The Innkeeper's Daughter

by Michelle Griep

An undertaker’s tone couldn’t have been more solemn. Alex bit back a laugh. “Can your father not manage her?”

  “Father’s dead and gone, sir.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” He studied the boy out of the corner of his eye. Honest emotion rarely met a full-faced stare.

  “It’s not bad as all that, sir. Never knowed him. He died a’fore I was born.” Catching up to the rock, the boy kicked it again, displaying no grief whatsoever.

  “About this sister of yours,” Alex paused as the boy veered around a corner. How on earth could the lad know he’d wanted to turn here? “She runs the inn herself?”

  “Nah.” Thomas shook his head and skipped ahead of him—quite the feat for lugging a bag Alex knew weighed at least a stone. Why would the boy speed up when he didn’t know how much farther would be required of him?

  “She and Mam run the inn. Well, and me too,” the boy continued. “Mam can’t get along without us, with her bad eye and all. Oh, this way, sir. Shortcut.”

  Thomas cut into an alley carved into the space between two warehouses. Looking past the lad, Alex squinted. At the far end, the shortcut spilled out onto Blue Lane. “Hold up a minute, Thomas. How is it you know exactly where I’m going?”

  The boy pivoted, facing him. “Why I told ye, sir. You must stay with us. Ye’ll be treated like a—”

  “Yes, I know. A king. Let me venture a guess, hmm?” He closed the distance between them and once again squatted nose-to-nose with the boy. “Are you taking me to the Blue Hedge Inn?”

  Thomas’s mouth dropped. Awe sparked in the depths of his dark blue eyes. “How’d ye know, sir? I ne’er said the name.”

  An easy enough guess when that was the only remaining lodging this far from the center of town, but if the lad wanted to credit him with hero status, who was he to deny him? Reaching out a hand, Alex tussled the boy’s hair and stood. “Let’s be about it, then, aye?”

  “Aye, sir. Only …” Thomas’s mouth scrunched one way then the other, as if the words on his tongue tasted sour.

  “Only what?” Alex prodded.

  “Just that we do have one other boarder ye should know about.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Thomas kicked his toe in the dirt, averting his gaze. “Ye’ll be sharing a bed with him.”

  Sharing a—blast! Alex’s toe itched to kick more than the dirt. A dilapidated inn. A shrewish spinster running it. And now he’d be rooming with a stranger. Could anything else possibly go wrong with his stay in Dover?

  Setting his boots into motion, he headed down the alley and considered pulling his knife as he turned the corner. The way this mission was beginning, who knew what he’d encounter next?

  Johanna frowned at the pathetic green-and-brown pile that was supposed to be a garland. It looked like a heap of ratty leaves raked atop a mound of twine scraps. Bending, she picked up one end of the garland, then stood, pressing her lips tight to keep from mumbling about her brother. If she hadn’t had to do that rascal’s chores, she could’ve created a proper swag, every bit as stunning as the one on the Hound’s Tooth Inn. Yet there was nothing more to be done for the sorry-leafed trimming draped over her fingers. With the parade scheduled for tomorrow, she could ill afford to wait any longer to adorn the Blue Hedge’s facade—leastwise not if she hoped to attract holiday lodgers.

  Casting a last glance up one side of Blue Lane and down the other, she gave up expecting Thomas to climb the ladder and hang the bunting. No smudge-faced boy darted about anywhere.

  But neither did anyone else. The street was empty, save for a horse hitched to a cart halfway down the lane. If she acted quickly, she wouldn’t be caught mounting a ladder like a hired man.

  Grabbing the rail in one hand and holding tight to the garland with the other, she worked her way upward, rung to rung, then stopped at eye-level with the shingled overhang. No sense going all the way up to the roof. The awning would do just as well.

  She poked the end of the bunting into a gap between the wooden shingles, then tugged it a bit to make sure it was caught snugly. Satisfied a good wind wouldn’t coax it loose—though there was no telling if Lucius Nutbrown’s foot might not snag it if he made another escape through the front window—she pulled up slack from the coil on the ground, then searched for another gap, and … there. To her right. A bit farther than she’d like, still, she might be able to reach it if she leaned far enough.

