Heartless (The House of Rohan 5)

She stared at him in shock. “How is that possible? We left Rippington in the late morning and we were only five hours from the city. Surely it didn’t take a goodly portion of the day to achieve an hour’s worth of progress?”

“Main roads are out, miss. They’re all right for horses, but a big fancy coach like yours would never make it. Your coachman would have had to take back roads to get to London, and those send you either north or south. I’m thinking he took the northern way trying to avoid the worst of it, and that can add a full day onto the journey.”

Shit, she thought, reveling in the word Long Polly had taught her, a word she never used. “Oh, dear,” she said faintly.

Mr. Bosomworth looked sympathetic. “As long as the rain stops you should be past the worst of it. With any luck you’ll be in London before dark tomorrow. But what shall I tell Mr. Rohan if he asks after you?”

He wouldn’t, the rat bastard, she thought. “Oh, he knows I prefer to be by myself. For respectability’s sake,” she added, trying to keep the savagery from her tone. And then she smiled like a demure young female. “And I should warn you, he’s not Mr. Rohan. He’s Lord Brandon Rohan, the son of a marquess and the brother of viscount. He’s very starchy about his title—he’ll insist he doesn’t wish to be called by it but he’s still very affronted if you don’t.”

Bosomworth looked worried, and Emma almost felt a pang of guilt, but the very slight revenge was little enough to ask. “Thank you so much, Miss,” he said. “I’m glad you told me—I wouldn’t want to cause offense.”

“I thought you wouldn’t,” she said. “I will see you in the morning, Mr. Bosomworth.” Her tone was final, and the innkeeper had no choice but to accept it, bowing himself out of the room with repeated promises to provide anything she might desire.

She closed the door behind him. “Like Brandon Rohan’s head on a platter?” she muttered beneath her breath.

There was no lock on the door, but that was of no importance. No one would be trying to get into her room. She was cold, she was wet, and her entire body ached from the rough day’s travel. She would kill for a warm bath, but nothing would make her do or say anything that might bring her near Brandon again. He’d just have to make do with his precious Noonan’s company. The old man had looked at her like she’d crawled from under a rock as well, though she suspected that was simply an old bachelor’s distrust of females, and at least he’d been surprised by Brandon’s casual cruelty. Let the two of them enjoy each other. She just had to survive another day of travel and then she’d never see Brandon or his man again. Melisande and Benedick would simply have to come to her in London.

Sinking down by the warm fire, she pulled up her sodden skirts and attacked her wet, muddy half-boots. They were sturdy enough, made for moving through London’s filthy streets, and they’d survive this rough treatment, but she needed them cleaned and dried for tomorrow’s long day. She pulled them off and set them on the hearth, then slid her wet stockings off her legs and dumped them in a sodden pile next to the shoes.

She leaned back against the chair, shivering. She needed to get out of her wet dress and pull a blanket around her to ward off the chill, but for the moment she couldn’t bring herself to leave the fire. It was too hot against her face, while her back felt cold and pinched, and she leaned her head against the wing of the chair, sighing. Presumably someone would bring up her bag, but if they didn’t she would survive that as well. She’d certainly survived far worse.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she heard a soft knock on her door, and she struggled to her feet. It wouldn’t be Brandon—he’d have a more peremptory knock. And why should he be at her door anyway? For some reason he’d discovered he despised her, which made her blissfully happy. She could despise him in return.

As soon as she figured out how to achieve that happy emotion.

She was almost at the door when she remembered that a woman in her situation would be unlikely to answer the summons herself, and she stopped where she was. “Who is it?”

“Bosomworth, miss. We’ve got a bath for you, orders from his lordship,” came the innkeeper’s booming voice.

She hesitated for a full five seconds. Pride demanded that she send him away, but she’d abandoned pride long ago, and she would frankly kill for a warm bath at that point. “Come in,” she said, quickly returning to her seat by the fire.

The copper tub wasn’t huge, but it would easily encompass her, and she watched as two servants dumped heavy buckets of steaming water into it, bringing it halfway full. “Tim will be back with another bucket and your bag, miss, and afterwards Sally will be bringing you a tray of chicken, cheese and biscuits, orders from his lordship. Would you like wine or ale?”

Now that she’d already compromised her principles for a bath it would be foolish to turn down a meal. “You’re very good, Mr. Bosomworth,” she said, unable to bring herself to drop the honorific. “I would prefer something without alcohol. Perhaps some new cider?”

His forehead creased. “Are you and his lordship members of some new religion? Never heard of two people refusing good ale before.”

His words almost made her smile. “It’s not on moral principles, Mr. Bosomworth. Beer and wine disagree with my digestion.”

He looked doubtful. “If you say so, miss. Funny that Lord Brandon would suffer from the same affliction.”

It was slight, harmless, and he’d never know she’d trashed his reputation. “Oh, in his lordship’s case it’s simply that he has no head for it. One glass and he’s crying like a baby.”

By that time the two servants had returned, laden with even more water and her bag. “We don’t have bells in this place, miss, but I’ll have them come bring you dinner. Will that be acceptable??

?

Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, she thought. “That would be lovely.”

“I’ll let Lord Brandon know. He was worried about you.”

She almost told him she changed her mind. Worried about her, was he? She sincerely doubted it. It was most likely a last remnant of his mother’s teachings—Lady Charlotte, as she was known in Melisande’s household, was a stickler for kind behavior, and no matter what sudden bugaboo Brandon had developed towards her, his instincts would be at war over his sudden contempt.

Besides, accepting a bath and a meal was hardly compromising her any further. As he had pointed out, that ship had already sailed.

She slipped into the steaming water with a moan of utter bliss—if she were ever moved enough to cry this would be the sort of thing that would motivate her. The heat was so delicious it made her chilled bones ache with it, and she was astonished the water didn’t turn muddy after she dunked her entire head. For a brief moment she was tempted to stay that way, but the small bath required her to contort into an uncomfortable position so reluctantly she sat up again.

The soap was heavenly, scented with thyme and roses, and she washed every part of her with an unexpected vigor, determined to start her life from then on with a clean slate, physical as well as mental. She could wash Brandon Rohan off her quite easily, just as she’d managed to scour him from her mind.