Mr. Hunt laughed, his good humor restored for the moment. “I would certainly join.”
A maid entered the private room and laid out a supper of roast lamb and truffle soup. The two conversed for nearly an hour, long after the candles had burned low and the empty dishes had been carried away.
“We should rest. We will have another long chase tomorrow,” Jane said finally.
Mr. Hunt stood and offered his arm to her and escorted her up the stairs and down the long corridor of rooms until they reached hers.
“I want to thank you again, Lady Rochester. Not only for your support in this affair, but for the amiable company you’ve provided. I had forgotten what it was like to spend time in the company of a lovely, charming woman.”
Jane felt a sudden unexpected flush of heat roll through her. “I . . .” For the first time in years, she was speechless.
“I’m sorry if I have spoken out of turn,” Mr. Hunt added hastily.
“No, it was just . . . I am shocked that I feel the same way. I hadn’t realized I had missed the company of a man until now.” She ducked her head, feeling shy in a way she hadn’t in a very long time.
Mr. Hunt gently lifted her chin as he stayed close to her. “Would you do me the honor of calling me Jackson?”
He was close enough to kiss her, and for a wild moment Jane pictured him doing so. It was a wonderful image.
“Jackson . . .” She found herself smiling. “Then you must call me Jane. We seem to be bound in this quest, so it is only fitting.”
“Indeed. Well, I shall bid you good night.” Jackson slowly stepped back and made a formal bow as she slipped into her room.
She closed the door, leaning back against it, her heart racing. It had been far too long since she had felt like a young woman. Far too long indeed.
10
Lydia was still not used to waking up next to a huge, muscled body, or any body, for that matter. The feel of Brodie behind her, one arm resting under her breast, made her body tense, though not necessarily in the ways she would have imagined. She was thankful that a layer of fabric, however thin, lay between his long, elegant fingers and her bare skin.
She began to carefully peel his fingers off her breast. With the last finger freed, she slowly moved his hand back to his own body. He suddenly sighed and shifted, placing his hand on her hip as he found a new position.
Blast the man!
She had a desperate need to use the chamber pot, and he wouldn’t release his hold on her. There was nothing for it but to speak to him.
“Mr. Kincade, if you please, I need to use the chamber pot.” She pinched his arm and repeated her demand when he still showed no signs of responding.
After the third time, Brodie groaned dramatically and rolled over.
“Fine, go,” he grumbled.
She scrambled from the bed and had just crouched over the pot when she realized he would hear her.
“Could . . . Could you leave the room for a minute?” she asked.
He started to sit up, and she dropped her chemise back down to cover her legs. “Leave the room?”
“I can’t go when you’re listening.”
He started to laugh but then choked down the sound. “I was sleeping, lass, not listening.”
“Well, you’re awake now.”
“I dinna care if you fill the pot and the vase on the dresser. Just go and be done with it.”
“Now I truly can’t go with you here,” she almost growled in frustration.
“I willna leave the room,” Brodie’s tone was just as gruff. “Go or not, ’tis your choice.”
Lydia glowered at him, not that he could see her. She needed so badly to go, but she couldn’t go as long as he was here. Tears pricked her eyes. Never had anyone made her feel so weak or helpless before.
“Fine. I’ll sing for you, lass. I swear, I willna be able to hear a thing.”
He then broke into a Scottish ballad as he rolled onto his side facing away from her. He even chuckled at his own bawdy lyrics, not that Lydia understood them, such was the heavy brogue he used in the song. Soon Lydia relaxed, and she was able to see to her needs and then wash up on the washstand. Only when she was done did his voice die away.
“You have a lovely singing voice, Mr. Kincade,” she said, trying to fill the silence. When she looked toward the bed through the reflection of the mirror on the washstand, she saw that he was watching her again. He was propped up on one elbow, his gray-blue eyes drifting over her body.
“I’m no songbird, not like my brother Aiden. He sings to his wee beasties when he thinks no one is around.”
“His wee beasties?” Lydia retrieved her wrap and covered her shoulders—and especially her breasts—as best she could. She’d never been concerned about the thinness of her chemises before, but then, she’d never been so close to a man in what she was now convinced was the thinnest fabric ever created.
“Aye. He has an affinity with animals. Ever since he was a wee tyke, he’s been able to gain any animal’s trust and companionship.”
“What sort of animals do you mean?” Lydia drew closer to the bed and sat down on the edge closest to him.
“Well, he has a badger. That one tends to sleep in Joanna’s bedroom, which is fine with her, since she and Brock always share his bed.”
Lydia flushed at the mention of her friend sharing a bed with a man, even if that man was her husband.
“We have an owl, a tawny one about the size of a pigeon. It made a nest in one of the taller bookshelves in our library. He’s a pretty fellow, very friendly. And then Aiden has a pair of otters, a pine marten, and a hedgehog.”
Lydia couldn’t resist smiling. “My, that is a lot of beasties.”
“They give him comfort. Our father” Brodie stopped speaking abruptly.
“What about your father?” Lydia scooted closer, sensing that whatever he had been about to say was a deep confession of something.
“My father was a brutal man, especially after our mother died.” He turned his shoulder to show her the scars on his back.
Lydia covered her mouth with one hand and reached out with the other to touch his skin. He didn’t flinch, but instead held very still while her fingers traced the knotted scars along his otherwise perfect, muscular back.
“How did he . . . ?” The words died on her tongue as she imagined how a man would make these marks, but she couldn’t fathom how any father could do that to his child.
“I was a fair bit younger, and he was strong. All of us felt his wrath at one point or another, but Aiden bore the worst. He was the smallest, aside from our sister, Rosalind. We all took as many beatings as we could to protect her. I managed to escape most days, but not Brock and Aiden. They wouldna leave Rosalind.” He looked down at his feet. “I was a coward.”
“Surviving doesn’t make you a coward, Brodie.”
Brodie dragged a hand through his hair and looked at her. “You called me Brodie.”
“Yes, I shouldn’t have, Mr. Kin”
“No,” he said, cutting her off. “You must call me Brodie. I insist.” He fixed her with a possessive stare.
“Really, I cannot”
“You can and will. You have shared my bed, and you belong to me. You will call me Brodie.” There was a warning in his tone that she was not foolish enough to ignore.