  Or she might fall and crack her skull.

  Narrowing her eyes, she gauged the distance. Moving the ladder each time she wanted to secure the garland would only add extra effort and take more time. The lane was empty now, but that didn’t mean it would stay that way. Nothing to be done for it, then.

  Wrapping her fingers tight around the ladder, she stretched her arm toward the crevice. So close! But not enough to wedge the garland into the crack.

  She sucked in a breath, held it, and leaned a little farther. Her fingertips brushed the breach this time. Barely. Perhaps if she stretched just a hair closer, like so, and shifted her weight the tiniest bit, then—

  Wood cracked. The world tipped. Johanna flailed, fingers seeking something—anything—to grab on to. A splinter pierced her skin as wood scraped her palms. She tumbled headlong, a scream to wake the dead ripping out of her throat.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, tightening every muscle for impact, and—

  Landed on a pair of outstretched arms that scooped her up against a solid chest.

  “Careful there, missy.”

  A deep voice rumbled against her ear, reminding her of an autumn day, all golden and warm. Her eyes flew open. The man holding her matched the voice perfectly. Shoulder-length hair, the color of spent leaves fallen to the ground, framed a face kissed by the sun, browned yet fair. His coat, rough against her cheek, smelled of bergamot and wood smoke, spicy but sweet. If September were flesh and blood, it would look exactly like the man holding her.

  She blinked, speechless, breathless—and totally drawn in by his brilliant blue gaze.

  “Miss? Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I …” Her voice squeaked, stuck somewhere between mortified and mesmerized. She swallowed, then tried again. “I am fine. Thank you.”

  “Well then, let’s see if your legs work better than that ladder.” He bent and set her down.

  Released from the safety of his arms, she wobbled, and he grabbed her elbow. La! She must look like a newborn foal.

  Behind her, laughter rang out. “What a catch! You should’ve seen the look on your face, Jo.”

  A slow burn started somewhere low, her toes maybe, or her tummy, melting her embarrassment and stoking up a hot rage. She reeled about and planted her fists on her hips. “This was your chore to finish, Brother. Had you been here, I’d not have fallen.”

  The man stepped between them. “Don’t be too hard on him, miss. The boy had his own fall from grace.”

  “Really?” She took the time to fold her arms and dissected her brother’s wide eyes. He directed a don’t-say-it sort of gaze at the man. “What have you been up to this time, Brother?”

  “Filling the inn, that’s what.” Thomas’s chest puffed out a full inch as he lifted his chin. “I got us another guest, and good thing too, or you’d have smashed your head like a—”

  “Alexander Morton, at your service, miss.” The man cut Thomas off with a bow, chivalrous to a degree that nearly made her smile. Her brother could learn a thing or two from this fellow.

  Stuffing down her irritation, she dipped her head toward Mr. Morton. “Thank you, sir, for indeed, your service was welcome. I am grateful you stopped me from breaking any bones, though I own my pride is a little scuffed.” She straightened her shoulders, physically relegating the humiliating incident to the past and resuming her role as hostess. “Welcome to the Blue Hedge Inn. My name is Johanna Langley, one of the proprietors.”

  “I grant this was an unconventional meeting, Miss Langley, but pleasurable, nonetheless.” A rogue wink accompanied his words
. “I am happy to make your acquaintance.”

  His smile scorched through her. Truly, she ought to be offended. So why the sudden heat warming her cheeks? She turned her face to her brother, hoping the fellow hadn’t noticed. “See Mr. Morton to the south-side room, would you, Thomas?”

  Her brother shook his head. “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Got us some more boarders too.”

  How had the boy managed to attract more lodgers in one morning than she had in a month? And why was he scrubbing his toe in the dirt? Something smelled more putrid in this than a leftover bit of limburger.

  She narrowed her eyes. “How many more? When do they arrive?”

  Craning his neck, he looked past her. “Right about now.”

