The strange man was looking at her, his face inches from hers as he hung off the side of the rattling hay cart. “You got a name, lovely?”
Madeline gasped as she realized she was still pressed tightly against Harry’s side like a frightened little girl and not a twenty-year-old woman off on her first great adventure. But she couldn’t help herself. The man who had just leapt onto a moving cart was a giant—dark hair and eyes, piercing in their intensity. Broad shoulders made thicker by the weight of his winter coat. And tall, so very tall. He towered over her.
“We hadn’t gotten ‘round to names yet,” Harry replied for her. “Who are yeh then, darlin’?”
“I—”
“Here, budge over. Give Warren some room.”
Before she could react, Harry had a wiry arm wrapped around her, dragging her closer until they were touching from shoulder to knee. Her whole body went stiff at the intrusiveness. How had she gone from a lifetime of never being within feet of a man not her relative to being wedged between two strangers in the dark of a hay cart?
To her astonishment, the giant tucked his arm around her as well, helping himself to the six inches of board left on the seat.
She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.
“There, that’s cozy, eh?” said Harry. “Warmer this way too. Christ wept, but this winter has my bones quaking.”
Madeline responded with a kind of strangled hmm sound. Her brain was frozen with shock.
“You taking in strays now, Harry?”
Madeline tipped her head back, trying to decipher more features of the giant’s face in the weak moonlight. His dark hair was straight and long, falling past his shoulder. He had it tied messily with a leather strap. That deep voice spoke of age—gravely and strong, experienced. But his face was still youthful, even under the dusting of dark facial hair.
There was a rugged sort of beauty to him. Not classically beautiful, surely. Especially since his face was marred by a rather impressive scar. It started low on his right cheek and made a sort of deep, “v” pattern, stretching over the apple of his cheek, across the bridge of his nose, and up, cutting through his left brow. Gracious, the man was lucky to still have use of his eye—
“Have you looked your fill, miss?” he said, a frown pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Never seen a man with a scar before?”
She sucked in a breath, her gaze falling immediately down to her hands folded tight in her lap.
“I imagine wherever you come from, all the dandies have baby soft faces,” he teased. “But some men work for a living. Sometimes they get cut up doing it.”
On her other side, Harry chuckled. “Yer a handsome man too, Warren. Make no mistake.”
The man named Warren was still sitting so uncomfortably close. “So, what’s your story, lovely? What’s a lady like you doing mixed up with the likes of Harry Tram?”
Harry took no offense, letting out a guffaw of a laugh as he clicked to the horses and wiggled the reins.
“I—I needed a ride—to Alcott,” she stammered out. Why did her infernal nervousness have to strike now? Sometimes it got so bad she couldn’t hardly speak at all. This sudden closeness to two strangers was twisting her up, sending her anxieties soaring cloud high.
“She came in on the last coach,” Harry offered. “No trunks, no cases, not even a hat box in hand. Yeh believe that, Warren?”
The dark-haired giant frowned, his eyes narrowed in suspicion as he took her in from head to toe. She had to fight the urge to shrink under his punishing gaze. “The look of a lady. The voice of one too. But you’re dressed oddly, and you have no belongings. Who are you then? Solve the riddle before Harry starts guessing.”
“I’m…nobody really,” she replied. And weirdly, she felt the truth of those words down to her bones.
Warren huffed a laugh. “Ahh, yes, Miss Nobody. Surely you must be of the Nobody’s from Nowhere,” he teased. “They have some very fine property up in Kent, don’t they, Har?”
“Oh, aye, Lord and Lady Nowhere keep a grand estate,” Harry chortled, easily falling into the bigger man’s game.
“Nice try, Miss Nobody,” said Warren, his face lowering until his voice was a low growl in her ear. “Shall we trade names, then? I’m John Warren. That’s Harry Tram.”
Both men glanced at her, waiting.
“This is the part where you say your name,” he added, his breath warm against her ear.
She stiffened. His arm was still wrapped around her shoulders, drowning her in the feel of him, the smell of him—all musty hay and masculine, spiced sweetness.
