He held out his hand; she took the coin from him almost without thinking, and then looked up in him in incredulity. “But—Mr. Hunter, I can’t possibly take this.”

“Yes, you can. In fact…” His mind was already racing ahead to the inn, to the evening, and how everything would have to play out. “In fact, you must. We haven’t any choice, not if we’re going to undo what just happened. I’ll explain everything over supper tonight, but you’ll need your own funds to pay for your dinner and a separate room. People will ask questions if I do it.”

“But—”

“Whatever you do, you mustn’t tell them we are married. We are not husband and wife, understand?”

Her eyes widened. “I—do—you—” She looked flummoxed. “Are you the sort of man who cannot bear to be contradicted? Because I can understand not wanting to think about what just happened, except… You do realize we are married?”

“Contradict me all you like,” Adrian told her. “But that ceremony just now? It doesn’t matter what words they said about us. We’re not husband and wife, not if we don’t want to be.”

She licked her lips. “I don’t think that is how reality works. It doesn’t change because you wish it would. I should know; I’ve tried hard enough.”

“They held a pistol on us, Miss Winters. They may have wanted us married; we don’t have to be.”

“I…” She looked down and sighed. “As you say. It’s late. We haven’t eaten.”

“We have to agree in order to be married,” he said. “Nobody else can agree on our behalf. I’m sure Lassiter and Miles think that we’ll continue to agree after the pistols are no longer pointed at us, but their plan has done us enough harm. We don’t have to continue.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” Adrian said, “that when we are finished, I’m going to feel sorry for everyone who helped this happen.”

* * *

They arrived at the inn forty minutes later. It was late, but not so late that the place was unlit.

Adrian opened the door to find an entry alcove. A little table, empty but for a bell and a book, stood in front of them. In the room beyond, firelight cast a flickering glow. The rumble of conversation from the other room was distant enough so as not to resolve into actual words.

He set the valise down and gestured for Camilla to enter ahead of him. She did; he followed, and let the door shut behind them.

He hadn’t had time to even ring the bell before the innkeeper came darting to the front.

“Welcome!” She had a smile on her face, one that faltered—slightly—when she caught sight of Adrian. She glanced at him, then at Camilla, then back at Adrian.

If this were America, she’d likely have thrown Adrian out in that first instant. Here in Britain, though, away from London, she probably saw black men seldom enough that she’d not had a chance yet to decide what to do if one threatened to do something so dastardly as to frequent her inn and give her money.

Adrian was used to this dilemma; he made it easy on the woman by making up his mind on her behalf.

“My good woman.” It took a bit of a conscious effort to attempt to mimic his mother, but no more than he’d made to copy the lower-class speech he’d been using up until now.

He made a show of producing his wallet. It was made of fine leather, and he paused to let the innkeeper see the quality of it before withdrawing a coin slowly enough that she could also see that there was far more where that came from.

He flicked the coin to the innkeeper. “For your trouble. I know it’s late to arrive, and we must have inconvenienced you and your staff.”

“I—”

“I will need a room for the night,” Adrian said. His mother would have said require, not will need, but haughtiness never worked for Adrian the way it did for a wealthy white woman.

The innkeeper’s glance shifted to Camilla behind him. “Sir. I… I…” Her chin squared.

Adrian intercepted that thought before the woman could start nattering on about the usual nonsense—respectable establishment and so on.

“Ah, are you referring to Miss Winters? We met by chance on the road; she’s on her way to serve as a governess to the Smiths in Lower Mackford. She had been given ill directions to an inn for the evening after being let off in the wrong town entirely. We’ve only arrived together because I knew where to go and she needed some help with her valise. She’ll be getting her own room, I suppose.”

Camilla’s eyes widened at this speech, but she jolted forward. “Yes, please, if you will. I’m sorry to be a bother.”

