I had never procured the services of an inn, or ordered food in a public place before. I fingered the coins in my pocket and waited for inspiration on how to proceed. I didn’t have to wait long.
The serving woman noticed me standing in the doorway and waved in my direction. “Well, young miss. What can I get for you? Or are you content to stand there gaping at us from the doorway. The benches are hard, but they’re more comfortable than standing while you eat, and I dare say you look famished.”
“Yes ma’am, I am,” I said, stepping further into the room.
The woman approached and stopped before me, close enough to reveal eyes as blue as the aquamarine ring Father had given me for my sixteenth birthday. A ring I’d probably never see again as it was still sitting in a jewelry box in my room at Fallstaff… or, more likely, laying in a pile of ash and rubble.
“We’ve got a bit of venison stew that should stick to your bones,” she said, “and you look skinny enough to need it. There’s a batch of pocket pies just out of the oven, too, if you prefer. Mutton today. It’s all the butcher had left by the time I got to market.”
I settled onto a seat at one of the closest tables. It felt unbelievably good to sit on something still and quiet. “The stew sounds good, and do you have any cider?”
“I do, I do. You rest yourself right there, and I’ll bring you a plate.” She patted my arm in a motherly way and walked away.
Heavy tables--well scarred but polished to a glossy patina—furnished the dining room. The baldheaded man had moved into the corner where he swept his broom over the slate floor and stooped to collect debris in his dustpan. After a brief glance in my direction, the other two diners ignored me, huddling over their plates and eating in a way that suggested either the food was extremely good, or they were tremendously hungry…or both.
The serving woman returned, bearing a steaming bowl and a plate laden with thick slices of brown bread. My stomach growled again, and she chuckled. “Just as I thought. Eat every bite and you’ll find yourself in better cheer.” After setting a mug of cider in front of my bowl, she lowered her voice. “You’re not traveling alone, I hope.”
“No, ma’am. My... brother will be here soon.”
“Ah, good then. Will you be needing a room, too, or only the meal?”
“Yes, rooms and stabling.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, clucking her tongue. “We don’t have a place for horses here, but I can point you in the right direction. There’s a hostler at the edge of town who’s got a livery yard. Tell him I sent you and he’ll give you a fair rate.”
“Thank you,” I muttered through a mouthful of bread, too hungry to care about etiquette.
“I’ll pop upstairs and get your room ready. When you’re done eating, tell my husband John over there,”—she pointed at the man in the corner who stopped sweeping long enough to nod at me— “and he’ll help you bring up your things.”
“Oh, um, could we have two rooms?” I asked. “A separate one, for my brother?”
Her cheery countenance dimmed. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid we’ve only the one room left. It’s got a nice couch, though. I’m sure your brother will be comfortable on it. I’ll make sure you have plenty of blankets. If you need anything else, call for me. I am the Missus Hale, but you shall call me Moira.”
I glanced at my diminishing bowl of stew. “Alright, Moira, thank you.”
After scraping my plate clean and dabbing up every last crumb with a damp fingertip, I went in search of John, who had disappeared from the dining room. Nothing appealed to me more than curling up in a ball and going to sleep, but Nonnie needed my attention first. John was sweeping the front porch when I found him, and he gave me directions to the boarding stables but took Nonnie’s saddlebags from me first. Once I saw to her needs, I trudged back to the inn. A full belly and lack of sleep turned my bones to lead. Have I ever felt this tired before in all my life? No. Definitely not.
Moira gave me a plain, but clean room and left a bundle of linens for the sofa. I bounced on the edge of the bed, testing its comfort, and peered out the window at the sinking sun. Without hunger or other errands to distract me, the worry for Gideon’s protracted absence pressed on me. I found myself pacing the room, rather than falling into the bed.
A full ewer, a basin, and a small cake of soap in a dish rested on a short washstand by the bed. The soap smelled harsh and astringent, but it cleaned my face and hands and left a mild tingle on my skin. A mirror hanging on the wall over the basin reflected the frightfulness of my hair, straggling from a braid strewn with dirt and twigs. My thoughts had been too consumed with escape and survival to worry about grooming.
