Heartless by Anne Stuart
“Thank you, Mr. Bosomworth,” she said, striving to sound brisk. “I’m very tired—would it be possible for you to show me my room? I think I’ll simply retire for the night.” The moment the words were out of her mouth she knew she’d done it wrong—guests make demands, not pleas.
The innkeeper didn’t react. “Certainly, miss. But my wife’s a fine cook—she can make up anything you want, and she’s got a roast chicken just out of the oven. Can I tempt you. . . ?”
She heard Brandon fiddling with the door behind her, and she quickly stepped away. “I’m not hungry,” she said with a twinge of regret. She could smell the chicken now, and it made her mouth water. “Just my room, if you please.”
“Certainly, miss,” he said leading her across the room toward the staircase. “I’ll be right back, Mr. Rohan,” he called over his shoulder.
“I’m in no hurry,” Brandon said, and the sound of his voice was so dearly familiar, so deep and enticing, that she wanted to cry. But there was nothing to say or do, and she followed Mr. Bosomworth’s sturdy backside up the stairs, escaping.
He’d brought a branch of candles with him, lighting the way, and he led her up another flight to the third floor. “Mr. Rohan said I was to put you as far away from him as possible,” he said apologetically as he fought to catch his breath on the top landing. “For respectability’s sake, of course. I had the girl get the fire going, and it should be comfortable enough.” He pushed open the first door, and blessed heat wafted out, enveloping her in its embrace.
She walked in ahead of him, looking around, and her throat tightened. It was a small room, beneath sloping eaves, and the narrow metal bed, the threadbare rug on the scrubbed floors, the bright fire blazing in the small fireplace were so familiar. Her own room had been like this one—clean, comfortable despite its Spartan furnishings, before she’d traded it for the deceptively fancy surroundings of a London cathouse. There was even a cozy-looking chair by the fire. “This is perfect,” she said, meaning it. She moved to the fire, holding her chilled, gloveless hands out to the flames. “How far are we from London?”
“London? Why, miss, in the best of weather it’s no more than four hours, but as you can tell the weather is far from good.”
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.
The Hawk and Cock was a well-run hostelry—no sooner had the water begun to cool than the maid reappeared with a tray of food, just as Emma had pulled her wrapper around her. “Oooh, you have lovely hair,” the girl breathed. “Would your ladyship allow me to brush it?”
She was young and country-bred—she probably thought all women were ladies. “Just miss,” Emma said, hesitating. “Of course.”
One more favor she was going to accept, but at least this time Brandon had nothing to do with it. Mollie Biscuits use to brush her hair when she’d first joined Old Mother Howard’s establishment, and the simple comfort of it did wonders to stop her endless tears that first year. Mollie had continued the task when they were all living in the Dovecote, and it reminded her of peace and affection, two things that were sorely lacking in her life right now.
The food was wonderful, and she ate every scrap on her plate, sipping at the tang of fresh apples in the cider that accompanied it. While she ate they removed the tub, and when she was done Sally, who it turned out was even younger than Emma had thought and was Bosomworth’s oldest daughter, insisted on taking her muddy dress and shoes along with the dinner tray, determined to clean them for her before she left the next morning.
Emma could no longer resist. She was warm, well fed, and drowsy, and she hadn’t even thought of the bastard below more than once or twice. She would sleep well tonight, and tomorrow she would be done with him.
Chapter 19
Hours later Emma lay staring up at the slanted ceiling of the unfamiliar bedroom, stubbornly awake. She should have expected it—sleep was always elusive in the best of times, and not only had she slept most of the day away in that blasted carriage but her spirits were completely disordered. Whenever she began to relax, the memory of the man below would return, and it would require all her effort to dismiss him again, reminding herself that he meant absolutely nothing to her.
There was no way she could tell the time, but she’d always relied on a kind of inner clock, and she knew it had to be midway between midnight and dawn. She’d heard Brandon retire to his bedroom several hours ago—his footsteps heavy and uneven on the stairs and the old wooden floor of the place.
Uneven. Of course they were. When one looked at Brandon’s strong, lean body one assumed he was whole. No, that was wrong, she reminded herself. Most people had only to see the ruined half of his face to know he’d suffered grievously. Odd, but she never saw it. It was simply part of who Brandon was. She’d never pitied him. Even when he hovered close to death, she’d known he was a fighter, and she’d goaded him into doing just that.
She didn’t want to think about it.
He hadn’t favored his leg at all while he’d been at Starlings, and she knew he had to have been hurting. For some reason the thought of him still enduring that kind of pain, never letting on, caused her heart to clench, and she wanted to go to him, soothe him, talk to him and distract him from the pain as she had so long ago in the hospital during the empty hours of night.
