Doing as she was told, Jemima dismounted and watched as both men moved to stand shoulder to shoulder before her. Her brows rose at their strange behaviour. Minutes earlier they had been fighting like arch enemies. Now they were working together?
“I haven’t set you up, Jemima,” Hugo assured her. “I promise you I mean you no harm whatsoever. Getting you into Padstow and back to Willowbrook to resume your life is of paramount importance to me. Whatever happened to the cart wasn’t done by me.”
“You can’t ride into the village like this, Jemima, it’s too risky,” Peter added, swiping a hand down his face and wincing at the assembled bruises that were forming beneath his battered flesh.
“So what now? I am not staying out in this all night,” Jemima snapped, still put out with their childish behaviour.
“You’re not going to,” Hugo replied nodding toward the tavern behind her. “We are all going in, together.” He shot a glance toward Peter, before checking his gun. “I take it you are armed too?”
Peter nodded briskly, motioning beneath his muddy cloak.
“Your priority is getting Jemima out of there if anything untoward happens. I’ll keep them back, and meet you at the next meeting place but one,” he said the last two words with emphasis, watching as Peter nodded.
“Is there someone inside I should know about?” Jemima asked hesitantly, picking up on the tension.
“That’s just it, we don’t know,” Peter replied honestly. “Stay close, darling, and we will get you out of this infernal storm.”
Jemima lapsed into silence and didn’t object when Peter drew her before him, directly behind Hugo. Together they walked to the inn, the sodden horse following them dolefully.
Their entrance, although quiet, drew the eye of everyone within the half-empty tap room. Only when they were inside did Jemima realise what a sight they must look. All three of them were filthy, soaking wet and Peter still had dark streaks of boot polish on his face. The men were battered and bruised; Hugo bleeding from a split on his lip; Peter’s eye swelling shut as it grew steadily darker.
Despite the earlier warning from Peter, Jemima took it upon herself to explain about their carriage accident, hoping it would go some way to easing the ripple of disquiet at the extent of some of Peter and Hugo’s cuts and bruises.
It didn’t.
Immediately the tavern erupted. Men came forward, offering to help remove the cart, only for Peter to wave them back down. Given the poor condition of the road, it was unlikely that anyone would be travelling in such weather, and the cart would be fine where it was for the night. Someone offered to fetch the doctor, only for Hugo to protest that it wasn’t necessary as there was no damage that some water wouldn’t fix. At that, the innkeeper hastily arranged trays of food and warm water to be sent up to their rooms.
Within minutes they were ushered upstairs, leaving the tap room abuzz with gossip about the three battered and bloody travellers who appeared out of nowhere in the middle of one of the worst storms of the year.
“Well that should ensure we are safe from any further threat, at least overnight,” Jemima murmured as she climbed the stairs.
“What do you mean?” Hugo asked, wincing as his battered muscles protested against the strain of climbing anywhere.
“Nobody would dare harm us now, with half of the village aware we are here and sympathetic to our plight,” Jemima replied. “They also know there are three of us travelling together. Anyone who turns up asking questions about us will do nothing but raise suspicion.”
Peter nodded, impressed by her logic and reasoning.
“I suggest we all get some rest, and we will decide what we are going to do in the morning. We aren’t that far from Padstow now,” Hugo sighed, glad to see the door of his room before him. “I don’t know about you two, but I am going to get cleaned up, have some food and a good night’s sleep,” he said with a yawn.
Bidding them a quick goodnight, he closed the door and sighed deeply. There was one thing for certain, Hugo mused, easing his boots off with a deep sigh. If anything good came out of the past hour, it was the knowledge that at least he was going into Padstow with the right man at his back.
Downstairs, in the far corner of the tap room, a solitary gentleman was thoughtfully drinking his pint. He had watched the commotion carefully, his eyes goi
ng again and again to the beautiful woman accompanying Peter Carpenter. So that was Jemima Trevelisk, he thought to himself, finally realising why Scraggan and Peter were so determined to get her.
There was only one small problem that ensured neither of their plans were going to work.
Him.
Luckily he had arrived before the rain had started, waiting for the moment when he could go back down the road. He cursed at having his plans thwarted once again.
With a sigh, he settled back against the wall and began to adjust his plans.
Once inside their own room, Jemima removed her sodden cloak and boots, and went to stand before the roaring fire, grateful for its heat. The rain had long since drenched her clothing right through to the skin, leaving her flesh chilled and rippled with goose bumps.
“You need to get out of those clothes,” Peter muttered, pulling his own sodden shirt over his head and dropping it on to the floor. He sat tentatively on the chair before the fire and tugged off his boots, pausing only briefly to open the door to allow the maids to enter.
He stood back and watched as the bath was set up before the fire and filled with buckets of steaming hot water.