I untied Gerda’s ribbon and shook my head to loosen the plait. In my rush to leave Fallstaff, I had neglected to pack a comb or brush, I smooth the dark strands as best I could and remove bits and pieces of trash. Without Gerda’s expertise, any attempt to fix my hair would have been pitiful, anyway.
My thoughts lingered on my beloved nursemaid. I missed her and wondered if she, Stephen, and their children had managed to escape. Her husband had family in Mann, the next village closest to Glennich. Had they gone there to seek refuge? Wherever they went, I hoped they had made their way to safety.
After all my fussing, Gideon still hadn’t arrived and my gut cramped from prolonged fretting, probably also because of how fast I had eaten dinner. Something had gone wrong—I was certain of it. Should I wait out the night and start for Braddock in the morning on my own, or go back and search for Gideon now?
The answer was obvious. With swift feet, and a belly full of hot supper to restore me, I hurried to Nonnie’s stable. The hostler and his young assistants had disappeared or gone home, so I found my tack and saddled her myself. She refused to hold still while I tightened her girth, and I poked her gums until she accepted the bit.
“I know, my girl. You deserve your rest, and I promise you’ll get it. But please. Gideon needs your help. He saved us, and I figure we owe it to him.”
Whether Nonnie agreed with me or not, she trotted out of the stable without further complaint, and when I put my heels to her side, she streaked like the wind.
The sun completed the last of its vertical plunge as I rode out of Thropshire. The light of an almost full moon revealed a gray stripe of path woven through the black fabric of the hillside, helping me navigate. We ran so fast, Nonnie nearly crashed into Gespenst before I saw him. The horse’s black coat blended into the night, and only his eyes reflecting the moonlight gave him away.
“Gideon?” I fumbled for his shoulder.
His slumped form recoiled, and he grunted. His head rose from where it had sunk between his shoulders. “Evie?” His voice was thin and hoarse.
“Gideon, what happened?”
“You were supposed to stay in Thropshire.”
“Humph, you must not be hurt too badly if you have energy to chide me.”
His head slumped again, and his weight shifted to one side, threatening to send him to the ground. I grabbed his shoulder and braced against him, using all my strength to keep him in his seat. Nonnie sidestepped as balance shifted. We supported Gideon until he recovered his balance and sat straighter in his saddle.
“How badly are you hurt?” I asked.
“I hit my head.”
“Is that all?” It seemed as though he was fighting to hold on to Gespenst, and to consciousness in general, but was too stubborn to admit it. I searched for his hands and found his fingers, rough and cool, curled over his saddle horn. He’s in no state for interrogations, I told myself and packed the rest of my questions away for later. Then I eased the reins from his fingers, and he did not resist. It’s not like him to accept help from anyone—especially not from me.
We returned to Thropshire in silence. The town’s residents had settled for the night, and streetlights burned along the main avenue. Dim lights burned in only a few windows. When we reached the inn, I tied our horses to the post and sidled up to Gideon as he struggle
d to dismount. He managed to shift his weight and slide from the saddle, but his knees buckled when his feet hit the ground.
I grabbed him and struggled to keep him from slumping completely into the dirt. “Gideon,” I hissed in his ear. “Gideon, wake-up.”
Faced with the prospect of lugging his huge frame into The Silver Goose and up a flight of stairs to our room, I swore in an exceedingly un-princess-like manner. “Damn it.... This is impossible.”
My own knees threatened to buckle under the burden of his immense weight, and realized I was crying when a hot tear rolled down my cheek. After wiping my face, I shook his shoulder. “Wake up, Gideon. I can’t do this without your help.”
He remained still and silent. If not for his labored breathing, I might have mistaken him for dead.
“What’s all this trouble, then, miss? That is you, isn’t it?” Moira’s take-charge voice rang out like the song of a saving angel.
“Oh, Moira. He’s passed out, and he won’t wake up.”