She wasn’t going anywhere but to sleep, she thought with steely determination, and she’d lain in bed, summoning oblivion.
Oblivion never listened, and eventually she was forced to give up. She had no slippers, and Sally had taken her stockings. It would have to be barefoot, something she was used to, and she climbed down from the high bed, determined not to put it off any longer. There was bound to be milk in the kitchen of the old inn, fresh from the evening milking, and the stove would doubtless retain enough heat that she could warm herself a mug of the stuff. She might even find a bit of cinnamon to spice it, though dabbling in a cook’s precious spices might be too presumptuous. She had no idea whether the hot milk would be efficacious or not, she only knew that once she made the effort she could finally sleep instead of tossing and turning and dwelling too much on the past.
The house was silent, and she knew her footsteps didn’t carry as she crept down the narrow attic stairs, past Brandon’s closed door and on to the main stairs. There were only two rooms on that floor, and one of them remained open. Noonan must have chosen to sleep in the stables with the coachman after all, and the Bosomworths would be sleeping in another wing of the building. It was far from troubling—she could be alone with Brandon on a desert island and have no fear for her. . . her inviolability. She paused on the stairs, looking back, and then stuck her tongue out at his door. The childish gesture entertained her until she reached the bottom of the stairs to come face to face with her nemesis lounging by the banked fire, watching her.
“Why were you sticking your tongue out?” he said lazily. “Did poor Noonan offend you in some way?”
She froze where she stood. At least she’d grabbed her shawl before she’d left her room, and now she wrapped its enveloping folds tighter around her body, awash in conflict. She wanted nothing more than to run back upstairs, which was out of the question. Her hair, always the bane of her existence, had dried into a mass of uncontrollable curls, her feet were cold, and she wore nothing but the very thin shift beneath the shawl, leaving her self-conscious and vulnerable. She could turn and stalk away in dignified silence, expressing her displeasure, but already her heart was pounding, twisting inside her. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. He was nothing to her, she reminded herself. She was hardly going to change her plans because of him.
So she was silent, heading toward the kitchen door, averting her gaze and pulling her skirts away from him, though they were scarcely close. A detached, clinical part of her catalogued his appearance—she could appreciate beauty wherever she found it, she hoped. Brandon Rohan was most definitely beautiful. He was lounging back in the chair, his long legs propped on a chair in front of him, no stockings or shoes, just long, narrow feet. One wouldn’t have thought feet could be beautiful, but his certainly were. The loose, open-necked shirt revealed far too much of his tanned, muscular chest, an arresting sight when she was accustomed to seeing him so thin and pale, and his breeches seemed too tight for comfort, but she wasn’t going to think about that. His hair was long and loose, and the unblemished side of his face was presented to the fire, not to the world at large. If she tried very hard perhaps she could think of him as some monster, some gargoyle. . .
Even in her dreams that felt horribly petty and disloyal, if not to him then to the countless other visibly wounded patients she’d dealt with. His scars had nothing to do with his perfidious soul—in fact she was perverse enough to imbue them with their own kind of beauty. No, she would simply have to accept the cruel vagaries of fate. Not only was there only one man on the face of this earth who had the power to move her past her an
“You’re not speaking to me,” he observed before she made it through the door. “I can’t say that I don’t blame you. What I said was inexcusable, no matter what the circumstances.”
She stopped where she was, then pivoted to face him. “If that constitutes an apology, you should endeavor to refrain from throwing in a new insult. Your new wife will not appreciate it.” She said it to goad him—most men would be appalled that she dared to even mention his wife.
That didn’t seem to bother Brandon, to her regret. He was watching her warily. “What are you doing up?”
“If you remember, Lord Brandon,” she said spitefully, “I have trouble sleeping.”
“I do. We first met when you were wandering my brother’s house in the middle of the night.”
“That’s not when we first met,” she said, and he looked suddenly arrested.
“It isn’t?” he said, his eyes sharp and searching.
“Of course not. We met at the church. You drove me back to Starlings.”
For some reason he looked disappointed. “So I did. I’d forgotten. How very odd of me—I usually have a stellar memory.”
She wanted to hoot with laughter at the thought. He’d managed to forget her quite handily. “Do you? I rejoice to hear it.” She started for the kitchen once more.
“What about your memory, Mrs. Cadbury? Do you find yourself forgetting important things?”
She narrowed her eyes. “My memory is equally stellar. In fact, I might be bold enough to suggest that my own recollections far exceed yours.”