His Lady in Breeches

XXXIV. Ole Friends

Maxine was quiet inside the rolling carriage. They were on their way to Wakefield and Ysabella's estate.

Amongst his sisters, Ysabella and Emma were the only ones who had been gullible and naïve, if not courageous, enough to be friends with bandits. And since Maxwell barely had any knowledge of all the details about these so-called friends, he thought it best to approach Ysabella.

Emma could provide them with more details without dallying to other unnecessary topics, but Maxine insisted that Ysabella would be enough for now.

His wife was still not too keen on the idea of letting another member of his family be privy of their recent marriage. He wondered for a moment if the Town Herald been sleeping all this time. Surely there ought to be a gossip about a certain lord eloping to Tiny Town with a mysterious lady by now—but no! No bloody gossip on any of the pages that closely pertain to him and Maxine.

He looked across from her. Apart from the fact that they both woke up earlier that morning together in bed and made love one more time before breaking fast, Maxwell did not feel any different from how he felt at the last day of his bachelorhood.

He was with wife now, one that he had so foolishly confessed to be in love with.

Now that he thought of it, there was one thing that was disturbingly different now. He was growing impatient by the day.

"Have you thought of an answer yet?" he asked.

Her eyes flickered with annoyance. "My mind is currently muddled to a great extent, my lord," she snapped. "I am quite happy that we did start the day in a rather good mood as we did yesterday and the day before. Please, do not push it. I do still have more days to think."

Maxwell merely shrugged and looked out the window, studying the usual sight of townspeople going about their business for the day. Did any of them know that Maxwell Everard was inside this very carriage with his new wife? Was someone in the Town Herald drafting an article about them at this very moment? It would not do them good, but a part of him wished for it to happen. It would save him the trouble of having to tell his mother for he'd rather proceed to a frantic confrontation than suffer the long process of preparing for the said confrontation.

"But please, do answer one question for me," she broke the silence. He turned to find her eyes staring at him with great curiosity. Images of her smooth skin rubbing against his, of her fingers running through his hair, of her short hair sprawled all over the pillows and her legs wrapped around his flashed across his eyes. Should he order the driver to turn the carriage around? Perhaps they could delay this trip for another day? "Why do you think you love me?"

His brows furrowed into a frown, her question snapping him back to the present. "I do not simply think so, Maxie," he corrected. "I am quite certain of it." He returned his attention on the scene outside the carriage, brushing aside thoughts of his wife's breasts, the sound of her purrs, the smell of her flesh. He anchored his chin on his fist before adding under his breath, "And I do not have to have a reason."

"Of course you do," she said, tone filled with disbelief.

"I simply know I am in love with you," he dryly retorted. "Just as all of us know that there is a different world above us—we do not have to understand it to believe it."

"You barely know me," she insisted.

He sighed and looked at his wife again. "I was not aware that time is a requirement for such feelings. When do you wish me to repeat the same confession? In five years? A decade? Perhaps the next life when you are a rabbit and I a bloody cow?"

"No need to be sarcastic, my lord," she snapped. "I simply want to help myself come to terms with the fact that you wasted no time confessing!"

"And make us both suffer with ridiculous ideas?" he asked. When she did not reply, he said, "I shall not urge you for an answer as it has not been a fortnight yet. We must focus on finding your mother first."