Read In the Bed of a Duke for Free Online Page B

a chance to let him off,” he added, nodding to Colster. “Malcolm will be happy to see us. He doesn’t get much decent custom.” He slid the door shut, the matter closed before Charlotte could question what he’d meant by “decent custom.”
    Colster sat up, apparently fine with the arrangement. Charlotte wasn’t. After two days of travel, she really was sick of being in this coach. Before she was tempted to bang on the door in the roof and demand Klem keep driving, His Grace removed his hat and pushed his fingers through his hair. Every hair fell back into place, giving Charlotte a new concern to worry over.
    She must appear remarkably untidy. Turning away from him, she repinned her hair the best she could and reached for the hatbox on the floor that held her straw bonnet trimmed in a matching green for her dress.
    Having finished with his own hasty toilette, he watched her. It made her self-conscious and her fingers clumsy. She feared the bow she tied under her chin appeared lopsided, but she wasn’t going to fidget with it. She pulled on her gloves and picked up the hatbox, intending to take it with her, and placed her knitting bag inside it.
    The coach leaned as they pulled off the road. The ride was rough. It was as if they weren’t traveling on a road at all. The shades were down over the windows because of the weather, but she sensed they drove through a forest. After half an hour of this, the coach came to a halt.
    Klem and Fergus jumped down from the driver’s box with a call of greeting. A man’s voice answered in a thick brogue.
    There was a moment of almost unintelligible conversation as the cousins exchanged greetings, and then the coach door opened. Charlotte moved forward, her hatbox in her hand, waiting for Fergus to put down the step.
    With a flourish, Klem said, “Welcome, miss, to Loch Airigh. The water is over beyond. You can tell where it lies by the fog, but you wouldn’t want to be wandering around at night or you might fall in. This is my cousin Malcolm, who owns the inn.”
    He nodded to a man about five feet tall with a balding head, a straggly beard, and a nose that appeared to have been broken several times. A man who Charlotte would wager had been up to no good more than once in his life. “Good eve to you, miss.” He kicked aside a chicken that had been pecking too close to his feet. The bird issued a protest and took a few quick steps out of the way.
    Charlotte hung back. Something wasn’t right.
    The rain had turned into a mist. Fog drifted along the ground, swirling around the crumbling stone walls of what appeared more a rundown cottage nestled beneath the boughs of overhanging fir trees than an inn. In the gloominess, the light in the small, narrow windows seemed welcoming until a burst of rough male laughter coming from inside punctuated the air.
    “Malcolm makes a mutton stew that tastes better than anything that could ever grace a king’s table,” Klem offered, as if to entice her.
    Her stomach rumbled loudly.
    She wished it hadn’t done that, not with Colster listening. Still, she was hungry. Her last meal had been breakfast, and she’d been so anxious about arriving at Nathraichean she’d not taken the time to purchase anything to take with her for the road.
    “Malcolm, go dish Miss Cameron a bowl of that stew,” Klem ordered with the familiarity that made her uncomfortable.
    “That I will.” Malcolm turned and left. He walked with a pronounced limp. Charlotte shifted the hatbox to her right hand and offered her left for Klem to help her down. Her shoes sank into a bed of wet pine needles almost as deep as her ankles. “Not many coaches stop here, do they?”
    “Malcolm sees to a local custom, miss,” Klem said, moving around to the back of the coach. Charlotte followed.
    “I really wish we could reach Nathraichean tonight,” she said. “Do you not believe that we could push on?”
    “We’re hours away,” Klem answered, “and the horses need a rest.