‘I don’t know, let me think.’
She let go of his hand and picked up the bucket of slops.
‘Wait here,’ she instructed. He drew back courteously as she passed by him, but she was acutely aware of how close she came to him. At the stream, she swilled out the bucket and refilled it, but waited longer than necessary before returning, sitting back on her heels to decide what to do. Sense told her to refuse. To allow Sir Roger in would inevitably be to invite danger, to say nothing of temptation that she might not be strong enough to resist.
Emotions would do her no good, not when every touch sent her mind spiralling down paths best avoided and her body seemed to burst into life of its own accord. She turned her mind to practical matters. He had been useful that morning when he intervened with the pedlars.
A helper might be useful to have around in the busy period before St Barnabas Fair. Even if the townspeople ignored her wares, now the weather was warmer, more travellers would be passing: people who were less particular about drinking the ale of a disgraced woman with a bastard. Even taking his injury into account, a one-armed man would be able to fetch and carry and ease her work.
There would have to be conditions of course. She listed them to herself as she walked back to the brewing shed. If he did not agree, she would have no obligation to allow him to stay and he could take his chances with whoever he thought was chasing him.
* * *
She was weakening. Roger knew enough about women to recognise the moment when downright refusal turned to hesitation and would soon become acquiescence. He would have her agreement before long. He had expected the fight to be harder, but perhaps he had caught her at a moment of weakness brought on by whatever had upset her. He wondered briefly what were the troubles she had referred to and what had caused her tears. Then his mind drifted to the thought of her long-lashed eyes made all the more piercing and attractive by the redness surrounding them and pushed his concerns to the back of his mind.
Roger took a final look around the brewing shed, tilting his neck back to try to ease his sore shoulder. Dust floated down and filled his nose and eyes. Lucy seemed to have begun cleaning the central beam and given up halfway through because one end was free of cobwebs while the other was thick with them. He went outside and took a deep breath to fill his lungs and rid himself of the pungent, mealy smell of ale and dust.
Lucy’s small son was peering over the top of the wicker fence of the chicken run. Roger leaned his arms on it and stared down at the boy. His curls, much darker than his mother’s hair, tumbled across a grubby forehead and his brown eyes were wide. He reminded Roger of someone, but he could not think who it was.
He wondered if he should say something, but children were an unfamiliar experience to him. He knew from the last letter from Yorkshire that his half-brother had fathered two by now. Meeting them would be another trial to endure when he finally arrived in York. If he ever managed to get there.
He heard Lucy’s footsteps and smiled at her. Lucy stopped as if instead he had slapped her. Her body tensed, reminding Roger of a cat ready to pounce. He had no doubt that her claws would come out if she thought her child was at risk.
‘I’m not going to hurt your boy,’ Roger muttered, stung by the unspoken accusation.
‘Robbie doesn’t know many people.’ She tore her eyes from his and glanced towards the child. ‘I don’t… We don’t have many friends here.’
Loneliness oozed from her words, causing Roger some puzzlement and opening a pit in his belly. This was her home and where she had grown up. She should have companions.
The boy didn’t look particularly scared. As Roger looked at him he blew a spit bubble and held up a wooden figure.
‘Hoss!’ He grinned.
The anger in Lucy’s eyes melted and her face took on an expression of such affection it made Roger’s heart twist to see it. Robbie looked at Roger, sticking his bottom lip out. Roger felt his lips curl into an unexpected smile. Robbie blew another bubble and sniffed. Roger wrinkled his nose in mild disgust at the stickiness on display.
‘Hoss!’
The boy was becoming agitated, his voice on the cusp of becoming a wail as he held the toy out. His face was reddening. Roger gingerly took the toy between his fingertips. It was a roughly carved horse, slightly damp from some source Roger preferred not to consider. He jiggled the toy and made a clopping noise with his tongue. To his surprise and pleasure, Robbie’s face split into a wide beam and he cackled.
