Bethany had indeed minimized the depths of her discomfort. She rested her head against the squabs, eyes closed. Her head pounded and her empty stomach clenched mercilessly. Past experience informed her that she needed a nap and a light meal, and the wait for them stretched endlessly.
The bustle of the inn yard did little to relieve her throbbing head. Other travelers wishing to find an evening’s shelter arrived. Hoofbeats, creaking wheels, and shouts for the ostler combined with barking dogs and the shrills of the barmaid to assault her ears in a painful cacophony. Finally rescue appeared in the creak of the coach door and his lordship’s voice.
“I’ve bespoken a room for the evening and a private parlour for our meal.” Bethany raised an eyelid to discover her betrothed holding out a hand to assist her. She accepted his help gratefully, swaying slightly as her feet touched the ground. Instantly his arm slipped round her waist. “Are you able to walk?” His lordship made as if to pick her up but she forestalled him.
“I am somewhat light-headed, sir, but quite capable of remaining on my own feet.” She refused to disgrace herself by being carried into a public house. Another wave of dizziness assailed her and she hastened to add, “If you would permit me to lean on your arm.”
“Of course.” Bethany ignored the laughter behind his polite words. He kept his arm firmly under hers as they crossed the yard and entered the half-timbered building. Once inside, he introduced her to a woman about her mother’s age. “This is Mistress Gatwell, the innkeeper’s wife. I’ve asked her to show you to your chamber while I see to ordering our supper. Mistress Gatwell, my sister.”
Concluding that her abductor betrothed had not exposed her real name or their relationship, she bestowed a grateful smile on him. “Thank you—Richard.”
As she followed the landlady up a set of dark wooden stairs to the gallery, she became aware that this was not an establishment of the highest quality. The whitewash on the walls covered wattle and daub instead of solid wood, and the customers arriving in the yard below consisted largely of farmers and carters. However, the landlady escorted her to a clean, if small, bedchamber. There, she curtsied and told Bethany that the gentleman said she was feeling poorly, and would she like some lavender water and a cloth for her head?
The girl accepted the offer with profuse thanks, and Mistress Gatwell whisked out of the room, shutting the door behind her. The furnishings consisted of a wide bed and a washstand. A square mirror hung above the stand. One window overlooked the road below. Bethany noted the spotless diamond panes favorably, and a closer inspection of the bed disclosed that the sheets smelled of soap rather than mildew.
After a serving girl delivered the promised water and cloth, she removed her white cap and the hairpins holding her braid in a heavy coil at the back of her head. As she undid her hair, she sighed in relief. Dipping the cloth into the pitcher and wringing it out, she then sank blissfully onto the bed’s woolen coverlet and placed the cool length of linen over her forehead.
She awoke with a start at the sound of knocking. Disoriented, she clambered to the floor and stood looking about the room in confusion. Judging from the early evening light shining in through the window, she had not slept long.
“Mistress? ’Tis nearly time for supper, if you’re of a mind to eat.” After a moment’s thought, she recognized the voice as belonging to the landlady. “Shall I tell your brother to expect you?”
Her brother! The day’s events rushed back to Bethany, along with the realization that the last thing she had eaten was part of a Shrewsbury cake in her mother’s library that afternoon. Homesickness battled with her rumbling stomach. By now, her mother had probably visited every home in the neighborhood searching for her. Practicality won out over conscience. “Please tell”—she stumbled over the words—“my brother that I shall join him,” she called through the door. “And would you be so kind as to bring paper, ink, and a quill to my room?” She could at least write to assure her mother of her well-being.
Relieved that Mistress Gatwell had not entered to see her mussed hair, Bethany went over to the mirror. As she suspected, she would have to rebraid it before replacing her cap. Freeing the mass, she finger-combed it until it lay smooth enough to manage.
Concentrating on taming the fine strands, she did not hear the well-oiled door open.
“Jesu.” She whirled around at the soft expletive. Richard Harcourt’s cloaked form stood in the doorway, staring at her. Horrified, she grabbed the cap to cover her head.
He put out his hand to stop her. “No.” He shut the door and stalked toward her. She instinctively backed up until the wall stopped her retreat. He stared at her with smoky eyes, then reached out to wind a strand around his fingers.
“I had no idea you were a redhead,” he murmured, watching sunlight from the window gleam across the fiery tendril.
She closed her eyes in humiliation. Her wretched hair had been the bane of her existence as long as she could remember. “Please let me put my cap on.”
“Why? ’Tis too beautiful to be bound up and hidden.” His hand slid into the silky mass, further entangling his fingers.
She jerked her head away. “I’m sure you find it most pleasing, but rest assured, sir, that despite my hair I am no wanton.” To her concern, a wicked smile spread across milord’s face.
“Oh? Let’s find out. I already know you’ve the temper that matches Judas hair.” Mesmerized by his gravelly murmur, she froze, heart pounding, as he placed his forearms against the wall on either side of her head. Trapped, she could only watch his face descending to hers.
When their mouths met, she gasped at the unexpected jolt of pleasure that lanced through her. Taking advantage, he swept his tongue between her lips. She shivered at the sensation of warmth in the pit of her stomach.
Her upbringing reasserted itself. Pushing him away, she managed to slip beneath his arms and away from him. He made as if to follow her, but she held up her shaking hands to fend him off.
“Please, no! I have no idea what possessed me, just—leave me at once.” Irritated at her betrothed’s ability to disconcert her, she wanted nothing more than to be rid of his presence.
He smiled sweetly, clearly amused by her discomfort. “But I’ve come to escort you to supper.” With a slight bow, he gestured to the doorway.
She fixed him with an icy stare, but the effect was ruined when her stomach rumbled loudly. Ignoring his quivering lips, she announced, “Then I shall sup in here, thank you.”
He straightened and crossed his arms. “That you won’t, Mistress Dallison. I can afford one meal this evening and ’tis laid out in the parlour below. You either join me or go hungry.”
Bethany capitulated to her betrothed and her growling stomach. “Oh, very well! I shall join you, but not until I’ve made myself presentable.” She opened the door. “If you would be so kind?”
“Of course, dear sister.” With a mocking laugh, he left Bethany alone to reorder herself. As she knotted the cap’s muslin ties firmly under her chin, a startling reflection entered her mind. Lord Harcourt—Richard—had called her hair beautiful.
On the balcony surrounding the inn yard, Richard’s thoughts ran along similar lines as he pulled his cloak closer against the winter afternoon. He had thought Bethany a pretty girl, but opening the door to see that cascade of golden red glowing in the sunset light had stolen his breath.
His first impulse had been to bury his face in it, to discover its scent and softness.