Chapter 36
They spent the next-to-last day of their journey at a charming galleried inn with dormer windows and a courtyard separate from the public stages. Emily stared out the window as the coach rolled beneath a stone arcade. Who would have known that the aristocracy could command a private entrance? Who could have guessed that she would marry a man whose name opened doors into private worlds that others only dreamed about?
She was so impressed that for the first time during her travels she did not jump at the blare of a horn as a smaller conveyance rattled into the common yard. She was even more pleased by the amenities offered by the high-priced inn. Below the sign hung another which said:
FINE WINES
PRIVATE DINING
HOT, COLD, STEAM BATHS
“A steam bath?” she murmured as Damien helped her down the carriage steps. “Doesn’t that sound like heaven?”
“We don’t have the time for that,” he said before she could plead a case for her aching body. And then, as if he regretted his abrupt reply, he added, “When the anarchists are thwarted I’ll buy you a house with its own steam bath.”
“Do we have time at least for luncheon?”
He watched a pair of footmen unload their luggage from the carriage. “I suppose we could manage a short meal. We might take it in a private dining room other than our own. It wouldn’t hurt for me to study the other passengers, in the event one is a potential assassin.”
“There’s the romantic in you coming out again.”
He smiled. “There will be time for romance once we settle into our own home.”
Our own home.
Did this mean they would live together after the charade ended? Would he leave her there alone while he went off on other adventures? Dare she ask his plans? But even Damien could not know whether the Crown’s mission to stamp out the conspiracy would work. The only thing she could do was to drop hints here and there during his receptive moments. She remembered that he owned property in London. But he’d made the offer to buy a house. The idea of establishing a household together had to have crossed his mind.
He might have said it only to placate her. She would dream of a home with him all the same.
? ? ?
Shortly after they returned to their chamber and Damien made a thorough search to determine that no one was lying in wait, he realized that Emily’s quest for social affairs was perfectly natural and would have to wait until they moved about freely.
They had by mutual accord lain upon the bed. Damien had started to remove his afternoon attire. He needed to think, to plan ahead, review the faces of strangers he had seen in the courtyard. He needed to recall behaviors that might have passed for ordinary but seemed suspicious in retrospect. He and his wife were not the only agents in England to employ a disguise.
“You look so intense,” Emily whispered.
“Something isn’t right. Something in the back of my mind tells me I’ve missed the obvious.”
She snuggled against his side. “Perhaps you should sleep on it.”
He closed his eyes again. “I think I shall.”
No sooner had she leaned over to take the newspaper he’d been perusing than she bolted upright in the bed. “What, in heaven’s name, is that racket? Is there a riot in progress below our room?”
Receiving no immediate answer from the male nodding off beside her, she grasped him by the collar of his shirt. “Damien, it sounds as if the inn has been invaded by soldiers.”
He opened his eyes, scrutinized her face, then reached up his hand and pulled her down hard against his chest. “If you want me again, there is no need to scream it to the world. Whisper in my ear the next time you need me. God forbid I should mistake you for an assailant. Ignore the noise. It’s nothing.”
For a moment she forgot what noise he meant because his firm muscles were so distracting. Then riotous thumping resounded again to shake the timbers of the inn. Oddly enough, Damien did not seem concerned by the disturbance. He sighed and closed his eyes again.
“Damien!”
He cracked open one eye. “What is it now?”
“Our bed is shaking, in case you hadn’t noticed,” she whispered, wondering what was wrong with the man that he could sleep with the floor shaking as if an army had occupied the rooms below. Was there a riot in progress? Would troops storm their chamber at any moment?
He lifted his head. “Why are you still awake?”
“How can anyone sleep through that noise from below! It sounds as if a farmer has driven a herd of cattle into the common room. You have to hear it.”
“Hear— Oh, that noise. I wondered what the blazes you were talking about. I should have warned you in advance.”
He dropped his head back on the pillow. “This is one of the finest inns in the country.”
“With cattle allowed inside?”
“That isn’t a herd of cattle, Emily. It is a dance being held in the assembly room below. It abuts the public house.”
She turned to him, her prior embarrassment replaced by sheer delight. “It’s a dance? This isn’t a tease? Truly?”
“Yes. It’s not unusual in the better hostels. Let me take off those slippers, sweetheart. We don’t want to tear holes in the sheets with those heels.”
She buried her slippered feet under the covers. “A genuine dance? At an inn? What a wonderful notion.”
“I wouldn’t call it that. The assembly is likely comprised of only a handful of well-paying guests and the local gentry. These tend to be small events. Certainly not a grand affair.”
“But it’s a dance.”
