In The Devil's Stables (Spirited #1)

Chapter 19

It didn't take Charlie long to realize that traveling with a lofty male companion, especially one such as the earl, was significantly different than traveling by oneself.

In the first, Claymore set a steady pace - one that reduced the miles into the blink of her eye. The sun didn't feel nearly so hot, her clothes so damp. The bumps of the road nearly so rough. The earl also offered a peaceful presence - a sense of security, of protection, that she had yet to feel in her short journey thus far. She hadn't found herself glancing over her shoulder, frightened that her Uncle Henry would be seen in the distance, his body stiff as he lugged Mr. Simpton alongside him.

And, if Charlie were to be honest, she had quite forgotten the silent assurance of having a traveling companion - someone to converse with if she so chose. Even if, Charlie thought wryly, they hadn't spoken more than a few words in passing with each other since leaving the crofter's cottage.

Her eyes fell upon the man in question, his form straight and true, as he led his thoroughbred stallion with skill. She watched his thighs clenching, offering the slightest command needed to direct his horse from his perch. Charlie would have known he was a most avid rider by the way he held his seat securely, his eyes scanning the road for any obstacle that might waylay them.

Not to mention, the beauty of his horse.

The stallion was muscled with a blue-black color that shone through the dusty clouds beneath the soft rays of the sun. It had the makings of a fine race horse: long neck in proportion to its back, well-formed legs built for galloping, hindquarters that were thick and round leading to defined fetlocks.

Charlie knew enough of horses to admire all the qualities her own stable master, Mr. Higgins, would have. Charlie smiled sadly, a pang of homesickness washing over her.

But, she knew, it wasn't worth thinking of.

Not yet.

Charlie was determined in her course.

After their hasty retreat from the cottage, they had traveled in awkward silence. Charlie, now in a thoroughly sour mood - lost in thought of what Claymore's attraction meant - would mean - and how best to extricate herself from the mess she had unwittingly created. Claymore, all the while, had been in high spirits, practically gloating with some tidbit she had been unaware of.

And that was before the bloody man had begun whistling after their last stop. Another Inn - the Black Hen - had offered a quick respite. A chance at the chamber pot followed by bread, cheese and water. It wasn't more than twenty minutes before they continued onward.

Then the blasted itching had started.

Charlie sighed, trying to relieve the deplorable state of the binding cloth over her breasts. The material had loosened in one place, the binding coming undone to sweep along her ribs. Tickling her skin. After the hasty rain shower, the damp material clung to her chest and an itch had settled quite securely into the middle of her bosom. An impossible place to find relief with the earl's presence in her periphery.

That wasn't the worse part, however. It was the returning sunlight on their half-damp clothing and hair that had left a stale scent wafting upwards from her person. Charlie crinkled her nose, feeling the coat of dust that had settled upon her cheekbones. A pinch had settled between her shoulder blades, and her shirt twisted - half damp, half dry - to cling about her chest.

Her breeches had bunched as well, the creases digging into her upper thighs.

Blast and damn! How she missed her skirts...

Charlie couldn't imagine how Claymore was dealing with his own dress - a multitude of layers more extensive that her own. His great coat flapped behind him, the damp ends lashing the wind. His top hat was settled firmly atop his head, his hair flattening obscenely to his neck and curling about his collar. His neckcloth hung limply against his shirt and waistcoat and overcoat. The humidity that must be building within his own layers, had her own predicament escalating.