“Has he been in his drink, then?”
“In his drink? No. He’s hurt. He says he’s hit his head, but I think it might be worse than that.”
“I’ll say. Let me get John and a light, and we’ll see what we can do about fixing him up.”
“Yes, ma’am, thank you.” Tears threatened to seep out again, but from relief this time. “So much for being inconspicuous,” I muttered to Gideon, but he didn’t respond.
Moira returned with John, who had managed to throw on a pair of pants under his nightgown. In other circumstances his attire might have made me laugh, but I was too grateful for his help to think of making fun. Moira had brought a lantern, and its light revealed Gideon’s condition was far worse than a mere bump to his head. A great bloody gash marred his forehead, and his left eye had swollen shut. I hoped those were the worst of his injuries, but I suspected otherwise.
Moira held the lantern closer to Gideon’s face. “Poor lad. He’s been given a terrible thump.”
John said nothing but grunted and hauled Gideon up by the shoulders in a surefooted way. Moira supported Gideon under his knees and together the two hoisted him off the ground and carried him into the little dining room. They deposited him on a long table at the edge of the room.
“Let’s get a better look at him, shall we?” Moira turned up the gas lights. So much dried blood caked Gideon’s hair and clothing that I wondered how he could still be alive. She unbuttoned his shirt and revealed a small hole on his side, still oozing blood. A slow forming bruise ringed the wound.
“Oooh, goodness,” she hissed. “That looks like a bullet hole. I do hope it missed his rib and went clean through.” She pressed her fingers to the wound, and Gideon jerked awake, squalling in a hoarse and broken voice.
He reached for me. “Evie.”
“Quiet,” Moira told him. “You might as well pass out again. Nothing that comes next will be too pleasant for you.”
Her words worked like an enchantment. Gideon nodded and closed his eyes. A moment later, he was out again, his breathing shallow, but steady.
Moira looked up at me with questioning eyes. “Looks like your brother must have been waylaid by some nasty characters. Bandits maybe. Happens from time to time. Good thing you missed the trouble, isn’t it?”
Something in her tone sounded funny. She eyed me sideways before glancing at my “brother.” Did she suspect more?
“Quite good,” I said.
“We’ll clean him up, stitch and bandage his wounds, make a poultice against infection, and then get him into bed. In the morning, we’ll feed him something and see how he feels. I don’t reckon he’ll die in his sleep.” Her comforting words left me feeling uncertain, but I agreed with her plan. While she bustled about, gathering supplies, John mumbled something about putting on a kettle and disappeared through a doorway at the side of the dining room.
The battered and unconscious young man on the table before me looked so far removed from the formidable figure I knew as Gideon, I half wondered if I had retrieved the wrong person. Was this how the storybook girl felt as she stood over the giant who had died from his fall off the magical cornstalk? The past few days had felt much like a fairytale to me, though mostly a nightmarish one.
I had little—no, strike that—I had no experience with battle wounds and copious amounts of blood. The iron stench from Gideon’s wounds soured my stomach, and the harsh bruises and rusty stains on his face inspired my sympathy pains—tiny spasms shivered up and down my spine.
Moira settled beside me, carrying a tray bearing a needle threaded with catgut, strips of torn linen, and a basin of warm soapy water. John arrived with a tea tray and handed me a mug. Moira passed me a washcloth. I stared at the innkeepers stupidly.
“Well, dearest, your room fee only covers so much. Cleaning the wounds of unconscious men will cost you extra, especially if you don’t help.” She winked. Her reassurance eased my worry, and her steady and commanding presence comforted me.
“Of course, we intend to pay.” I dug coins from my pocket and passed them to her. How much should the room, food, and doctoring cost? Had I given her enough to cover our expenses?
She seemed satisfied and pocketed the coins. Then she picked up the needle and thread.
“You wash the blood from his hair, miss, and I’ll stitch that wound in his side.”
