“Another six miles.”
She heaved a peckish breath. “But it is almost nightfall.” Leaning forward, her hand went to the neck of the mare, stroking it. “We cannot make this horse move on. She was already slowed by the muddied road and she’ll not make it very fast. Not to mention this rain has blocked any last light from the sky.”
Evan’s stare stayed fixed on her. “There isn’t another option in this village.”
She looked down at him. “Don’t be silly. One tiny room is fine. The horse needs a break and I can manage to share the room if you can.” She waved her hand toward the front door. “Go, hurry, before another beleaguered traveler takes it and we are sleeping in the stables.”
His eyebrows lifted at her sharp order, but his mouth stayed closed. Under the patter of the rain a grunt reached her ears as he turned and disappeared into the inn.
Juliet slid down the side of the horse, landing with a squish in the mud. She lifted her right foot, the ground sucking at her boot, then yanked her left boot from the muck. Stroking the side of the horse’s neck, she looked at its eye. “You did a good job getting us here. I’m sure there’s room in the stables for you.”
A stable boy ran around the side of the building, grabbing the reins of the horse at the same moment that Evan reappeared.
“We have the room—and it is tiny, but it will work.”
Evan ushered her into the building and led her directly up to the fourth level of the inn. Along the hallway, he had to duck under the exposed rafters with every other step. Servants’ quarters, but it was better than sleeping in the damp stables.
He stopped at the end of the corridor and opened the last door.
Juliet moved past him into the room. It was tiny. A skinny bed, one small chair and a table. A fireplace with a weak blaze already lit meant that someone had just vacated the room. She hoped it wasn’t a servant that was going to be forced to sleep in the stables.
“I apologize.” The thick rumble of Evan’s voice so close behind her rattled her chest. “I know ’tis not the luxury ye are accustomed to and I promised you would not do for anything on the journey.”
She looked over her shoulder at him. “You promised that?”
His shoulders lifted. “I implied it. Maybe I promised it in my own mind once I saw you.”
“When you saw me?”
His head inclined to her. “I recognized you were a lady, and therefore accustomed to the finer things in life. This is not that.” He pointed to the small patch of floorboards at her feet. “I will sleep on the floor, of course.”
She was impressed he could tell the difference between the finer things and base necessities. Different from every Scot she’d ever come across.
She turned fully to him. “This will do, truly. We’re not sleeping in the coach or the stables so I am grateful.”
The slightest twitch flashed across his grey eyes—relief?
“I will go and collect the food I ordered for us.” His torso angled to the side to duck under the rafters and he set the leather satchel that held her reticule in it onto the chair, then moved to the table, picked it up and set it near the fire. “I imagined with your sopping dress you wouldn’t want to sit in the chill in the public dining room. The fire should catch hotter in a few minutes.”
She nodded to him and moved to stand beside the table in front of the fire. “That is kind of you.” She peeled off her gloves, draping them off the front of the table toward the heat and she stretched her fingers toward the flames. She needed to warm her hands before she could tackle the buttons on her pelisse.
Dipping his head below the doorframe, he disappeared into the hallway.
She exhaled the breath she’d been holding in her lungs most of the day. They were now far enough away from the Willows and London that the uneasy pit in her stomach had started to fade. Even if Lord Vontmour did appear at the Willows, he’d be easy to send away. She wasn’t there. She wasn’t at the Den. Lord Vontmour would slink back to his dreary townhouse in Mayfair, drink himself into oblivion, and with any luck, forget all about her in the ensuing weeks.
Infatuations were tiresome.
Not that she should judge. She’d developed a slight infatuation with the Scot that had sat across from her most of the day. She’d had a hard time not sneaking in glances at him, again and again, attempting to figure him out.
Not a traditionally handsome man, he held such juxtaposition in his face. A slight scruff peppered his lower jaw, his bone structure was strong, proud—angles that could cut steel. A nose that had been broken once, maybe twice for the slight hiccups in the line of it. The whole of his face harsh—brutal. But then there were his eyes. Eyes that kept drawing her gaze back to them again and again. His irises were a unique grey, with flecks of blue swirling about like the deepest waters were peeking out of a frothy sea. She’d stared at his eyes at length several times, attempting to determine what exactly it was—the angle of his eyebrows, how his lashes curled, or the tilt—that made them convey one overriding trait.
Kindness.
She’d never seen kinder eyes than his—on man or woman.
Of course, that didn’t mean he was kind. And the rest of his face and body was all hard angles that looked like they could survive a horse trampling. Or take down the devil himself. But his eyes. Kindness.
She stared at the flames.