The Illegitimate Montague. Sarah Mallory
them up to dry?’ Immediately his mind rioted at the thought of undressing before her. He continued hastily, ‘I beg your pardon, a tasteless jest. Do not concern yourself with my wellbeing, the exertion will keep me warm.’
‘We must at least hang up your coat.’ She picked it up and shook it out. ‘Oh, dear, how sad it looks now—I think I owe you a new one, sir. And you are missing a couple of buttons. I fear they have gone the same way as my bonnet, and are lost in the water.’
‘No matter, they are a small loss. Throw the coat over a bush for now.’ He picked up the smallest roll of linen and looked around him. ‘Now, where to begin …’
They worked together, unrolling the bolts of wet cloth and draping them over the tree branches around a small clearing at the edge of the road. He left Amber straightening out the hanging cloth while he gathered dry sticks and bracken to light a fire.
‘Leave that,’ she ordered him. ‘You have done more than enough for me already. If you go now you can still reach the village while there is light enough to see your way.’
‘I am staying here.’
‘Thank you, Mr Stratton, but that is not necessary. I do not think those villains will be back tonight, and besides, I have my pistol. I shall reload it and be ready for them if they return. You need not stay on my account.’
‘If you think I intend to ride to the Rothermere Arms in wet clothes, then you are mistaken, madam. Nothing could be more uncomfortable. I shall dry them in front of the fire.’ He smiled at the look of alarm that flashed across her face. It was a relief to know that he was not the only one aware of their situation. ‘I do not intend to undress, they will dry just as well if I wear them.’ He added mischievously, ‘In fact, it is a common practice for gentlemen of fashion to damp their buckskins and let them shrink to fit.’
She laughed, blushed and shook her head.
‘Never let it be said that I stood in the way of fashion. But, seriously, sir, if you are determined to stay I cannot stop you.’ She paused, taking her full bottom lip between her white, even teeth. ‘I admit I shall be glad of your company.’
It was another hour before they could enjoy the fire, by which time the darkness was almost complete. The wagon had been moved off the road and the two horses tethered to the wheels, where they could be heard quietly snuffling and cropping at the short, sweet grass. Amber pulled a pair of shears from the cart and a roll of heavy woollen cloth, which she spread on the ground and proceeded to cut into lengths.
‘We can use this for bedding,’ she explained. ‘I have plenty more frieze at the warehouse so this can be easily replaced. It is such a balmy night that if we didn’t have wet cloth to dry I would not bother with a fire at all.’
Adam eased off his boots and stockings, placing them close to the fire to dry. Amber did the same, again displaying her shapely ankles. Adam did his best not to ogle. She touched his sleeve.
‘Your shirt is still damp, sir. Should you not remove that too?’ He hesitated and she said with a hint of impatience, ‘I have seen a man’s body, before, and I would rather you took it off than died of an inflammation of the lungs.’
He laughed.
‘Very well, madam, but you will not object if I spare my own blushes and keep my breeches!’
The shirt soon joined his jacket on a convenient bush. Adam threw a length of the frieze cloth around his shoulders and sat down by the fire. After a moment’s hesitation Amber came to sit beside him. She held up a leather bag.
‘I have wine, sir, and bread and cheese, if you would like some?’
‘Gladly, Mrs Hall, if you can spare a little.’
‘Of course. I packed it for my journey but have used none of it.’
She pulled packets, napkins and a flask from the bag and spread it all before them. She offered him the wine but he shook his head.
‘After you, madam.’
She uncorked the flask and lifted it to her lips. The firelight was playing on her face, accentuating the fine cheekbones, the short, straight little nose and those beautiful almond-shaped eyes. The smooth skin of her neck gleamed golden as she tilted back her head and drank. Adam watched, fascinated. He wanted to reach out to her, to place his lips on the elegant line of her throat and trail kisses down to the dip where the breastbone started, and then onwards—
‘Your turn.’
She was holding the flask out to him and he was staring at her like some besotted mooncalf. Adam cleared his throat awkwardly and reached for the flask, trying to ignore his mounting desire and the way it spiked through his blood as their fingers touched. He picked up a piece of bread. Perhaps he should eat something. Beside him, Amber seemed completely at ease. They shared the bread and cheese, washing it down with draughts of wine.
‘So who are you, Mrs Amber Hall?’ he asked her, breaking a chunk of bread into two and handing her a piece.
‘I am a clothier, a seller of cloth.’
‘An unusual trade for a woman.’
‘I inherited the business from my father, John Ripley.’
‘Ah, yes, I remember he owned a warehouse in Castonbury.’
‘Yes.’ She added, a touch of pride in her voice, ‘We have been selling cloth in Castonbury for twenty-seven years.’
‘That is very precise.’
‘It is easy to remember, my father established the business in the same year as I was born.’
Adam handed her the wine again.
‘And your husband?’
‘Bernard Hall, his business partner. He joined my father twelve years ago, and married me three years later. We had been married barely eighteen months when he died.’
‘I am sorry,’ he said softly. ‘You must have been distraught.’
He could not interpret the look she gave him. She took another sip of wine and after a brief pause she continued her story.
‘I convinced Papa not to look for another partner but to let me help him. I found I had a talent for the business. When my father died three years ago he left everything to me.’ He watched her, trying to understand her pensive look, the slight downward turn to her mouth that gave her a rather kittenish look. At last she gave herself a mental shake and turned to him again. ‘Enough of me. Tell me about you, now.’ She shot him another of those sideways glances. ‘You said your name was Stratton. Are you the housekeeper’s son, from Castonbury Park?’
‘I am.’
‘Then I know you, Adam Stratton.’ Her dark eyes gleamed. ‘We played together before you went off to become a hero at Trafalgar.’
‘Surely not, I would remember.’
‘My father used to take me to the house, sometimes, when he was delivering cloth. I remember Mrs Stratton asked you to take me away and amuse me.’ He shook his head and she laughed. ‘Do not look so uncomfortable, I would not expect you to remember. You were, what … ten, eleven years old? You probably found a seven-year-old girl a blasted nuisance.’
‘I do remember now. You were a scrawny little thing, but useful for fetching and carrying. As I recall I treated you as my very own servant! Outrageous. Did you not mind?’
She shook her head. ‘Not at all, I enjoyed fetching and carrying for you. Besides, you looked after me. One occasion in particular I remember, when the Montague children came out and began to tease me. You drove them away.’
He grinned. ‘Well, it is all very well for me to mistreat you, but I was not going to let anyone else do so!’
A slight frown creased her brow, as if she was looking into the past. ‘Did they ever tease you, the Montagues? Because