“If you tell me that you have never attended one, I know you’re fibbing. We danced at our wedding and at Lord Fletcher’s party.”
“But everyone who danced at the wedding had an obligation to please the bride.”
He stared into her face. “I danced with you. At the reception and at Lord Fletcher’s party.”
“Because it would have looked peculiar otherwise. And, yes, of course, I’ve attended balls. But no one except Michael and Lucy ever danced with me, and then only out of pity.”
“You can’t wait until we reach London?” he asked in a disgruntled voice. “Or the castle? There will be fancy balls at the viscount’s party. I would think that a castle dance would be more romantic than the stomp-about beneath our bed.”
“But, Damien,” she said in an appealing voice, “I won’t have your attention once we reach the castle. You will be keeping watch for rebels.”
“I will be keeping watch over you as well.”
“That is exactly my point. We shan’t be able to lower our guard to enjoy ourselves in front of the other guests.”
“There will be nights alone to enjoy each other, Emily.”
“That’s fine, Damien. You’re right, of course.”
“It could be dangerous. After seeing that sketch of you, I’d prefer not to mingle in public unless we have to. Besides, I’m in no mood to watch other men dance with you, radicals or not. For all we know, Lord Ardbury has figured out the true identities of the gypsy girl and Scottish man who disappeared from Hatherwood on the same night.”
She picked up the newspaper that had fallen between them. “I understand,” she murmured, sitting up straight to catch the light. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“It isn’t a question of dancing. By next week, when Sir Angus doesn’t appear with either a gypsy girl or the gold he promised to deliver, Lord Ardbury might have us on our toes, whether we like it or not.”
“Yes.” She squinted to read the paper’s small print. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“Although you deserve one night to pretend we are any other newlywed couple,” he admitted.
“Except that we aren’t.” She put the paper down on the coverlet. “What were you reading about before you dozed off?”
“Reading?” He frowned. “I was looking at properties for sale. There’s one in particular that sounds suitable for us.” He lifted the newspaper to the light and read, “‘A Most desirable Mansion, consisting of a coaching house, pavilion, and farmhouses on three thousand acres of fertile land.’”
“You aren’t serious?”
“If it doesn’t have a steam bath, we’ll build one.”
“I meant all that land.”
“Well, we’d be our own village. Little Shalcross? Emilywood?”
Emily shook her head, her lips twitching.
“We won’t buy the first hovel we see.”
She started to laugh. He rolled over onto his stomach, her unshaven, shameless, and adorable husband. “What are you staring at?” she whispered.
“Your breasts. They look like billowy clouds from this angle.”
“Full of romantic sentiment as usual.”
“I’m sorry.” He turned onto his back and slid to the floor to recheck the keyhole. When he returned to the bed she leapt up and threw her arms around his neck, pulling his head to hers. “I need another kiss before I go to sleep,” she whispered, straining upward to press her mouth to his. “And I’m sorry that I caused you and our country so much trouble.”
The strains of a Scottish sword dance reached them from the assembly room. The floor shuddered from the repercussion of footwork. Emily’s heart was beating a tattoo. She tumbled onto the bed, laughing helplessly at Damien’s efforts to undress and kiss her at the same time.
It was the most beautiful evening she had ever spent. And all because her decadent husband had taken the time to start looking for their home.
? ? ?
By the grace of God the dance below finally came to an end. Damien hadn’t been able to sleep again after Emily had demanded his attention. This routine is getting too comfortable, he thought. He liked falling asleep with her in his arms. He enjoyed sharing ideas with her on the style of house or villa they would buy. It was a relief to plan a peaceful future.
He wanted her voice to be the last thing he heard before he dropped into a sleep populated by the horrors of his past imprisonment. His soul had grown weary of his cynicism and search for material riches. To view the world through Emily’s eyes had restored his hope. It was impossible to hold anyone as sweet and strong as his wife without feeling his usual darkness lift. She shed light on the melancholy he had learned to live with.
Ambition might have corroded his spirit. But he wished that he could become the man he presented to the world—a newly wedded groom escorting his bride to a party in a castle instead of one entangled in a game of death and betrayal.
Trouble. Deceit. Desire. In that moment he cared for nothing except the woman whose kisses transformed him into an inferno of need for her.
At least he and Emily had two nights of intimacy left before reality intruded. He planned to use that time well. Or so he had decided when only an hour later a coded message arrived by private courier from Winthrop.
An attempt had been made on the viscount’s life. Lord Deptford had gone into temporary seclusion in a countryside cottage and was ready to cooperate with the Crown. He had asked to be placed in Damien’s custody.