‘Thank you,’ Roger said in a serious voice. ‘If only your horse was my size I could ride away and leave your mother in peace. That would satisfy us both.’
Behind him Roger heard Lucy snort, whether in amusement or annoyance he could not tell. Roger trotted the horse back to Robbie. He turned to discover Lucy had moved closer to him than he had realised. She had one hand across her mouth. Her eyes were unreadable. Roger held his breath. Lucy lifted a hand and for one moment Roger thought she was going to touch him. His stomach tensed with excitement, anticipating the softness of her fingers against his flesh, but she reached past him to stroke her son’s cheek.
She looked at Roger and her eyes briefly crinkled at the corners.
‘You can stay here. But there are conditions.’
Roger mastered his impulse to cheer aloud.
‘Name them.’
She held a hand up and raised each finger to list the conditions.
‘I’ll expect you to pay for what you eat and drink. I know you have no money at the moment, but when you do you can settle your account.’ Her angular, serious face was tilted back to look into his eyes. She licked her lips nervously, the tip of her tongue skimming around them in a manner that sent Roger’s heart thudding.
‘You sleep in the other room. I want mine back. No one goes up there so you can hide well enough if I have customers.’
Roger held a hand up to stop her mid-flow, raising his eyebrows. ‘I’ll gladly sleep in there, if that’s where you want me to sleep, but I don’t intend to hide. I’ve been caged long enough.’
Lucy lowered her fingers, clenching her fist into a ball. She pursed her lips, forming them into a perfect bud, which only increased Roger’s desire to kiss them.
‘Then how shall I explain your presence?’
Roger’s lips curved into a smile. ‘I’ve already told you. We have a story that has worked before. It will work again. I’ll play your husband.’
She did not answer, but skirted around him and bent over the fence to lift her son into her arms, nuzzling the top of the child’s head.
‘The lie worked when I saw off your unwanted customers,’ Roger said. ‘It could benefit you, too, for me to be here.’
The ginger cat slunk from the direction of the stream, something between its jaws. Robbie twisted to break free, waving his arms at the animal. Roger winked and the boy gave a toothy grin that pleased Roger more than he was expecting. Lucy put Robbie down and he lurched off in pursuit of the cat.
‘Very well.’ Her cheeks grew a shade pinker, reminding Roger of early roses. ‘If it becomes necessary you can act as my husband. But in name only.’
‘Of course,’ Roger said. ‘If that is what you demand. I am here on your goodwill. I’ll do whatever you ask of me to keep it.’
He hoped his tone would make it clear that if she demanded anything else he would gladly provide it. ‘Are there any more conditions?’
‘One. If you live in my house you help with the running of it.’
‘I’ve already agreed I’ll pay you,’ Roger exclaimed. ‘Why should I work?’
He’d envisaged time to rest and regain his strength, the freedom to think and plan what to do when Thomas returned, and where his life would take him next. Stirring and serving ale was not part of his plan.
‘Because it needs doing. I’m not sure I trust yo
u not to leave when it suits you and never return,’ Lucy said.
‘Why would I leave?’ he asked.
Lucy crossed her arms and gave him a sceptical look that reached inside him as though his deepest thoughts were laid bare on the ground between them.
‘You seem the sort who would. A man who will brag about his seductions and conquests hardly presents himself as reliable, wouldn’t you agree? I might wake one morning to find you gone and me out of pocket.’
Roger opened his mouth to protest and closed it again. It was a fair charge, but it stung nevertheless.
‘We parted badly. It was a quarrel that shouldn’t have happened. If I’m staying here I’d like to be friends. I won’t leave without telling you, but if it makes you happy I will help as you ask. Do you want me to brew the ale?’
She gave him a stern look but had a hint of mischief in her eyes. ‘Oh, no. I wouldn’t trust you with something that important. I do the brewing.’ She indicated the bucket. ‘Fill the water trough and bring me another bucketful inside.’
