of the Abington Arms, heading toward the public taproom. His horse was lame.
Even though they’d all changed horses at the Black Bull Inn in Moffat two hours ago, it seemed his poor beast had picked up a stone. Unfortunately, the hostelry here in Abington was so small, they’d barely been able to change over the outriders’ mounts and the carriage’s team of four. And they still had over three hours to go to reach Glasgow.
Hamish sighed heavily as he ordered a tankard of ale at the bar. The coach already had too many bloody footmen perched on the outside of the vehicle, so there was no room for him there. He could scout farther afield for another horse—the ostler at the Abington Arms believed the inn in the nearby village of Crawfordjohn might have a suitable mount. But because they’d have to travel an additional five miles to the west and then back again, it meant another hour or more would be added to their trip. It seemed there was simply no avoiding it: Hamish was going to have to travel the rest of the way to Glasgow with Olivia and Tilda.
Three hours wasn’t so long. Even though Hamish’s good eye felt as gritty as hell, and his body ached like an old man’s—it had been a while since he’d spent such a long stretch in the saddle—it wasn’t likely that he’d fall asleep in the carriage in such a short span of time.
You better bloody not, he told himself as he glanced over to where Olivia sat with Tilda; he’d escorted them inside as soon as they arrived at the Abington Arms, and the pair were presently sharing a plate of scones smothered in jam and cream at a small table by one of the windows. Perhaps sensing his gaze on her, his new wife looked up at him and smiled.
Jesus Christ and all his saints, she was lovely.
Hamish’s chest suddenly felt too tight, and something deep inside him began to ache with a feeling he really didn’t want to put a name to. The afternoon sun filtering through the leaded glass pane wandered over Olivia’s face, illuminating her smooth-as-cream complexion and the long lashes fringing her large brown eyes, picking out the strands of copper and mahogany in the lustrous waves of her dark hair that she’d somehow tamed into a sedate arrangement at the back of her shapely head.
Her traveling gown of dark purple wool was well cut but far too plain for his liking. And it covered far too much. To think she’d been in his room last night wearing nothing but a thin nightgown, with all that gorgeous hair tumbling about her shoulders. And the memory of her demanding that he kiss her properly, like a lover . . . Hamish had never been so aroused in all his life. Even now he could feel his blood stirring.
Olivia was fearless and passionate, and he wanted her so badly, it scared the hell out of him. Thank God Tilda would be in the carriage with them; otherwise he’d be hard-pressed to keep his hands off his delectable wife.
Something in his expression must have given away the less-than-gentlemanly direction of his thoughts, as a becoming blush pinkened Olivia’s cheeks.
But instead of looking away as she might have done when they’d first met, she pressed her even white teeth into her full lower lip, and her soft-as-velvet gaze strayed to Hamish’s mouth. Even across the room, there was no mistaking what she was thinking about.
The ruby on his signet ring—now Olivia’s wedding ring—glowed a deep claret red in the sunlight. It proclaimed Olivia to be his, and by rights, he could take her to bed whenever he wanted to. Considering the knowing look she was casting him, he knew she’d be more than willing to acquiesce.
But he wouldn’t. He hadn’t married her for any other reason than to protect her and her fortune, and for what she could do for him in return—act as a chaperone and facilitate the coming-out of his foolish, lovesick sister. Knowing they had mutual friends only made him more determined to play the noble gentleman. It would be unconscionable if he were to take advantage of Olivia’s budding desire—which in her naivety, she’d probably convinced herself was love—just so he could slake his lust.
Yes, no matter how many come-hither looks his new wife threw his way, or how many beseeching speeches she gave about needing to be kissed “properly” so she wouldn’t be