She clicked her tongue in a pitying tsk and set upon her task. As her needle pierced Gideon’s skin, I turned aside and fought the urge to gag. After a few deep breaths, my nausea subsided, and I focused on Gideon again. Uncertainty paralyzed me. I had never washed another person’s hair before and certainly not the hair of an injured man.
She looked at me with one raised eyebrow. “Is something the matter?”
“I guess I’m not quite sure how to start.”
“Just do your best. He’s not likely to know otherwise, is he?”
I nodded and gathered the soap and bowl of water and set to work. Later, I helped Moira apply a homemade poultice to his worst wounds and assisted her in bandaging his ribs. The chore required the full removal of his shirt, and John aided by lifting Gideon’s heavy shoulders.
Because of the urgency of the work at hand, I had only focused on the details of Gideon’s injuries and not on his body as a whole. Once he lay stretched out and shirtless before me, I noted the long sinew of his arm muscles and the flat planes of his stomach. Tendons from his wrists and forearms twined over bone and through the muscles, implying power and strength, even in stillness. His broad shoulders and thick chest proved that he worked hard for his living.
“Your, ah, brother, is a right fine specimen, isn’t he?” Moira caught me staring, and I blushed. She chuckled and nodded in a knowing way. “Not so fine as my John there, but every woman can’t be so lucky as me.”
John rolled his eyes but grinned at his wife’s teasing. He stood and patted his pronounced paunch. “It takes the care of a good woman such as yourself to maintain this physique.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Let’s get this young man to his bed, so I can get to mine. It’s late and there’s no one but me to get the ovens going in the morning.”
Moira stood, stretched, and leaned over to kiss him back. “Yes, yes, and there’s no one but me to push you out of the bed so that you will.”
They continued jibing each other as we manhandled Gideon upstairs and into the bed—the bed I gave up without hesitation. The couch was a vast improvement over the previous night’s accommodations, and I fit on it better than my large companion anyway. He woke up once during his transfer and mumbled my name. Moira hushed him, told him to sleep, and I heard no more from him that night.
Chapter 6
Sunlight stole through the curtains and shined on my face, bringing me awake. Gideon’s heavy, steady breathing indicated he still slept, and I hoped a night of solid rest had done him well. I needed him whole and healthy. In only a few short days, Gideon had become an integral part of my survival—a fact that didn’t neces
sarily sit well with me. He was still mostly a stranger, and yet I had never been so familiar with anyone before. Except for Gerda and Father, of course.
I sat up and looked around the room, hunting my travel-worn clothes. Despite sleeping in nothing but my chemise and petticoat, I felt modest enough beneath several layers of blankets in a room occupied by an oblivious man who was too damaged, too principled, and probably too disinterested to endanger my honor. No, Gideon wouldn’t impose on my modesty, but prancing around downstairs in a bundle of old blankets would certainly defy everyone’s sense of propriety, especially my own. Unfortunately, my clothes were missing. Perhaps Moira took them. I rolled over and tried going back to sleep, but a full bladder and anxious thoughts kept me awake.
Moira held me hostage for only a short while. She knocked on the door and let herself in, carrying a bundle of fabric with a tray balanced on top. “Ah, good morning, miss.” She smiled when she saw me sitting up. “I’ve brought you some tea and him a bit of broth.”
“What about my clothes?”
“Those dirty rags you had on yesterday? I couldn’t bear to let you go around in them for another day without a proper cleaning.” She jabbed a thumb in Gideon’s direction. “Him, too. I doubt he’ll be going anywhere much for a day or two, so I didn’t bother to bring him anything. But I did find this dress that belonged to my daughter before she gave birth to her brood. Now her waist is near thick as mine. It still might be a bit loose on you, but you can wear it until your things dry.”
Moira must have read the gratitude on my face because she flapped a hand at me and blushed. “Oh, shush now. I can’t have you leaving here and speaking poorly of the service.” She made her gestures sound casual, but I vowed to always remember her kindness. “You get dressed and see if you can get him to take some of this broth and tea. Then you come down and get yourself some breakfast.”
Heir of Thunder (Stormbourne Chronicles Book 1) Page 5
