Heartless (The House of Rohan 5)

There was no way she could sleep in the carriage, not with the deplorable condition of the roads, so she simply held on and rocked back and forth, her healing body beginning to ache. Cook had packed a lavish hamper, clearly meant to be shared with her unwilling escort, but the constant motion had turned her own stomach, and she wasn’t about to offer Brandon Rohan a thing. If he grew hungry then he could ask, and it was clear that he would starve before he’d speak pleasantly to her.

But why? It was a mystery, and much as she ought to she could never leave a mystery alone. He could scarcely have discovered anything new about her—she’d told him she’d been a whore and he hadn’t even blinked. If his sudden antipathy made any sense then she could easily let go, but instead her mind kept going back to him, even more often than her gaze, as she tried to puzzle out what had happened, and no matter how often she told herself it didn’t matter, it was none of her concern, she couldn’t leave it alone.

They were making miserable time, and darkness was coming early. Eventually exhaustion took over—she need to be back home in the safety of her rooms so badly that she wanted to weep with the need—and she fell asleep even as her body was tossed and shaken. When she woke with a start some time later, it was pitch black and the carriage had come to a stop.

She had no vain hope that they’d reached the city—even at this dark time of year there were street lamps to illuminate London’s gloom, and the noise was almost constant. A light rain had begun to fall, splashing against the roof and sides of the carriage and she sat up straight, determined to hide her dismay. With any luck they were simply stopping to exchange horses before continuing on with the final lap of their journey. But luck hadn’t been with her recently, and she had the gloomy feeling that wasn’t about to change.

She had just grasped the door handle when it was suddenly flung open, pulling her with it, catapulting her straight into Brandon Rohan’s strong arms, and there was no way she could stop her forward motion, particularly when the steps hadn’t been let down yet. She needn’t have worried—he disengaged from her as if her very touch were poison, setting her on the muddy ground and taking a step back.

“The road’s washed out,” he said, ignoring the cold rain that was pelting down and freezing Emma to the bone. “We have to stop for the night.”

Not the best news she could have heard, but under the circumstances she wasn’t surprised. He was blocking her way again, keeping her from seeking shelter as the rain began to soak through her wool gown and the mud oozed around her feet. He still had his hat on, protecting his face, but she’d left hers, along with her enveloping shawl, in the carriage.

If he expected her to complain he would have a long wait. She was a country girl at heart—a little rain never harmed anything more than a silk gown. “Where are we?” she demanded, her voice almost as cold as her feet.

“Just north of Chelmsford. Noonan found an inn that will take us, so we won’t be forced to spend the night in the carriage.”

Her eyes flew open at that horrible thought. “They have rooms for us?” she inquired delicately. If he told her they would be forced to share a bedroom then she was going to climb back into the coach and not leave it until they reached London.

He was looking at her with such anger and contempt from beneath the rain-soaked brim of his hat. Why, Emma thought, bewildered. It made no sense.

“The inn has no other customers—it appears that most people were wise enough not to attempt travelling while the roads were in such a mess.”

His tone of voice suggested she was the one who’d forced the journey, when he’d already been planning to leave that day. She controlled her instinctive retort. “Indeed?” she said, her catchall phrase to put anyone in his place.

But of course Brandon didn’t react. “In fact there are three bedrooms, so even Noonan gets a decent bed rather than sleeping in the stables with the driver, and the landlord has promised a good meal compliments of his wi

fe.”

It took all her strength to keep from shivering. She needed a fire, a strong cup of tea, and now that they were no longer moving she discovered that she was famished. She was about to murmur something vague and move around him when he spoke.

“And in your case we needn’t worry about your reputation being compromised, need we?”

It felt like a slap in the face, and not the light one Melisande had given her. No, it was like a hard fist across the jaw, and the shock of it took her breath away. She jerked her head up to look him straight in the eyes, but she only had a glimpse before the heavy rain blinded her, just long enough to see momentary remorse, as a reproachful voice behind him said, “Laddie!”

It didn’t matter how shocked Brandon might be at his own cruelty. He could roast in hell for all she cared, her entire body suffused in a warming rage. “No, we needn’t,” she said, her voice brittle. “I’m delighted that my years of selling my body makes the situation more comfortable for you.” She didn’t hesitate, shoving him out of her way with the strength her anger had given her, and he fell back easily enough. “I find I’m not particularly hungry,” she tossed back over her shoulder. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Emma. . .” If he sounded regretful she didn’t give a rat’s ass. She ran the last few steps to the door of the tavern, her feet squelching in her muddy shoes, and burst forth into warmth and light and safety. She allowed herself a hopeful glance behind her, just in case there was some way to bolt the door and keep him out in the harsh weather, but there was nothing.

“Welcome to the Hawk and Cock, miss,” said a voice, and she turned back, pushing the rain and her bedraggled hair away from her face. “Bosomworth’s the name.”

He looked every inch a solid country innkeeper: round-bellied, rosy-cheeked, immensely cheerful. She knew how that look could change if Mr. Bosomworth suspected his prospective guest was far from respectable, but Brandon Rohan had already made arrangements, and no one would dare to question someone with his address. Just another thing different between them, she thought. Brandon had that easy self-assurance that Benedick and Melisande had, the kind that came with being born into that class, while she was a ruined woman from the country.

“Thank you, Mr. Bosomworth,” she said, striving to sound brisk. “I’m very tired—would it be possible for you to show me my room? I think I’ll simply retire for the night.” The moment the words were out of her mouth she knew she’d done it wrong—guests make demands, not pleas.

The innkeeper didn’t react. “Certainly, miss. But my wife’s a fine cook—she can make up anything you want, and she’s got a roast chicken just out of the oven. Can I tempt you. . . ?”

She heard Brandon fiddling with the door behind her, and she quickly stepped away. “I’m not hungry,” she said with a twinge of regret. She could smell the chicken now, and it made her mouth water. “Just my room, if you please.”

“Certainly, miss,” he said leading her across the room toward the staircase. “I’ll be right back, Mr. Rohan,” he called over his shoulder.

“I’m in no hurry,” Brandon said, and the sound of his voice was so dearly familiar, so deep and enticing, that she wanted to cry. But there was nothing to say or do, and she followed Mr. Bosomworth’s sturdy backside up the stairs, escaping.

He’d brought a branch of candles with him, lighting the way, and he led her up another flight to the third floor. “Mr. Rohan said I was to put you as far away from him as possible,” he said apologetically as he fought to catch his breath on the top landing. “For respectability’s sake, of course. I had the girl get the fire going, and it should be comfortable enough.” He pushed open the first door, and blessed heat wafted out, enveloping her in its embrace.

She walked in ahead of him, looking around, and her throat tightened. It was a small room, beneath sloping eaves, and the narrow metal bed, the threadbare rug on the scrubbed floors, the bright fire blazing in the small fireplace were so familiar. Her own room had been like this one—clean, comfortable despite its Spartan furnishings, before she’d traded it for the deceptively fancy surroundings of a London cathouse. There was even a cozy-looking chair by the fire. “This is perfect,” she said, meaning it. She moved to the fire, holding her chilled, gloveless hands out to the flames. “How far are we from London?”

“London? Why, miss, in the best of weather it’s no more than four hours, but as you can tell the weather is far from good.”