Talk of the Ton (Free Fellows League 5)

Chapter Eight

India awoke to the sound of a horse snorting somewhere close by. She felt a rush of warm air in her hair and heard the steady cadence of a muffled drumbeat beneath her ear.

She opened her eyes and discovered they were swollen and felt full of sand. She yawned widely, then focused her gaze on the object directly in front of her: a long, flesh-colored object she soon determined was the heavily muscled upper arm of a man.

India realized then that arm she saw belonged to Lord Barclay as did the chest she was using as her pillow and the other arm holding her firmly in place. The muffled drumbeat she heard was the sound of Lord Barclay’s heart, and the motion she felt beneath her cheek was the rise and fall of his deep, even breathing as he slept. She lifted her head and attempted to move away, but Lord Barclay tightened his arms around her in response.

She rubbed her swollen eyes with her fists, regretting the vast volume of hot tears she’d shed. But when she’d attempted to apologize for becoming such a watering pot, Lord Barclay had looked her in the eyes and told her that he found no shame in shedding tears—that some of the strongest men he knew had been known to shed buckets of tears on numerous occasions, and then he’d proceeded to talk her to sleep by telling her a story about a boy who was afraid of his own shadow, but who desperately wanted to become a hero. Suddenly she understood that Lord Barclay was little Johnny Manners, the boy who had been sent to the Knightsguild School for Gentlemen at the tender age of seven and had been so sick for home that he’d cried himself to sleep every night.

The horse nickered a second time, demanding recognition from the human beings sharing his quarters.

India turned her head and spied four black hooves and a black nose through the gap in the stall boards. As she watched, the horse lipped at a lock of her hair.

India reached out a tentative hand and patted him on the nose. “Good morning, Fellow,” she whispered.

“Good morning.”

India blinked in surprise. For a moment, she thought the horse had replied. But the greeting had come from the man she was using as a pillow. “You’re awake.”

“I’ve been awake for a while.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” she demanded, disturbed by the thought of his being awake while she slept on his chest.

“You needed your sleep,” he replied. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

India put her hand to her hair and combed it with her fingers as best she could. “I must look a fright.”

The air around them grew thick with desire as Jonathan and India gazed at one another.

“You look perfectly lovely.” Jonathan spoke the truth. Even with swollen, red eyes, and a red nose, Lady India Burton was t

he loveliest woman he could ever remember waking up to. And the truth was that he’d spent the better part of the hour while watching her sleep, trying to convince himself that waking up to her every morning would eventually grow old. Unfortunately, he’d failed miserably. He leaned toward her, but India suddenly shied away. Jonathan understood. She was too vulnerable here like this in the bed they’d shared. They were both too vulnerable. He took a deep breath and changed the subject. “I see you’ve made my borrowed horse’s acquaintance,” Lord Barclay said.

“He’s very friendly,” India said. “He made my acquaintance by tugging on my hair.”

“No doubt he’s hungry as well as curious. If you’ll be so kind as to shift your weight a bit, my lady, I’ll see to him.” Jonathan waited patiently as Lady India pushed herself off his chest, blushing as she moved to the corner of the pallet.

Jonathan sat up, flexed his shoulder muscles, then pushed himself to his feet. He grabbed his shirt off a peg as he left the stall to tend to the horse. It was still quite early. But the village would be stirring with people preparing for their workday.

“Have you anything less revealing to wear?” Jonathan asked India as he bent to check the gelding’s leg.

India glanced down at her nearly transparent garments, then peered at him through the stall boards, watching as he fed and watered the horse. “Except for my burnoose, they’re all like these,” she answered rather wistfully. “I don’t have any frocks. Mine were all taken from me, and even if they hadn’t been . . .” She glanced down at her bosom. “. . . they’d be terribly out of fashion and much too tight.”

Jonathan turned away from the horse and gave her a quizzical look.

“It’s been nearly five years,” India reminded him. “Fashions change, and so have I.”

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

“I do have a smock, and antery, and a caftan to go over my harem clothes to make them less revealing and a black burnoose that veils my face and covers me from head to toe.”

“What did you wear to travel in from Turkey?” Jonathan asked.

“I wore the black burnoose over my caftan.”

“I suppose that will have to do until we find a dress for you to wear.” He smiled at her. “Fellow’s leg is fine, and we’re going to the village to hire men to help with Mustafa and then on to London. Unless you’ve any objections?”

India beamed. “Not at all. When do we leave, Lord Barclay?”