But there was only one.
A maid had just lit the fire, and she bobbed a curtsy to Claire as she scurried from the room at the innkeeper’s insistent gesturing.
“Will you be needing anything else, my lord?” he asked.
Alastair shook his head and handed him several coins. “That will be all, thank you.”
The man thanked him profusely and backed out of the room. “Good evening to you both.”
When they were alone, Claire turned to him. “Thank you.”
Wolfred tossed his greatcoat over the back of a chair. “For what?”
“This.” She waved a hand. “It’s lovely.”
He stared at her a moment. “You’re welcome.” He removed his jacket and began loosening his cravat. “There’s a private bath. You may make use of it first.”
He didn’t have to tell her twice. Claire looked for toiletries and a nightgown in one of the bags provided for her, and she found everything a traveling woman might need and more. She grabbed a brush, tooth powder, face cream and a soft nightgown and wrapper that was new and smelled of jasmine.
At that moment she didn’t care if she was going to be in a state of undress in front of Wolfred. She didn’t care if they were going to share the same bed. She just wanted to feel that nightgown against her skin and settle her tired bones on that thick mattress. Her days on this earth were numbered—if the Wardens didn’t end her, the Company would—so she intended to enjoy whatever luxuries came her way.
She didn’t even care when she saw him outfit the door with a portable alarm system. It was little more than a bell with a combination lock that had to be entered correctly or the bell would begin to clang. She wasn’t offended. On the contrary, she’d be more offended if he didn’t take precautions—it proved that he thought her his equal. She made quick use of the facilities but vowed to indulge in the claw-foot tub the next morning if there was time. When she returned to the main room, Wolfred stood in the middle of it in nothing but a pair of loose linen sleeping trousers that hung low on his hips.
Sweet God in heaven.
He wasn’t pale like most redheads. Instead, his skin had a natural golden hue. His shoulders were broad and well defined, with a smattering of freckles across them. Auburn hair covered his sculpted chest, narrowing as the trail disappeared beneath the waist of his trousers. Beneath that warm skin, his ribs were faint ridges, his stomach so flat it was almost concave. He was muscled there as well, like the statues she’d seen once in a museum in New York. And his arms . . . He had biceps a woman couldn’t even begin to get her hands around.
It had been a long time since she’d been with a man, and even longer since she’d been with one she was truly attracted to. Alastair Payne was the worst possible man for her to want. He was also probably the last man she would ever see in a state of undress. Given that realization, there could be no harm in looking.
And he was staring at her as though he liked what he saw. He would never act on it; she knew that. But if some time in the night her hand “accidentally” slipped between his legs, he just might be persuaded to do what came naturally.
That, or he’d go looking for that dirigible rudder.
“It’s all yours,” she rasped, gesturing to the toilet with her bundle of dirty clothes. She was as jittery as a virgin, for pity’s sake. This was how it felt to have met one’s match. She would have to be very careful not to reveal her intentions to him.
“Thank you.” He brushed past her, and she caught a whiff of his scent. He smelled like man—warm skin and exotic spice.
“Cardamom,” she whispered.
“Did you say something?” He was already several feet away.
“Nothing,” she replied, and hurried to her bags to put her things away.
Once she was alone, her thoughts turned briefly to escape, but she had to admit that it would be a foolish risk. She also had to admit that she didn’t want to escape. Tomorrow she would find Howard, or he would find her, and then she would face whatever fate had in store. This was the last time she would ever sleep in such a decadent bed, especially with a man. Never mind that he might just as easily gut her in her sleep. He would certainly have to deal with her once she killed Howard. She could forget about him laughing at her wit then.
She went to the bed and climbed in, sinking into the soft mattress. The sheets were cool, but they were made of velvety flannel that soon warmed around her. By the time Wolfred—Alastair—returned from the toilet, she was already half asleep.
He extinguished the lights until there was nothing but the glow from the fire, then pulled back the blankets and slid into bed beside her. It didn’t feel the least bit strange to have him there. In fact, she had to resist the urge to inch closer to his delicious warmth.
“Claire?”
“Mmm?” To her embarrassment, she yawned as she opened her eyes.
He was propped up on his elbow, all russet and gold in the firelight. “Can I trust you not to escape? I don’t want to have to shackle you to the bed.”
That might not prove entirely unpleasant, she thought. Nonetheless, she appreciated that he hadn’t trussed her up at all, though that was probably because he’d armed the door, and most likely the windows as well. “I’m not going anywhere, Alastair.”
It was probably the fire, but she thought she heard him hiss—like a sharply indrawn breath. “You’re not going to kill me in my sleep, are you?”
Did he actually believe her? She yawned again and closed her eyes. The damn things refused to stay open any longer. “No. I’d want you awake for that.”
Silence descended, and for a moment she thought he was going to watch her all night just to make certain she didn’t break her word. “I’ve decided what I shall call you.”
“Oh?” She snuggled deeper into the downy embrace of her pillow. He had the sort of voice that could lull a woman into oh-so-pleasant dreams. “What?”
“Belle.”
“As in beauty?” It was sweet, but not terribly original. Robert had called her something similar when she was a child. Good enough for a mistress, she supposed.< [oseatino LT S/p>
“No, as in hell’s.”
Then he rolled over, and she was glad that his back was to her so those damn sharp eyes of his couldn’t see her smile.
Alastair woke with Claire, her nightgown riding up her thighs, curled up against him, and an erection so hard, he could have broken ice with it.
This was deuced inconvenient. Thank God she was still asleep; otherwise he’d be mortified. She was warm and firm, with feminine softness in all the right places, and she smelled good, like cake. Worse, she felt so terribly right pressed against him, as though she belonged there.
He shouldn’t be surprised. Number one, she had been Luke’s lover, and he seemed to have an annoying habit of sharing his friend’s taste in women. Second, she was the last woman he should want; therefore it made a perverted sort of sense that he wanted her as much as he did.
He was surprised, however, to have slept through until morning. He truly thought she’d try to get away from him in the night, despite giving him her word. That he’d expected her to break her promise left him feeling slightly lowered. That she hadn’t only confounded him.
Quickly and carefully he eased himself out of the bed. The room was not nearly as chilly as he expected, having heating pipes that were obviously turned on in the wee hours to make up for banked fires. Damn, he’d hoped the chill might ease the raging cockstand tenting the front of his trousers.