He broke off as they were interrupted once again with more food—the promised apple pie. The open door admitted the noise and bustle of stagecoach passengers, the sound of the guard blowing his horn, impatient to be off, the cries of, ‘Here! Waiter!’
‘Close the door firmly, please,’ Ivo said to the maid as she carried out the remains of the main course. ‘You see—anyone could blunder in at any time. I must be mad. We should return you to your parents, not be planning to set out towards Bath.’
‘Absolutely not. Oh, bother, she has forgotten the cream.’ Jane looked round, then remembered that the bell was not functioning.
‘I should not have even contemplated going to Batheaston with you,’ Ivo said, ignoring the cream shortage completely. ‘I cannot imagine what I was thinking. I will take you back to your parents in London first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘No! I will not go and you cannot make me.’
‘I most certainly can.’ Ivo got to his feet and circled the table to her side.
He’s in pain, she realised, even as she pushed her chair back. Tired and in pain.
He was white under the tan his army life had given him and he could not quite hide the wince as he moved his arm incautiously. It was an effort to feel sympathetic with a large male looming over her, but she made the attempt.
‘Shall we sleep on it? In the morn—’
There was a sudden increase in noise behind her, the door swung open. ‘I quite forgot the cream, miss. We’re that busy—’
The maid broke off with a little shriek as Ivo moved and the door hit him square on the wounded shoulder. With a gasp he spun round under a shower of something white, thick and sticky.
‘Oh, lawks, miss.’
Chapter Four
‘Lawks’ struck Jane as somewhat inadequate under the circumstances. If Ivo had opened the wound up again infection could set in at the worst, or they would be delayed at the best. ‘Go and fetch hot water and cloths immediately—and close the door after you!’ She went to his side and found, to her relief, that he was muttering curses. If he could swear, then he couldn’t be in too much pain.
When she touched him, he straightened up and let go of his shoulder.
‘No, stay there, wait a moment before you try and move.’ She rested one hand on his unhurt shoulder, but it was shrugged off.
‘Don’t fuss, the stiches are intact. But after ten years fighting, I could swear I am more battered after less than a day in your company than I ever was on the battlefield, Jane.’
‘Of all the unfair—’ She broke off, conscious of the maid ineffectually dabbing at the spilled cream with her apron. ‘Please fetch some hot water and towels as I asked. That is making things worse, not better.’
‘What the devil is this mess?’ he demanded, mopping his face with his handkerchief.
‘Cream, I am sorry to say. Very thick cream in copious amounts. I only hope they have someone able to clean your coat. I fear you will have to wash your hair to get it all out.’
The maid came back with a bowl of steaming water and some cloths as Ivo struggled out of his coat. ‘Here.’ He thrust it at the flustered girl as Jane took the bowl. ‘Kindly do what you can to restore that.’ As she fled with it he turned, took the bowl, put it on the table and plunged his head into it, scrubbing at his hair and face. ‘This is the final straw,’ he said grimly as Jane handed him a cloth. ‘I am going to bed and so are you. You will lock the door and you will not emerge until I call you in the morning. Is that clear?’
‘Perfectly.’ She bit her lip as he took a final exasperated swipe at his dripping hair. ‘But might we eat the apple pie first?’ She tried an encouraging smile.
‘I find nothing amusing about this situation, Miss Newnham. If we are fortunate, I may be able to appear tomorrow morning as your escort looking merely as though I buy my clothes at a down-at-heel second-hand stall. If we are not, then you will be accompanied by someone closely resembling the local rat catcher. Neither are suitable escorts for a young lady, especially one who should not be drawing attention to herself, given the irregular nature of this enterprise.’
Jane managed to choke back the laughter. ‘Quite. Absolutely. I was not laughing at you. It was, um, hysteria, I think.’ Somehow she did not think that Ivo would appreciate the true explanation, that heroes in Melissa’s novels were not sent reeling by careless maids and showered with cream. One of her heroes would have avoided the door with a graceful swerve, typical of an accomplished fencer. Real life was clearly far removed from fiction.
The damp, battered, irritable man in front of her frowned, then blinked as the water on his lashes ran into his eyes. ‘Confound it, Jane. I can organise a baggage train, lead a cavalry charge and deal with an ambush by snipers—I do not appreciate being thwarted at every turn by a chit of a girl who appears to attract chaos like iron filings to a magnet.’
Chaos? Chit?
‘Might I remind you that I had nothing to do with your wounds? Perhaps you should retire to bed as you suggest if you find my company so tiresome.’
‘And miss this apple pie, Sister dear?’ He made his way, jaw set, back to his seat and waited while Jane, shaking her head, served pie—without cream. ‘And perhaps you should return to London,’ he added darkly.
‘I am going on to Batheaston, whatever you say. You can hardly make me go back by force and I am the one paying the postilion,’ she pointed out.
‘I could wish I had you under my command for twenty-four hours, Miss Newnham,’ Ivo said grimly. ‘But you are quite correct, you are not responsible for the pathetic state that I am in.’