  She and Mr. Morton turned in unison. He snorted. She sighed.

  Coming up Blue Lane was a rickety wagon, painted red and gold, with tassels and banners and more riders than could fit inside. Two dogs played chase around the horses, and even from where she stood, Johanna cringed at the ribald singing and bawdy laughter traveling along with them.

  “Oh, Thomas.” She shook her head.

  Desperate times called for desperate measures … but gypsies?

  CHAPTER THREE

  The closer the gaudy wagon drew to the Blue Hedge, the deeper Johanna’s heart sank. From where she stood, she counted at least five adults and three children, and who knew how many more were in back. Unless this ragtag bunch of travellers paid up front, Mam would never be able to feed so many with Cook gone. What had Thomas been thinking? Filling the inn was one thing. Making it the laughingstock of Dover, quite another—and with boarders such as these, they’d scare off any prospect of respectable lodgers.

  “No, not them.” Her brother stepped past Mr. Morton and stretched out his arm, pointing beyond the monstrosity on wheels. “Behind ’em.”

  As the wagon closed in, more of the street came into view. Her gaze skimmed past the brilliant colors and landed on black and white. Beyond, six men travelled on foot, garbed in varying shades of dirt and producing the racket she’d accredited the gypsies. The scruffy fellows possessed instruments, haversacks, and—judging by the lyrics of their songs—no morals whatsoever.

  Her gaze shot back to the gypsy wagon rolling by. Except for the rattle of tack and harness, and the cry of a babe from within, it was quiet. The driver tipped his head toward her then snapped the reins, moving their cart along without pretense. As it passed, a dark-haired pixy popped her head out the back, merry curtains framing the little girl’s face. When her gaze met Johanna’s, the girl smiled.

  Johanna suppressed a frown and forced a polite nod. Compared to the ragged men behind them, singing of ale and women and something about a dog, the gypsies didn’t seem so bad.

  The wagon lumbered off, replaced by the six itinerant musicians. One fellow took the lead. Striding away from the group with a jaunty step, he planted himself in front of her brother, overshadowing him but not Mr. Morton. Both men were of equal height, but this fellow was night to Mr. Morton’s day. His hair was dark while Mr. Morton’s was fair. His deep olive skin contrasted with Mr. Morton’s golden tan. And he was lean and wiry, like an alley cat about to spring, compared to Mr. Morton’s thick shoulders and broad stance.

  Johanna’s frown fought to surface again. What business of hers was it to notice the men’s differences in the first place?

  The man bowed with a flourish. “Greetings my fine, young friend, Master Thomas.” He straightened then pumped the boy’s hand. “You drive a hard bargain, m’boy. Yet we acquiesce to your business savvy, happy to serve and be served, aye lads?” He glanced over his shoulder and cocked a brow at the fellows behind him. All five lifted their fists into the air, hooting their agreement.

  Johanna smoothed her hands along her skirt, fighting the desire to plug up her ears.

  Before the whoops died down, the man slid in front of her. How could he do that? She hadn’t even noticed his feet move.

  His hat, and the dark curls escaping the brim, were coated with a fine layer of dust, the same color as his grey eyes. He smelled of a long day’s worth of travel, meat cooked over a spit, and something more musky. Exotic. And altogether dangerous. His gaze glimmered with the knowledge of what lay beyond her world of inns and family and all that was good. The urge to turn heel and run tingled in her legs.

  But his eyes held her in place. “And you must be the lovely Johanna. Your brother speaks highly of you.”

  The man’s breach of etiquette was stunning, though expecting a travelling musician to display proper manners was just as outlandish. Still, to use her Christian name, to look her full in the face as if he’d claimed her for his own, made her feel as if she stood before all the world wearing nothing but a shift.

  Next to her, Mr. Morton stepped nearer and cleared his throat. So, he’d noticed as well.

  “I am Gabriel Quail, milady.” The man reached for her hand and bowed over it, resting his lips atop her skin like a benediction. As he rose, he gazed at her through dark lashes, speaking something in French. His index finger rubbed little circles on the inside of her wrist.