She slipped past him, skirts and hips swaying, and walked around the front of the inn without bothering to see if he followed. Roger watched her go, suppressing the words that sprang to his lips. He took a deep breath. He braced himself, bent and picked up the bucket in his good arm, then obediently made his way to the stream.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘I want to bathe.’
‘Now?’
‘Why not? It was the second thing I requested besides clothes, if you remember. It’s almost dusk—are you likely to get more customers at this time of day?’
Lucy gritted her teeth. He could not mean to rub her nose in how empty the inn was, but it rankled all the same.
Sir Roger lowered the bucket to his side and scratched at the thick thatch that covered his face. ‘I stink.’
He cocked his head towards his armpit and sniffed, wrinkling his nose.
‘No, you don’t,’ Lucy said indignantly. ‘I kept you perfectly clean.’
Sir Roger’s mouth twitched at one corner and he flashed her a wolfish grin, perhaps remembering how Lucy had ministered to him. A shiver raced down Lucy’s back as she remembered it, too.
‘Well, perhaps I overstate it,’ he said grudgingly.
‘You know where the stream is now,’ Lucy said. ‘You needn’t ask my permission.’
Sir Roger raked his hands through his tangled curls and rubbed his cheeks. ‘I want to remove this beard. For that I’ll need hot water.’
Still annoyed from his mention of the empty inn, Lucy folded her arms, disinclined to help. ‘In that case you’ll need wood to heat it.’ She gestured to the door again. ‘The axe is inside the shed. I’d thank you not to take all my supply. I don’t have a large tub, but it should serve your needs. You can use it by the fire.’
She watched him carefully as he digested her words. Someone with his rank and privileges likely never drew his own bath. Servants would wait on him, carrying out his wishes. She counted a dozen heartbeats before he nodded curtly and spun on his heel. He had forgotten the bucket. Lucy emptied it into the iron pot that stood over the hearth, then waited a dozen more heartbeats before taking it outside.
What she saw outside made her belly curl in shame. Sir Roger had his back to the building, looming over the small stack of logs, and had begun to chop. Lucy watched as he grasped the axe in his right arm and raised it level with his shoulder. He grunted and swung. The axe stuck in the log, barely making a mark. After a few attempts the grunts became louder, but the axe swings no more effective. Lucy expected him to cease trying, but Sir Roger proved to have more stamina than she gave him credit for and continued to make his attempts. After a half-dozen more blows he muttered beneath his breath and dropped the axe to the ground. He arched his back, resting his hands on his hips, and stretched. As he did, Lucy saw a small red stain on his shoulder.
‘You’re bleeding!’
Sir Roger gave a start at her voice. He looked at Lucy over his shoulder before craning his head to inspect the tunic. He spread his hand wide, covering the area at the front, which was mercifully free of a similar marking.
‘At the back,’ Lucy said. She stepped closer to stand behind him and reached a hand out to indicate the spot. Sir Roger’s eyes followed her hand. When she touched his shoulder, spreading her fingers wide around the stain, the corner of his lip twitched. She found herself curious to discover what he looked like without the beard.
Sir Roger reached over his shoulder to touch the wound, then inspected his fingers.
‘It’s only a little. I count myself fortunate there was not more at the time. You never needed your poker after all.’
His eyes grew weary, serving to remind Lucy that it was only the day before that they had removed the arrow and not long before that when he had been insensible. Sir Roger picked up the axe and raised it once more, but before he could take a swing he paused and lowered it. He shook his head.
‘I fear it will be a cold bath for me after all as I have no strength in my arm to continue.’
‘Why didn’t you use your left hand?’ Lucy asked.
Sir Roger looked down at the axe. ‘Why? It won’t make my right arm any stronger. I’ll try again shortly.’
‘And how will making yourself bleed help you to heal? Unless you’re well you won’t get your strength back.’ Lucy covered his hand with hers and tugged the axe free.
Sir Roger’s shoulders dropped and he looked defeated. Lucy felt the unexpected urge to take him in her arms and comfort him.
