“We’re verra full. ’Aven’t got two rooms. We’ve only one room available,” the innkeeper said to his request for two rooms.
One room. That silenced him for a moment. He glanced at her face as he digested that. She turned to stare at him, her eyes wide and unblinking, questioning and fear-tinged. He hated that fear. Hated that he was the one who put it there.
Clearly she hadn’t thought this far ahead. Neither had he. He hadn’t considered sleeping arrangements. He had assumed separate rooms would be available.
“Take it or leave it.” The man glanced between the two of them with a curious light in his eyes, clearly marking the tension.
Glancing back at the innkeeper, Marcus slapped down his coin on the counter. “We’ll take it.”
It couldn’t be helped. There was only one room. She might be nervous about the situation, but he wouldn’t so much as brush a finger against her. He did not intend to endure another night in a barn, however. Or even outdoors. It was far too cold for that. “Can you send up a bath, too?”
As the innkeeper led them upstairs, he casually remarked how the market day in Collie-Ben brought forth more business than typical. “Nae complaint ’ere, though. Always ’appy fer business.” He unlocked the room and led them inside. It was comfortable enough. Airy. Fading sunlight streamed through the curtained window. The bed wasn’t nearly as large as the mammoth contraption he slept in back in Town, but he wasn’t one to thrash and kick about. At least none of his bed partners had complained of that before. He’d keep a wide berth.
The innkeeper took his leave, promising to have a bath sent up forthwith. The door shut behind the man and they were alone. Again. Only this felt different. This was different. They were alone in a bedchamber. He deliberately avoided glancing to the bed again. He could taste the tension in the air. She was nervous, her fear as tangible as copper on his tongue.
She moved to the center of the room, and rotated in a small circle, her worn valise at her feet. Her gaze flitted about, assessing . . . marking, it seemed, for potential escape routes. She always had that way about her. The way of a cornered animal looking to take flight.
Exhaling, he turned to the fireplace that burned at a low dwindle. How in bloody hell had he ended up in this situation? It was a sad sorry state. He’d left London and all his family and friends behind in a fit of temper.
Most of his temper had worn off, but now he just felt tired. Jaded. In no mood to see any of his family. He knew he couldn’t hide forever. They were his family. He couldn’t turn his back on his sisters.
For weeks now, he had claimed his solitude. Time for himself to get away from Society. Except he had cast that aside today when he bought this girl. He could be alone right now, kicking off his boots and stripping off his clothes in a room to himself, reveling in his isolation. Instead he had to worry about being a well-behaved gentleman and conducting himself as a proper employer would.
He stoked the nearly banked flames to life. It gave him something to do and gave her time to compose herself. He suspected she needed that. He stabbed at the logs until they crackled, flames licking over their gnarled skin. Rising, he turned to face her. She hugged herself, her arms tight around her torso.
“You needn’t look so frightened.”
She nodded jerkily. “I know. I’m not.” Her words said one thing but those gold-brown eyes another.
“You’re not convinced of that,” he countered. “But then that’s a good thing.”
Her chin went up. “Never trust? Correct?”
He nodded. “That’s correct.”
He sank down onto a wingback chair that was surprisingly more comfortable than it looked. The cushions were worn but plump, and he released a gratified sigh.
He waved at the other chair across from him, flanking the other side of the fire. “Have a seat.”
She shook her head. “You said we were not to be . . .” Her voice faded, but he knew what she was thinking, what she could not bring herself to say. She worried he was going to demand intimacies.
“Not what? People who sit in chairs?”
She flushed.
He continued, “I meant what I said. We’re not married. I have no designs on you—”
She gestured around her. “But we’re sharing a room—”
“You heard the innkeeper. There were no other rooms to be had.”
“And you’ve requested a bath be brought up,” she challenged.
“Would you prefer I not bathe?” He arched an eyebrow at her, knowing full well everyone in the world preferred he did.
At that, her lips pursed and he knew she could smell him even from where she stood. “Of c-course . . . only where am I to go during your—”
At the moment, a knock rattled the door. He rose and passed her to open it.
Several lads carried in buckets of steaming water. They pulled back the screen in the corner and poured water into the copper tub. Nodding deferentially, they took their leave.
He rubbed his hands together in anticipation as he eyed the water.
An older woman arrived with soap and towels. “Can I get ye anything else, sirrah?”
Alyse looked rather desperately around her, her mouth opening and closing as though she wanted to ask for something. Something like a weapon. Or a ladder to escape out the window.
“Yes,” he said. “Do you have a parlor where one might take tea?” He nodded to Alyse. “I would like some privacy for my bath.”
“Oh.” The woman nodded, tucking her plump hands inside her pinafore. “Yes, we do.” She nodded to the door, eyeing Alyse expectantly. “Shall I escort ye there, ma’am?”
Alyse nodded rapidly, her eyes alive with relief. “That would be wonderful.”
“Come now.” The woman walked out the door, waving her to follow.
Alyse quickly trailed after her. And that was a bit of irony. He knew a good amount of females who would have been grateful to ogle him at his bath. This one wanted no part of that.
“Go on with you,” he tossed after her. “Perhaps they’ll serve biscuits with that tea.”
She paused, bestowing him a tentative smile and then she was gone, shutting the door behind her.
Turning, he started stripping off his clothes. He cast them aside with relish, determined to never wear them again.
Sinking down into the bath, he moaned in pleasure and leaned back in the copper tub. After a moment, he dunked below the water’s surface. Coming up, he reached for the soap. Lathering his hair, his hands drifted to the thick bristle covering his cheeks. He hadn’t shaved since he left London. He hadn’t cared to bother. It felt rather defiant, eschewing his customary shave each morning. And that felt good. Casting aside the trappings of his life felt damn good.
His father would have hated the beard. As would his stepmother. They wouldn’t approve of anything he was doing. Shunning his title. Journeying to some forgotten piece of property. Buying a woman off an auction block . . .
They wouldn’t know him at all. He wasn’t certain he could claim to even know himself anymore.
He dragged his fingers through the beard. It was damnable itchy.
They didn’t serve biscuits with the tea, but the room was cozy and the chair thick and comfortable and her cup warm in her hands. As crowded as the inn happened to be, the small parlor was unoccupied. Voices and the clang of dishes carried from the neighboring taproom full of patrons. That seemed the popular place to be, and she was glad for the privacy of this room. Glad that she was not forced to be above stairs with him as he took his bath.
As she sank deeper in the plush chair, she contemplated leaving this place, this village. Bolting. Fetching the mule from the stables and going back to Collie-Ben where she could prevail upon Nellie or Mr. Beard. Except the idea made her flinch. It was problematic. Nellie was in no position to offer assistance and Mr. Beard was unwilling.