My Fake Rake
Page 117
She did not. But she had to go somewhere. “I do.”
“—then neither he nor I will stand in your way.”
Coming to her feet, Grace embraced her mother.
She was a fortunate woman, to have parents such as she did. To have the benefits and privileges of wealth and rank. In so many ways, she was blessed by Providence. She had to remember all this, had to hold to that light, because her soul could not lift itself up from the shadows in which she’d mired herself.
“Grantham!” the coachman shouted. “Stopping for the night at Grantham!”
The coach lurched to a halt. Passengers groaned as they stepped down into the inn’s yard, stretching their cramped muscles after the day’s long journey. A twilight sky hovered over the muddy quadrangle, and light from the inn’s taproom illuminated the passengers’ haggard faces.
Seb was the last to disembark, and as he unfolded his body to climb out, he stifled his own groan as his limbs protested hours of confined, jostling inactivity.
There’d been a time, not long ago, when he’d gladly accepted these pains as an essential evil he had to endure before the pleasures of a wander. Tonight, however, he wanted only ale, food, and an oblivious sleep.
He shook out his arms and legs, moved his head from side to side, and then, when his aches lessened, he moved stiffly into the inn. He didn’t glance at the name. It didn’t matter where he was—they’d stopped at a similar place yesterday at . . . Bedford? Peterborough? One town and inn was as good as another.
“Oi, watch it,” someone growled behind him.
“Pardon.” He hadn’t realized he’d come to a stop, and he stepped to the side to permit a ruddy-cheeked man entrance to the inn.
Shock reverberated in waves—he wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings. He’d barely seen the landscape as it rolled by mile after mile. He hadn’t asked questions about the local area’s customs. He’d done nothing.
Except yearn for Grace. That hadn’t stopped.
He saw her smile in the sunshine, and her eyes in the glint upon rivers. He heard her laugh in the wind, and in the depths of his body he still felt the wonder of holding her in his arms.
God, but he was a disaster.
Shaking his head, he approached the innkeeper, a Black woman with her hair wrapped in cheerful printed silk. “A room for the night, please.”
“I’ve one room left, in the attic.” She eyed his height. “It’ll be a squeeze. You’d be right under the roof, and the bed’s not so big.”
“So long as it has a mattress and relatively clean linen,” he said, “it will suit.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, which he dropped into her waiting hand.
She smiled. “We have a fine taproom where you can take your supper, sir. I’ll have your key brought to you whilst you dine.”
“Have you a private room where I might eat?” He wanted silence and solitude, and the cheerful din of the taproom did not suit.
“I’m afraid not, sir. The local chicken farmers meet there once a month and tonight’s their night. I could bring your food up to your room, but there’s not much space there to dine comfortably.”
“The taproom will serve.” With a nod, he moved on to the inn’s crowded common area.
Heavy tables that were scarred from use but spotlessly clean filled the space, and at them sat passengers from the coach as well as other travelers and locals. Servers who looked to be the right age to be the innkeeper’s children hurried between the tables, bringing bowls, plates, and tankards. The smell of ale and stew filled the air.
Seb exhaled tiredly. There were no empty tables, only a free seat here and there. He’d no choice but to sit with someone.
A pale elderly chap from the coach sat alone as he spooned stew into his mouth and read from a small volume.
Seb approached. “Might I join you?”
The man glanced up at him before returning his gaze to his book. “Suit yourself.”
“Many thanks.”
Seb had hardly taken his seat before an adolescent girl with light brown skin and serious gray eyes approached. “What will you have, sir?”
“An ale.”