Cheryl St.John - The Mistaken Widow

“Thank you,” she replied simply. How did he plan to travel, and—she swallowed hard—where were they going? She raised a questioning gaze.

As though reading her trepidation, he said, “I’ve brought my carriage and driver. I thought you’d prefer that.”

Thank God he hadn’t chosen a train! She sighed in silent relief.

The nurse placed the baby in her arms, and moved behind her to wheel the chair. Nicholas Halliday stepped around Sarah’s extended leg, picked up her bags and followed. The chair rolled her down a corridor, toward a door that led to the outdoors and an uncertain journey.

Heart hammering, Sarah carried her son close. Whatever the future held, her own welfare was not the concern. Her baby was all that mattered now. And she would do what she had to do to take care of him. Unlike her father, she meant to take her responsibility seriously and love her child, no matter what.

Even if that meant pretending to go along with this man for a little while longer. His mother had to be easier to talk to than he was. Had to be! After all, Stephen had been a kind, warm individual.

Sarah prayed he’d taken after his mother.

Nicholas experienced a measure of guilt for thinking that Claire wasn’t predictably like Stephen’s previous acquaintances. The girl was obviously under a great deal of stress and physical discomfort and could hardly be expected to keep up a steady flow of chatter. Her withdrawn manner and silence since they’d left the hospital that morning didn’t necessarily reflect her personality. Or…perhaps she wanted him to believe she was grieving over Stephen’s death.

He cast her another sidelong glance. After the noon meal they’d settled themselves in for the long ride, and she’d removed the hat. Good Lord. Her hair, precariously gathered up and invisibly secured on her head, caught his attention immediately. The tresses radiated a fascinating blend of wheat tones, some dark like honey, some as light as corn silk, some nearly white, with brassy threads of gold woven into the springy curls. One coil hung against the translucent skin of her temple, and another graced the column of her neck. The spirals looked as though he could tug them and watch them spring back.

He decided immediately that it was not a wise idea to look at her hair and have such absurd notions, so he watched the spring countryside blend into the freshly plowed farmlands of Pennsylvania. From time to time, as she closed her eyelids and rested, he studied the sweep of her golden lashes against her fair cheek, the interesting fullness of her upper lip and the tiny lines beside her mouth that showed she had smiled. He wondered at whom. Stephen?

Even her ears appeared delicate, with a single pearl dangling from each lobe. Her eyebrows were the same color as the dark undertones in her hair, narrow slashes above eyes that he’d noticed right off were a pale, somber shade of blue. Everything about her was somber, from her expressions, to her voice, to the way she focused her vigilant attention on the infant in the basket beside her.

He just couldn’t ignore the gnawing fact that she didn’t fit the picture of the woman Stephen had written them about. Stephen hadn’t gone into any detail, except about her wit and charm and vivacious personality. The material facts had come after Nicholas had investigated her background.

Her gaze lifted and she caught him studying her.

“Are you feeling all right?” he asked.

She nodded and her earbobs swayed.

“You’re getting tired. We’ll stop for dinner and the night. He’ll be waking again soon, no doubt.”

A blush tinged her neck and pale cheeks. He hadn’t imagined her a woman easily embarrassed by feeding her child or the calls of nature. If he didn’t know better, he’d think her a gently bred young lady. Each time the baby woke, he’d had the driver halt the carriage, and he’d waited outside. Once they had stopped to use the facilities at a way station, and he’d been glad he’d purchased a pair of crutches, because she had insisted on being left alone.

The baby made tiny mewling sounds, and she leaned over the basket.

“There’s a town just ahead.” He unlatched the leather shade and called instructions to his driver, Gruver.

Claire once again placed her hat over her hair, worked the pin through and picked up her gloves.

“Where’s your wedding ring?” he asked, noting the absence of that particular piece of jewelry.

Her clear blue gaze rose to his face, and quickly, she averted her eyes. “My fingers were swollen,” she said softly, and pulled the gloves over her slender fingers. The perfect lady.

Or a hell of a good actress. Time would tell.

The carriage slowed and stopped before a two-story wooden structure with Hotel painted in black letters on a weathered sign that swung in the breeze. He raised the shade and studied the building. “Doesn’t look like much. We can go on.”

Her earnest gaze dismissed the building and turned back to him. “I’m sure the accommodations will do fine, Mr. Halliday.”

“Call me Nicholas. After all, we’re family.”

Immediately, her gaze dropped to her gloved hands.

The door opened and Gruver, his dark-haired driver, a man in his early thirties, lowered the step. Nicholas stepped out of the carriage and strode to the rear where he unstrapped the wooden wheelchair, wiped the road dust from it himself and rolled it to the bottom of the steps. As she had when they’d stopped earlier, Claire accepted his hand hesitantly and lowered herself into the chair.

He placed the basket containing the now fussing baby on her lap and pushed her forward. It took both him and Gruver to lift the chair up several wooden stairs to the broad boardwalk, and the driver went back for their luggage.

Nicholas signed the register and received room keys. “Up the stairs and to the right for twenty-four,” the desk clerk said. “Twenty-seven’s a little farther and to the left and twenty-eight’s across from it.”

“Don’t you have something on this floor? Mrs. Halliday can’t walk.”

“Nope. Kitchen, dining room, and private quarters only on this floor.” The man scratched his pencil-thin nose and blinked at them.

Nicholas turned to Claire. Her complexion had grown paler and dark smudges had appeared under her eyes. He couldn’t ask her to go any farther tonight. This would have to do. “Very well, then. I’ll be right back.”

He took the baby, basket and all, from her lap, climbed the stairs and located the first room. He left the now wailing infant on the bed and thundered back down the stairs.

Claire wore a wide-eyed look of surprise as he approached her. Gruver had entered the tiny lobby with their luggage. Nicholas motioned him over and handed him a key. “Carry Mrs. Halliday’s chair, please.”

Nicholas bent toward her. “Lean forward.”

Her eyes widened, but she did as he asked. He slid one arm behind her back, the other beneath her knees, somehow managing her voluminous skirts in the process, and raised her effortlessly, being careful of her injured leg. She didn’t weigh much, but she was an armful, nonetheless. His head bumped her hat, sending it askew, and she caught it before it fell. Her hair tumbled, the soft springy curls grazing his neck and chin, the sweet fragrance touching him somewhere more elemental.

She grasped him around the neck, her hat bouncing off his back, her full breasts pressed against his jacket. He cursed his immediate and unexpected physical reaction, but reined in his distressing response and concentrated on the stairs, one at a time, until they reached the top.

The baby’s cries carried down the corridor, and Claire sucked in a breath, which Nicholas felt to the tips of his toes.