‘It isn’t the wood that matters.’ Sir Roger sighed. ‘I am not used to being inactive, or failing in what I want to accomplish. I dislike it.’
He gave Lucy a wry smile. ‘I was a soldier. I’ve bathed in cold water before. I used to do it all the time in the beck as a child in Yorkshire. I’ll take your earlier suggestion and make use of the stream.’
He spoke without any self-pity or complaint, but began walking towards the bank. If he had shown any resentment she would have left him to make do with that, but understanding what had compelled him to push himself, Lucy ran after him.
‘Wait. You don’t have to do that. I was unfair to make you chop the wood. I’ll do it for you.’
‘I told you, the wood doesn’t matter.’ He looked her up and down. ‘I don’t need you to exert yourself out of pity.’
‘It isn’t out of pity!’ Lucy soothed. She winced inwardly, hearing the lie. ‘You’re my guest and I’ve treated you poorly as such. If you collect the water, I’ll bring the logs.’
He wrinkled his brow. ‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘I know,’ Lucy answered. ‘But I will.’
* * *
She had split the largest log when an unfamiliar voice cried out, summoning the innkeeper. A lone traveller was standing by the door. He settled himself on to the bench in front of the house while Lucy brought him ale, her spirits rising at the thought of a customer. She handed the guest his drink with a smile and dip of her skirts, old habits of enticing customers springing easily to her. She was sitting close beside the man, listening attentively to his description of what he would be selling at the St Barnabas Fair, when Sir Roger appeared round the corner, carrying his bucket. He stopped on seeing the man and glared at him suspiciously.
‘Who is this?’ he asked.
‘A customer,’ Lucy answered. She gave the man a warm smile. ‘One dearly needed, too, husband, so don’t drive him away with your surliness.’
Sir Roger glowered. The man on the bench paid them no mind. Lucy could not imagine why Sir Roger was so hostile when he knew guests were the purpose of the inn.
‘Take the water inside, then go fetch Robbie,’ she instructed Sir Roger. ‘Our son will be hungry.’
The look of astonishment on Sir Roger’s face was e
xtraordinary to behold, but he did as she asked, leading Robbie by the hand into the inn.
‘Pay no mind to my husband, sir,’ Lucy simpered to the traveller. ‘He’s been in a tiresome mood ever since the water scalded him last week when he was brewing.’
‘Perhaps he had better stick to men’s work and let you get on with yours,’ the man answered.
Lucy feigned a merry laugh, drawing closer and tilting her head flirtatiously.
‘That he should. Now, why don’t you try another cup and see how well I make it?’
‘Not tonight. I have to be on my way,’ the man answered. He paid and left.
As Lucy tidied his cup away Sir Roger emerged from inside.
‘Who was that?’
‘A customer. Why did you behave in such a way?’
Sir Roger looked after the departing man. ‘You don’t know who he is and you sat so intimately with him.’
‘And why should that concern you?’ Lucy asked in surprise.
‘It could have been the man who was asking after me.’
Lucy straightened her neckline.
‘It wasn’t. I saw them, remember. But you didn’t know that when you saw him, so if you don’t want to invite suspicion don’t make such a show of yourself.’
Sir Roger frowned mutinously then gave a gesture of resignation. He sat where the man had been.
‘That’s a fair point, I suppose,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘But all the same, you were very sharp to me. If I’m acting as your husband we should appear loving. A kiss or cuddle to keep the fiction.’
A tremor ran through Lucy, tipping her stomach upside down and causing her to shiver at the thought of Sir Roger’s hands slipping to her waist, pulling her close into his arms. The idea appealed more than it should. ‘You clearly don’t know many husbands and wives!’
‘I know some wives,’ Sir Roger retorted. ‘It can’t be that hard to feign affection for me, can it?’ He pushed his hair back and gave her a serious look. ‘If you even have to pretend, that is.’
Winning the Mail-order Bride & Pursued for the Viscount's Vengeance & Redeeming the Rogue Knight (9781488021725) Page 58
