“But I wasn’t alone. I had Millie,” she said.
“A maid is insufficient. A woman needs a man to protect her. I was negligent.” His arm tightened, almost crushing her ribs. “I will not make that mistake again.”
Julian opened the door to a cramped chamber containing a tiny fireplace, a table with a chipped wash basin, a straight-backed wooden chair, and a single bed. “It’s not much,” he apologized, “but it’s all they have. This is a rougher place than I had first thought, but it’s too late now to drive to another inn.”
“It’s fine,” Henrietta said. “I’m just glad to be out of the public room.” She suddenly felt dirty, as if the brute’s touch alone had soiled her. “Julian, if it’s not too much trouble, could you inquire about the availability of a bath?”
“Of course,” he replied. “I’ll arrange for it along with a meal. Since you desire a bath, you and Millie can take your supper here in private. I’ll take mine below stairs.”
“Will you join us after?” she asked.
“No. You and Millie will take the room. I’ll bed down in the coach.”
“But I won’t sleep knowing you are out in the cold. We can share the room,” she said.
“My dear Hen,” he replied with a dry laugh, “a coach is a luxurious accommodation compared to sleeping on the bare ground in the Pyrenees. I go now to sup. You will remain in this room with the door locked.” His gaze held hers for a moment. “That is not a request. Henrietta.”
“Yes, Julian,” she agreed with a nod.
Reverting back to formality, Julian made a slight bow and turned to depart.
“Julian?” Henrietta halted him at the door. “What if that vile man comes back? I would much prefer it if you would sleep here. You needn’t fret about propriety,” she continued. “Millie is here as a chaperone.”
Julian hesitated. “Do you truly feel unsafe?”
“I feel uneasy,” she said, which wasn’t a lie. “I would much prefer it if you were close by.”
“All right, Henrietta,” he sighed. “I’ll see about getting a pallet.”
***
Julian shut the door softly behind him, waiting for the tumblers to turn before he stepped away. He then headed briskly down the stairs and back into the tavern for something to suppress his almost uncontrollable surge of bloodlust. Just moments ago, he’d very nearly killed a man, not that it would have been the first. In his years on the Peninsula, he’d killed dozens if not a hundred men. Thomas had once told him that the faces of myriad dead men haunted his dreams. Julian had never dared to confess that he, on the contrary, slept very soundly.
The taproom went silent when he entered. Gazes flicked and darted his way before the occupants resumed the low buzz of conversation, occasionally broken by a cough or a cackle.
“Whiskey,” Julian called to the barkeep. “Give me the bottle.”
The man behind the bar set a bottle of Irish whiskey in front of Julian and then leaned in with a whispered word of caution as he filled the glass. “The bloke ye dispatched. He be a bad ’un. I’d watch me back if I was you.”
“Your concern is duly noted.” Not that Julian was unduly concerned. In six years on the Peninsula, he’d acquired many deadly skills—knife fighting was only one of them. Had the innkeeper not pulled a pistol on the blackguard first, Julian would have had no compunction in slitting the pig’s throat with his own blade.
Julian raised his glass to the barkeep and then downed the first of many burning gulps that he hoped would dull the relentless drumbeat pounding in his ears. It wasn’t long before the languid lethargy that he sought settled into his limbs and calmed his mind.