He grunted, shifting next to her. “Damn, this seat is gonna cut my arse in half,” he grumbled. “Budge over some more, Har.”
“If I budge anymore, I’ll be trottin’ ‘longside Blossom,” Harry replied.
The giant grunted “Fine—here, lass—”
Madeline shrieked as Warren grabbed her. He curled his arms around her waist and tugged her up onto his lap, stealing her portion of the seat at the same time. She could hardly believe it as he tucked her sideways across his knees like a child, keeping his arms draped around her.
“Unhand me, sir,” she cried, not knowing what else to say. She slapped at him, kicking her legs.
“Whoa, steady on,” said Harry. “He’s takin’ no liberties, miss.”
“Easier this way,” Warren added. “Now we all have a full seat. Warmer too,” he added.
“Mr. Warren, unhand me at once. This is highly irregular,” she huffed, still squirming in his hold.
Harry chuckled. “Irregular, she says. You never shared a seat before then, Miss Nobody? And ‘ere we are, doin’ you the favor.”
“Unless you want me climbing atop the hay, you’ll sit still,” added Mr. Warren with a teasing grin. “I don’t mind being your seat, lovely. Let me warm you up right nice.”
“I am plenty warm, sir.”
He leaned in again, his mouth now at the perfect angle to speak right in her ear. His hot breath sent a shiver down her arms that had nothing to do with the cold. “Lovely, if your teeth chatter any harder, they’re gonna fall out. And you’re far too pretty to have a mouth like Harry’s.”
Harry roared with laughter as she clamped down on her jaw, hating that he was right. She was freezing, and this new seating arrangement was helping. His warmth was already soaking through her thighs, and the arms around her waist were not as disagreeable as she imagined they might be. They were firm but supple, letting her body sway with the movement of the hay cart.
“Nearly there,” said Harry.
Madeline turned her face away from the handsy giant, eyes going wide as the turn in the lane offered her first view of Alcott Hall in over a year. The stately country home was beautiful, nestled in the rolling forested hills that surrounded it. In the dark, the hills weren’t visible, but the house still glowed like a beacon, several lights across two of the three floors making it shine out across the vast expanse of manicured lawn.
“We’ll park the cart ‘round back, and Warren can walk you up to the house,” said Harry.
“Why don’t you walk her up, and I’ll start unloading,” Warren countered. “You know I’ll get it done in half the time.”
“Let’s not go sayin’ things that’ll ‘ave the lady questioning my prowess. I’m the hay man in Finchley.” Harry directed this last at her, jabbing a gloved thumb towards his chest with pride. “Warren is just a gamekeeper lookin’ fer a free ride.”
“I’m perfectly able to walk myself from the stables to the house,” she replied with a little sniff of indignation.
“They know you’re coming then, Miss Nobody?” asked Warren.
She worried her bottom lip. How could she possibly explain her true purpose to Rosalie, let alone these strangers? Could she really sit on this man’s lap and expose the mortifying truth?
My name is Lady Madeline Blaire, only daughter of the Viscount Raleigh, and I’m here to beg a man to marry me.
She’d rather eat glass. No, a change of subject was in order.
Both men were now watching her with curious looks, waiting for her to speak.
New subject, Madeline. Any subject.
Harry cleared his throat with a gravelly cough.
Speak words, you silly fool!
“How did you get it?” she blurted out.
Warren blinked. “Get what?”
“The scar,” she added.
He barked a laugh in her ear as he shifted his legs under her. “Not a chance, you slippery little thing. You won’t even tell us your name, you don’t want to share the seat, and yet you expect me to spill all my dark secrets on our first meeting?”
Heat bloomed in her cheeks as she fought her rising embarrassment. He was right. It was a completely inappropriate question to ask. Why was she feeling so tongue-tied? “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “Mr. Warren, I’m—”
“It’s fine,” he said, casting Harry a smirk. “I’ll tell you how I got my scar, miss. Lean in closer.” His arms tightened around her waist, drawing her a little tighter against his chest.
