“What is your name?” Brodie asked her.
“Fanny Mullins, sir.”
“Thank you for joining us, Fanny. Miss Hunt will be pleased to have you helping her.” He glanced toward his valet. “Alan, have Miss Hunt’s luggage put aboard the coach, then see that Miss Mullins has what she needs as well.”
“Yes, sir.” Alan collected the valises and the heavy trunk full of Lydia’s fine gowns. As the valet and the maid left the room a moment later, Lydia returned, no doubt upset over Rafe’s blatant refusal to come to her aid.
“I have been thinking, lass,” Brodie said carefully. “It wasna right for me to make you journey without a maid. I have found a suitable one here, the girl who brought us breakfast. She is trained and has agreed to help us. She and Alan are packing up the coach.”
“Oh . . .” Lydia blushed. “Thank you, I appreciate that.”
Brodie looked upon her with a new light. Rafe was right—he had missed the truth that had been right in front of him this entire time. Of course, last night he’d admitted to himself that he no longer cared if she was the clever, scheming little creature he had thought her to be. He wanted her in his bed, no matter what. That desire hadn’t changed, only now he knew full well that he would be seducing an innocent. Granted, she had professed an interest in what he had to offer, but it didn’t make what he was thinking any more right.
But perhaps, if he did it correctly, he could sate his desires and hers. If he offered her a true position as his mistress with her willingness, they could find their enjoyment in each other for a while to come.
He knew he was a selfish bastard to want her like this. Maybe he should reconsider. Perhaps when they reached Edinburgh, he would find someone else to tempt him before he succumbed to his desire for her again.
He shook himself out of his conflicting thoughts. “I had better go see that Rafe is prepared to leave. You may wait outside for us.”
Lydia lingered a moment longer, blocking his exit.
“You have need of something?” he asked.
The rosewater scent from her bath wafted between them. He had shared the bathwater, but where the rose scent had faded on his skin, it still clung to hers. He knew that if he closed his eyes, he would feel like he was at Castle Kincade once again.
He could almost picture it—Brock and Rosalind sprinting ahead of him, Aiden lagging behind, clutching a wee beastie in his hands. They used to chase each other between the towering hedgerows and around the blossoming rhododendrons that grew so tall and thick in the spring and summer that they blocked entire paths of the garden.
“I . . .” Lydia hesitated. He saw clearly in her eyes that whatever she’d been about to say she had chosen to bury instead. “Thank you for the maid.”
“You already thanked me,” he replied with a crooked smile. Her face warmed with another blush.
“Right, yes. I’m sorry.” She stepped out of his way, and he passed by her, their bodies brushing in a way he enjoyed far too much. He stepped over to Rafe’s room and knocked.
“Come in,” Rafe called out.
Brodie entered and saw with relief that Rafe’s valet was already packing away his things.
“Good, you’re nearly ready. I wish to be off at once.”
“Oh?” Rafe eyed him with curiosity. “What’s the rush, old boy?”
“I wish for us to be there sooner,” was all he would say. If Rafe planned to continue to hide the truth about Lydia from him to amuse himself, then Brodie had no desire to share his plans.
“Still haven’t bedded the wee lass?” Rafe said, imitating Brodie’s Scottish accent.
“No, I havena and willna until we reach Edinburgh.”
“Why the wait?” Rafe asked. “It is easy enough to manage in a coach or bed in some cozy little inn like this.”
Brodie continued to keep up the pretense that he still thought Lydia was guilty. “She may be a conniving creature, but I believe her when she says she is a virgin. I won’t take a virgin in a coach or some inn. She will have a first time in a fine bed in a fine house.”
“Nice to see you do have some gentleness about you, old boy,” Rafe said.
Brodie snorted. “I have a little, but my temper often covers that up.” He left Rafe and his man to finish packing and headed downstairs to wait with Lydia.
The stable yard was full of coaches, some finely painted, some adorned with family crests or shields of heraldry, while others were red-and-gold Royal Mail coaches. The rest were public or private stagecoaches but far less fancy.
Rafe’s coach was blue and silver, with the Lennox crest emblazoned on the side. They were lucky to ride in such a fine conveyance. It had plenty of room on top for luggage and for servants to sit facing each other in pairs on the perched seats. Alan and Fanny climbed up to their seats, and Lydia stood beside the coach talking to them. The morning sun created a halo of gold light around her flaxen hair and a slight breeze played with her skirts which displayed hints of her curves. She was a bonnie lass. A bloody innocent lass, he reminded himself. Rafe and his valet joined Brodie in the yard a minute later.
Brodie came over to her by the coach. “Ready to leave?”
“Yes.” Lydia peeped up at him before looking away.
The coach driver lowered the step for her, and Brodie offered her his hand rather than shoving her inside as he had been doing. She placed her hand in his, that small sign of trust making him proud. She took a seat opposite him, and Rafe joined them inside, chuckling as he did so.
“So, you hired a maid for our guest?”
“I did,” Brodie replied warningly as he saw Rafe smile.
“Excellent choice,” Rafe said. “Very nice girl, Fanny.” He winked at Lydia, who blushed. Brodie was no fool—he assumed that Rafe must have bedded the maid.
The coach driver closed the door, sealing the three of them in, and a moment later they were off. It was another six hours to Edinburgh, but Brodie would find some way to amuse himself, since he couldn’t very well toss Rafe out of his own coach, though right now Brodie was tempted. He pulled out the stack of books and saw Lydia’s eyes brighten with interest.
Brodie studied the books he had recently purchased in Bath and passed her one.
Lydia looked at the title. “The Spy?”
“Aye, ’tis a new book by an American, James Fenimore Cooper. It is about a good man who is wrongly accused, and even the men closest to him doubt his innocence.”
Lydia’s eyes grew frosty. “My, how could I ever relate to such a story? It’s so beyond my limited experience in the world.”
Brodie realized what he’d just said, and he felt the weight of his guilt grow. “Well, things work out for him. In the end, he shows through his actions that he is innocent. It is a lesson that one should be judged by one’s actions, not by one’s class or reputation.”
Lydia returned her gaze to the book and turned to the first page. He liked the fact that she was a reader. Some men scorned reading when they could afford other entertainments, and women were expected to read only if they were unmarried and had no children. Both views seemed ridiculous to him. Brodie’s mother had raised him to love books, to see the value in every printed page, and the words of wisdom each held.