbow and squinted up at her. “How on earth did that happen?” Then his eyes widened and he rubbed the coarse black stubble upon his own chin. “Oh.”
“Your beard. It obviously scraped my chin when you were kissing me last night in the carriage.”
“I beg your pardon, darling, but I believe I was attempting to stop you from kissing me.”
“Not when this happened.” Mary held the mirror up again and peered into it with a sigh. “I remember quite clearly.”
“As do I.” Rogan smiled wickedly and climbed out of bed. He approached her, then lowered his mouth and placed a chaste kiss upon her reddened chin.
She smiled, then playfully shook her finger at him. “Back away, Blackstone. My chin is already quite red enough.”
Rogan tucked in his shirt, then caught her hand holding the mirror and raised it up before him so he could tie his neckcloth properly.
Or, at least as well as a gentleman unaccustomed to dressing himself could possibly do.
He had just finished when Mary caught the scent of frying rashers. Her stomach growled. “Shall we take breakfast before boarding the carriage?”
“Absolutely.” There was a glint of humor in his tone. “I shall need all the strength I can muster if I am to spend another day in the carriage with you.”
With a grin playing at her lips, Mary picked up her book, cape, and reticule, and watched Rogan as he shrugged his coat over his broad shoulders and picked up her valise.
She sighed quietly, willing away the wicked thoughts burgeoning in her mind. Such a gloriously formed man.
Rogan opened the door for Mary. As she turned her head to look at him when she passed through the doorway, her preoccupation with him hardly went unnoticed.
Mary walked straight into a gentleman who had picked that moment to pass their room.
“Oh, I do beg your pardon, madam,” he began, as he backed out of Mary’s path.
“The fault was mine, sir,” she interrupted. “Please do forgive m-me-” Mary felt the blood siphon from her face. “Mr. Archer!”
“Good morn, Vicar,” Rogan said, perfectly poised and bursting with confidence. “Just the gentleman we had hoped to see this day.”
Rogan stepped in front of Mary, who, it seemed, could not draw forth another word.
“Saints be praised, Your Grace!” The vicar hurriedly bowed. “What splendid coincidence, meeting you and Her Grace on the road.” He glanced at Mary and belatedly bowed to her.
“Not a coincidence at all. We tracked you through the night, inquiring whenever we stopped for fresh horses as to whether you’d passed that way or not.”