She felt this closeness down to her bones. She’d never been held like this by a man. He seemed so comfortable too, as if he must hold strange ladies on his lap all the time. For some reason, picturing it made her stomach churn. She tried to look away, but one giant hand uncurled from her waist and tipped her chin up to meet his gaze.
“It was a French solider with a deadly rapier,” he said, voice low and intense. “Nasty, brute of a man. I cut him down with my sword.”
Madeline’s heart skipped a beat as she had a sudden mental image of it. But she didn’t miss the way Harry pursed his lips in amusement. She schooled her emotions, meeting the giant stare for stare. “I don’t believe you, sir.”
Harry howled with laughter. “Oooo, little Miss Nobody has you pegged, Warren.” He leaned over, cuffing Warren’s shoulder. “Don’t buy any of his nonsense, miss. Warren never battled the French unless you count a pub brawl. Finchley born and bred, that one.”
“You misrepresent me to the lady,” Warren replied, feigning offense. His gaze hardened slightly as he took her in. She fought the urge to squirm under his inspection. “So…what are you wearing then? This your husband’s coat?”
She looked down at the thick, charcoal great coat that hung off her in folds. “No.”
“Your brother’s?”
“No.”
“Father’s?”
She could practically hear the smile in his voice. He liked teasing then. Liked prodding. He wanted a reaction from her. He wanted to unravel her. Patrick was much the same, especially when he was in his cups. What would she say if Patrick were here?
“I stole it.”
Harry all but fell off the seat with laughter as Warren’s mouth opened slightly with surprise. Something flashed in his eyes, but he carefully schooled it. “Watch your pockets, Harry. We’ve got a thief in our midst.”
“That is the great joke, sir,” she replied. “I have this enormous coat with enough pockets to secret a ham, and yet my pockets are empty.”
He chuckled. “What, empty? Nothing at all?”
She shook her head, suddenly fighting the urge to smile.
“Not even a handkerchief?”
“Not a scrap, sir,” she replied.
“Well, this we have to fix,” he said, his voice ringing with determination. “Isn’t it unlucky to have empty pockets?”
“Aye, invite’s the devil’s mischief in,” Harry intoned.
With one arm still around her, Warren started shifting, reaching into his pockets with his free hand. “You caught me on a bad night, lovely. I don’t think I have even a shilling in these pockets. And I’m sure you don’t want to touch my handkerchief,” he added with a deep laugh.
She scrunched up her nose, her entire body revolting at the idea of a strange man thrusting his used handkerchief into her hand.
“Aha!” cried Harry with a grin. “I got a button ‘ere.” He opened his palm, showing Madeline the shiny black button. “Take it, darlin’.”
She couldn’t help the feeling of warmth spreading in her chest. Why were these men being so nice to her? “I can’t take your button, Mr. Tram.”
“Oooo, ‘Mr. Tram,’ she says,” he laughed. “I like the sound of that very much,” he said around her at Warren.
“You can’t have empty pockets, Miss Nobody,” Warren said, his voice warm against her ear. “Slip it in, before you call calamity down on us.”
Fighting her smile, she tugged off her large grey mitt and took the button, stuffing it into the deep front pocket of the great coat.
“There, no more empty pockets,” Warren said, settling his back against the wooden bench seat.
In all their chatter, she hardly realized where she was. She glanced forward just as they rounded the end of the lane, turning into the large stable yard. The house loomed a few hundred feet away. Madeline knew the path well that led from the yard to the back garden door.
Harry guided the horses around, parking them in the middle of the cobbled square.
“Don’t do all the work without me,” Warren directed at him. “Let’s get you up to the house before you freeze to death,” he added for her.
The house. Alcott Hall. Home to the Duke and Duchess of Norland. And Madeline had arrived without an invitation.
Which door ought she to use? Surely the front door, right? She was a guest, but a guest who had not yet earned her welcome. So, did she just…knock? How had she gone twenty years and never knocked on a door? Every door in her life thus far had been opened for her. She had been expected, invited.
“Ready, lovely?” said Warren, his hands shifting to her waist.
She nodded, swallowing down her nerves. “Yes. I’m ready.”