The innkeeper took her in—those wide, luminous eyes, the old valise of cracked leather, the cheapness of her dress coupled with the niceness of her speech. Governess was the best Adrian had been able to come up with. The position wouldn’t command much respect, but it would hopefully command enough that she’d be treated as if she were a respectable woman.

“Please,” Camilla said, her eyes fluttering shut, “please, I don’t wish anyone to know. If the…um, Smiths find out I was lost, they’ll wonder if I went astray on purpose, and…” She swallowed. “It’s very late out.”

The innkeeper nodded in decision. “Of course, you poor child. Of course. Let’s get you in and warm you up. But if you don’t want word to get out, maybe eat in the kitchen?” She glanced at Adrian. “As for you, sir…”

“Mr. Hunter.”

The innkeeper bit her lip. “If I send either of you into the common room for dinner, there will be a bit of a ruckus.”

“He can eat with me in the kitchen.” Camilla looked down. “I would have been lost without him. Nobody else would help me—they saw a woman alone, and…” She looked up. “It doesn’t seem fair, does it? If he can’t have a bite.”

The innkeeper let out a sigh. “It doesn’t, does it? Well, I do suppose the Bible says something about kindness to Samaritans and foreigners.”

Adrian did not point out that he had been born in England, or that in the Bible, it had been the Samaritan who was kind. Nobody ever liked facts in situations like this.

“If you don’t mind eating in the kitchen, I’ll serve you there. Cook’s gone home for the evening, but we have soup and cold chicken and bread that she’s left. It’s open enough that there will be no worries for your reputation, Miss Winters, but it’s late enough that you’ll not be disturbed.”

* * *

It took half an hour to sit down to food. Camilla took her things up to the room the innkeeper provided for her—not large, she supposed, but anything was larger than the space she’d shared with Kitty and Cook for the last eighteen months.

There was a chipped yellow pitcher of water, a sliver of sweet-smelling soap, a basin, and a clean cloth atop a small table. Camilla wanted nothing more than to wash the day off her skin, as if all her heartbreak, fear, and indignation could be scrubbed into nothingness. Maybe she’d awake in her bed back at the rectory to discover it had all been a nightmare.

Instead, she soaked the cloth and set it against her face. The cold shock of water reminded her that she was very awake. Alas.

Her life had turned upside down. No, upside down could not describe what had just happened. Her shoulders trembled still, the way they did when she worked for hours without ceasing. She felt rubbed raw. She couldn’t believe that it had been just this noon that she’d been sent up to change the bishop’s sheets. None of it made sense. They’d been lying, of course. They had to have been lying.

But they’d all seemed so certain that she could not help but doubt her own mind. Maybe they were right. Maybe that legion of devils on her shoulder had pushed her to invent the whole thing with the sheets and the door, because she was the woman they feared, someone so brazen…

So brazen that what? That she’d locked the door from clear across the room and forgotten that she had a key in her pocket?

The entire affair was too painful to contemplate at the moment. She shook her head, abandoning the attempt, and finished her ablu

tions. Then she went down to dinner.

Mr. Hunter was already there. He had a plate of chicken and potatoes—both cold—and a bowl of soup, still steaming.

Camilla settled for just the soup and a bit of bread. He’d given her money, but who knew how long it would last?

Her first spoonful was heaven. Carrot and celery in a broth made from some indeterminate meat should not have been so good, but oh, God, it was warm and it was food.

“Ohhh.” She could not help but let the syllable loose.

Mr. Hunter raised an eyebrow.

“The soup,” she said. “It practically melts on one’s tongue.”

He blinked. “It’s soup. It’s not melting. It’s already liquid.”

She shut her eyes. Maybe the world would go away. Maybe there would be no ruin, no reputational damage, no husbands if she wished hard enough.

Maybe there would just be soup.

She opened her eyes to see him still watching her.

“I’m sorry.” She had been apologizing to everyone the entire day; she felt as if she could not apologize enough. “But it’s very good soup.”

Tags: Courtney Milan The Worth Saga Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net