Джулиана Маклейн: In My Wildest Fantasies

Rebecca's father limped around the coach and stood beside her, leaning on his cane. "He is no good to us in the driver's seat. What the devil are we to do now?"

"May I ask your destination?"

"The Cotswolds Arms for tonight, then we're on to Burford in the morning."

The man turned and strode toward his horse. "You can expect to be there in an hour."

Her father limped after him. "But wait, sir! How are we to get there?"

Rebecca followed as well. After everything her handsome rescuer had done for them so far, was he going to abandon them now? Surely not.

"I beg your pardon, sir," she said, "but my father cannot drive. His hands cause him great pain."

The man had already reached his horse and was now leading the animal past them, toward the back of the coach. "I understand that," he said, "and it would be my pleasure to drive you."

Rebecca exhaled with relief, then marveled at the strangeness of this day and the miracle of how this extraordinary man seemed to have everything decided before she or her father even realized there was an issue to work out. And her head was still spinning from the wild carriage ride and the most unnerving memory of his touch. She would never forget it, not as long as she lived.

"That is most kind of you, sir," her father said, while the gentleman tethered his horse to the handrail above the page board. "But we don't wish to inconvenience you. Are you certain it is no bother?"

The gentleman stroked the horse's muscular neck, then his expression warmed as he bowed slightly at the waist. "As I said, it would be my pleasure. It's a perfect night for a drive."

She could sense her father's reluctance to accept the offer, as he did not enjoy being beholden to anyone for anything. God forbid that particular person might pay a visit to their isolated house in the country to provide him the opportunity to return the kindness. But under the present circumstances, they did not have much choice unless he would allow Rebecca to drive, and that was most certainly not going to happen.

Her father straightened his thin shoulders and finally resigned himself to the necessity of accepting the offer. "You are most kind," he said to the gentleman. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Charles Newland, Earl of Creighton, and this is my daughter, Lady Rebecca Newland."

Introductions at last.

The gentleman held out his hand to shake her father's. "It is an honor to meet you, Lord Creighton, and a pleasure, Lady Rebecca." He bowed to her, revealing nothing of what had occurred between them earlier. Not a hint of a grin, wicked or otherwise. No mention of the way his hands had worked over her arms and down her neck.

"I am Devon Sinclair, Marquess of Hawthorne," he said. "My father is the Duke of Pembroke."

"Of Pembroke Palace," her father blurted out.

"That is correct."

Good Lord, they were in illustrious company indeed, and they were about to employ a marquess, the future Duke of Pembroke, as their coachman.

"The palace is not far from here," he said. "Just under an hour's ride to the north."

This was his father's property, all of it, miles and miles of prosperous farmland and thick, lush forests. And he was the Marquess of Hawthorne, and heir to one of the oldest, most prestigious titles in England. Rebecca could barely comprehend it. A thrill rolled up her spine, as thick and compelling as the mist all around them.

"But what about our driver?" her father asked. "I'm half tempted to leave him here."

"Father…" Rebecca admonished, glancing down at the ground as her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Lord Hawthorne smiled. She was so glad she finally knew what to call him.

"I might be tempted toward the same end myself," he said, "if he were my driver. But have no worries. I'll prop him up beside me, and he'll keep me company when the moon rises." Lord Hawthorne glanced up at the darkening sky. "Which will be very soon, so if you don't mind, I must insist we move on. Allow me?"

He opened the door to the coach and lowered the step, then straightened and held out his hand to Rebecca. A rush of butterflies invaded her belly at the thrilling notion of touching him again, and when she slowly wrapped her tiny, gloved fingers around his larger ones, she felt the strength of his whole arm and the rock-solid support he offered, which she already knew firsthand. She gathered her heavy wet skirts in her other hand, then met his gaze for a brief, fleeting second. His blue eyes were dazzling, captivating, disarming, and the whole world came to a shuddering halt on its axis.

She wet her lips and managed to say, "Thank you," in a quiet, ladylike voice. He bowed his head and handed her up.

Her heart was still racing when she sat down on the leather seat and watched the ducal heir assist her father up as well, holding him by the arm to steady his frail form.

How strong and capable he was, like a brave knight from a childhood story. None of this seemed real.

As soon as her father was seated, Lord Hawthorne raised the step, but Rebecca spoke up. "Your coat…"

He held up a hand. "I insist you take care of it for me until we arrive." Then he addressed both of them from the open door. "We shall reach the Cotswolds Arms in one hour, so settle in. I will see you when we get there."

He closed the door, and the coach bounced slightly under his weight as he climbed up onto the driver's seat outside. Rebecca and her father sat in silence, waiting while Lord Hawthorne lit the lamps, then the coach lurched forward. The harness jangled, and they began to roll on. They turned around in a clearing, back in the proper direction.

"I suppose we were lucky that young man came along when he did," her father said uncomfortably, folding both his hands upon his cane.

"He was very helpful." Rebecca took a deep breath and tried to settle in for the remainder of the journey, but it was not easy to relax when such a handsome, heroic man was sitting just outside, leading them out of the dense forest to their destination, after having saved her life and stirred her passions so unexpectedly. Her whole body was buzzing with delight under his warm, heavy, fur-trimmed coat, and it was a challenge just to sit still.

What a night, and, Lord, what a man. She couldn't wait to arrive at the inn just for the chance to be in his presence again, one more time, however briefly, before they said goodbye.

The coach came to a smooth halt outside the inn, and Rebecca heard voices in the dark outside. Within seconds the door opened and Lord Hawthorne was standing there in his black dinner jacket and elegant hat-more handsome than he was an hour before if that was possible-reaching a hand in to Rebecca.

"Here at last," he said, with more charm and appeal than any man had a right to possess.

"Yes, at last. Thank you." She accepted his hand, but before she could step out, he glanced down.

"Ah, forgive me, Lady Rebecca. I am remiss in my duties already. What a terrible footman I would make. I must lower the step." He let go of her hand and did just that, then straightened and met her gaze again with those enticing eyes.

He handed her down, then assisted her father as well. Pointing at a groom who was setting a bucket of water down in front of his horse still tethered to the rear, he said, "I've already spoken to Mr. Griffin here, an excellent young man, and he will take care of your horses. He will see to Mr. Smith as well, who will be escorted into the stable for the night."

"Will he be all right?" Rebecca asked.

Lord Hawthorne looked at her with pointed intensity, and she felt a sudden wave of dread, for the end was near. She would be forced to say goodbye to him, and who knew when she would ever see him again? If she would ever see him again.

"He will be fine," he replied. "He was mumbling quite lucidly the whole way here."