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Somehow she got through the soup and three removes without apparently committing any great social sin, although she had to admit that after two more glasses of wine, she might be missing the subtler clues. Alcohol, she was discovering, was potent stuff and it certainly helped with this business of making light conversation. She even felt vaguely friendly towards the major and lost all fear of saying the wrong thing. What did it matter what they thought?
The doctor and Quin stopped her father from completely monopolising the discourse, which impressed her with Quin’s diplomatic skills, and Quin did not reveal by so much as a look or a word that anything in the slightest improper had happened between them that afternoon.
She knew she should be relieved, even though she did not expect ever to see the other men again once she had left the camp. A pleasant sensation of drifting, of unreality, was beginning to take possession of her. It was quite delightful.
‘Why are you feeling your forehead with the back of your hand?’ Quin spoke in her ear.
‘Why are you creeping up on me?’ she countered.
‘I’m not. I advanced around the table with all the secrecy of a full cavalry charge.’
‘I was checking to see if I have a fever, if you must know. I feel a trifle...light-headed.’
Quin took her wrist between his fingers and felt her pulse. ‘You’re not feverish, you are tipsy, Cleo.’
‘Tipsy?’ Somehow she managed to turn the shriek into a strangled whisper. The other men were talking amongst themselves and she remembered something vaguely about ladies retiring after dinner so the men could relax and drink something or another. And tell risqué stories, no doubt. Pity, I’d like to hear a risqué story...
‘Tipsy, half-seas over, fuddled,’ he whispered back. ‘Have you never drunk wine before?’ Those flexible, wicked lips held a smile, but it was reassuring, not mocking. Quin slid his hand under her arm as she shook her head. And then wished she had not.
‘I think it is time I saw you home, Miss Woodward. You must be exhausted after the events of the past few days,’ he said, guiding her towards the door. ‘Sir James, gentlemen, I think Miss Woodward should be resting and as there are no other ladies for her to retire with I will see her across the camp.’
Chapter Thirteen
Cleo said her good-nights and thanks without tripping over her feet or slurring her words or saying anything untoward.
‘Being drunk is very strange,’ she remarked as she clutched Quin’s arm and let him steer her towards her hut. ‘I feel all floaty. It is rather nice, I think.’
‘You’ll have the mother and father of headaches in the morning,’ he warned. ‘Drink something before you go to sleep, that will help. And have a big breakfast whether you feel like it or not.’
Cleo stopped suddenly, jerking Quin to a halt beside her. ‘You’re being very kind to me, Lord Quintus. I don’t know why.’ She squinted at him in the moonlight that had turned his hair silver and black and threw dramatic shadows, making a severely beautiful mask out of his strong-boned face.
‘Because I like you, Miss Woodward. You are as much trouble as a basketful of monkeys and as easy to understand as the Sphinx, but you’ve got courage and brains and a certain je ne sais quoi.’
‘Then I am sorry I hit you this afternoon,’ she said on a wave of warmth and generosity. ‘Does your hand still hurt? Perhaps I should kiss it better.’ I would like you to kiss me better.
‘That’s very kind of you, but I think we might give the sentries a bit of a shock.’ Quin started walking again. ‘Here we are, back to your room.’
Private Minton slammed to attention with a thud of boots on the hard ground that made Cleo wince.
‘Tomorrow we’ll discuss arrangements for getting to the coast and taking ship to England,’ Quin said as they stopped outside the door. ‘Private, could you just check all around the building, make certain all the shutters are secure?’ He waited while the soldier saluted and marched off, then turned back to Cleo. ‘I really do better without an audience.’ He tipped up her chin and bent his head so close that when he spoke his breath warmed her lips. ‘Good night, Cleo. Sweet dreams.’
The kiss was gentle and respectful and shockingly thorough. And beautifully timed. As Private Minton marched round the corner again Quin was standing a good foot away from her. ‘Good night, Miss Woodward. Good night, Private.’
‘Sir!’
Cleo was beyond words and, for an awful moment, without the strength in her shaking legs to move. Minton leapt to open the door. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured and staggered inside to collapse on the bed.
