A Marriage Of Rogues. Margaret Moore

as soon as possible.”

      “I quite agree,” she said. “Will you expect to oversee the selection?”

      “I can think of nothing more boring.”

      She nodded, then went back to looking out the window.

      He slumped against the squabs and closed his eyes. If she didn’t wish to speak to him, so be it. Indeed he should welcome the silence broken only by the rhythmic thudding of the horses’ hooves as they galloped along the road.

      And he should use the time to once again try to decide if he was doing the right thing, he thought drowsily. It wasn’t too late to change his mind.

      Perhaps he should, perhaps he should, perhaps...

      * * *

      Thea awoke from a restless doze and rotated her stiff neck. She had no idea how long she’d been asleep in the carriage. She’d nodded off some time after Sir Develin had. A quick glance showed he was still sleeping on the seat across from her.

      She studied the face of the man she was going to marry. Sir Develin was almost thirty, but he looked much younger when he was asleep, especially with that lock of dark hair hanging over his brow.

      As for the rest of him, he was broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, tall and as well dressed as she was not. No wonder he was so popular with the ladies.

      She looked down at her pelisse. He was right, of course. It was terribly ugly and she hated wearing it, but what else could she do when her choice was buy cheap and homely fabric or go without food? She would welcome a new wardrobe more than he could ever know, and she was doubly glad to think he would let her choose it.

      She was wondering how much she would have to spend when the carriage rattled to a halt and the coachman called out, “Gretna Green!”

      The baronet awoke with a start and looked confused for a moment before he brushed the lock of hair off his forehead and said, “There already?”

      “You’ve been asleep.”

      “Oh,” he said with a yawn as the coachman opened the door, revealing a cobbled and busy inn yard. Beyond, the large main building of the inn, half-timbered and covered with ivy, looked comfortable and prosperous.

      Sir Develin jumped out with the same alacrity as before, then reached up to help her disembark. He was regarding her so gravely she feared he was going to tell her he was going back to Dundrake Hall and leaving her there.

      She hadn’t come that far, hadn’t made that presumptuous proposal, to be thwarted now.

      Her lips pressed together with determination, she put her hand in his and, ignoring the sudden rush of heat that action prompted, stepped down. As soon as her feet touched the ground, she immediately left Sir Develin and approached the nearest servant, a stable boy carrying a basket of oats, and asked, “Where is the smithy?”

      She hadn’t only learned all she could about Sir Develin before going to Dundrake Hall; she’d made sure she understood how and where marriages were conducted in Gretna Green.

      The lad grinned, revealing a gap where one of his front teeth should be. “Out the gate, turn right, can’t miss it.”

      “Thank you,” she said. She looked back over her shoulder at Sir Develin, who had stayed near the carriage. “Shall we?”

      He didn’t immediately reply and she held her breath, waiting with anxious anticipation for him to either speak or move.

      “Yes, we shall,” he said at last.

      * * *

      In later years, Thea remembered very little of the actual marriage ceremony, in part because there was very little to remember. A few words spoken over an anvil by a large, potbellied man who, she suspected, did no actual smithing, with a witness who seemed half in his cups. Afterward they returned to the inn, where she was shown to what would be their nuptial chamber.

      It was an unexpectedly large room, with whitewashed walls, a sloped ceiling and casement windows. A large, four-poster bed with clean-looking blankets and woolen bed curtains dominated the room, which also contained a washstand with an unexpectedly pretty porcelain basin and ewer, as well as plenty of fresh linen. There was a high-backed wooden chair in the corner opposite the door, a worn carpet on the floor and a folding screen in the corner. A fire had been kindled in the small hearth, making the room pleasantly warm. She also noted two valises by the bed, a large and very fine one that must be Sir Develin’s and her own small and shabby one.

      The slender, gray-haired landlady suggested a bath, and Thea eagerly agreed. It was a bit awkward when the landlady inquired about her maid; fortunately Thea had a ready answer for that, too. “I don’t have one traveling with me today. I can manage on my own for one night.”

      “Especially on your wedding night, eh?” the woman said with a grin before she left the room.

      Thea barely had time to catch her breath—or so it seemed—when a brisk rap sounded on the door heralding the arrival of two servants. A red-haired lad in homespun breeches and jacket and white linen shirt carried a tin bath, and a slender young woman in a simple calico dress and clean white apron held two large pitchers of steaming water. She also had more fresh linen over her arm. The boy set the bath down with a bang near the hearth and moved the screen to shield it from the door and drafts before he departed with a tug of his forelock. Meanwhile, the serving girl began to fill the tub with water from the pitchers.

      “There’s soap over there,” she said, nodding at the washstand on the far side of the room, opposite the bed that Thea was determined to ignore for as long as she could. “I’ll bring a pitcher of cold,” she added.

      “Thank you,” Thea murmured.

      “Which one is yours?” the girl asked with a friendly smile as she picked up the pitchers. “The skinny fella?”

      “My husband, you mean?”

      “Aye, which one’s yours, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

      If he had been “the skinny fella,” Thea might have minded. As it was, she felt a sudden rush of proud triumph before she said, “The handsome one.”

      Her delight lasted only another moment, for the girl frowned, ran a doubting gaze over Thea, then shrugged and headed out the door.

      Thea went to the mirror hanging over the washstand. Was it really so incredible that a man like Sir Develin...?

      She drew up her hair and turned her head from side to side. No, she was no aristocratic beauty and never would be. Her eyes were too large, her lips too full and her chin too pointed. At least her nose was good, but a man like Sir Develin would surely have preferred a woman with more to recommend her than a shapely nose and not too plump a figure.

      Nothing could be done about her features, she thought with a sigh as she began to take off her clothes.

      She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, wearing only her thin cambric chemise and petticoat. The next time she was so attired and only so attired, she would be with a man. Sir Develin. Her husband. And shortly after that...

      She quickly doffed her undergarments and stepped gingerly into the tub. It was hot, but bearable, and she began to splash water over her face. Another knock sounded on the door—the serving girl with the cold water, no doubt. Her eyes still closed, she called out for her to enter.

      “I don’t need any cold water, thank you,” she said, reaching for a square of linen with which to wipe her eyes.

      “Good, because I didn’t bring any,” Sir Develin said.

      With a little shriek, Thea dropped the small square of linen and reached out to grab a larger one to cover herself, nearly upsetting the tub in her haste. “What are you doing here?”

      “The innkeeper’s good wife has made it clear that she expects me to share the tub with my bride,” he replied, sounding as if he was completely at ease.