  She yanked back her hand, ashamed at the warmth where his mouth had touched.

  “I don’t believe Miss Langley asked for your name, sir.” Mr. Morton closed the rest of the distance between them, standing so close, she remembered the feel of his arms when he’d held her. If Mr. Quail took one more liberty, she got the distinct impression Mr. Morton would pop the man in the nose.

  Her own hands fisted with rising frustration toward them both. She’d avoided compromise for five and twenty years without anyone’s help. She certainly knew how to handle a forward wayfarer without the assistance of a man’s muscle.

  “Thank you, Mr. Morton, for your concern.” She shot him a sideways glance before angling her head at Quail. “You are correct, sir, that I am Thomas’s sister. You may address me as Miss Langley. I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Quail, yet I advise you and your companions”—she lifted her chin and speared each man in turn with an evil eye—“that the Blue Hedge Inn is a reputable establishment. We strive to maintain a certain decorum.”

  Mr. Quail pressed both his hands to his heart and sank to one knee. “Be still, my heart. Be still! She’s beautiful, therefore to be woo’d. She is woman, therefore to be won.”

  Startled, she opened her mouth, but no words came out. What could she possibly say to that?

  Next to her, Mr. Morton folded his arms. “Perhaps, sir, you ought save your Shakespeare for a larger audience.”

  Mr. Quail’s gaze lingered on hers a moment longer before he faced Mr. Morton. “And you are?”

  “Not that it signifies, but I am Alexander Morton, purchaser of fine wines, and a guest here at the Blue Hedge.”

  “Wine, you say?” A smile slid across Mr. Quail’s face. “We shall get along famously, my friend.”

  “I doubt it.” Mr. Morton’s words travelled on an exhale, too quiet for Mr. Quail to hear, but Johanna didn’t miss them.

  Turning to the group behind him, Mr. Quail swung up both arms as if he offered the inn for sale to a massive crowd. “Lads, we have found ourselves a home for the Oak Apple holiday. Let the revelry begin!”

  More hoots and hollers filled the air as the men passed in front of her and entered the taproom. Mr. Quail followed them in, slapping Mr. Morton on the back as he strode by, leaving her and Thomas with mouths agape, and Mr. Morton with an unreadable expression.

  “Well, that was …” Johanna nibbled her lower lip. “Interesting.”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Morton snatched up his canvas bag where it sat forgotten near Thomas’s feet. “I’ll stow this and then—” He nodded toward the heap of garland hanging by one end from the awning. “We’ll see about getting that bunting up for you, Miss Langley. Right, Thomas?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Mr. Morton disappeared through the door, Thomas quick on his heels. Oh, no. The little urchin wouldn’t get off that easily. Johan
na dashed ahead and snagged the boy’s collar. “Hold on, Brother. A word, if you please.”

  He turned, shrugging off her hand. “Aye?”

  “Mr. Quail said you drove a hard bargain. What bargain did you make?”

  “Just a trade. That’s all.”

  Sighing, she bent face-to-face with him, trying to decide if he was purposely being obstinate or if his lack of elaboration was simply a bad case of ten-year-old naïveté. “Thomas, this could take us all afternoon if I must pull every bit of information out of you like a plum from a pie. But if that’s what it takes, I shall.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You said yourself that if the Blue Hedge could only have music, a real rig-jigger of a dandy band to play for Oak Apple Eve, why, we’d have customers coming from miles around.” He stood a little taller. “That’s what I traded for. I got me some business savvy. Mr. Quail said so himself.”

  Johanna narrowed her eyes. “Please don’t tell me those men in there are expecting room and board for nothing but music and merriment.”

  “All right.” He spun toward the door.

  With a long swipe of her arm, she snagged his shirttail, thankful for the first time in her life for his sloppy appearance. “All right what?”

  He stalled for a moment, casting her a sly glance over his shoulder. “All right, I won’t tell you.” With a jerk, he pulled from her grasp and bolted through the front door of the inn. Laughter and the drone of men’s voices rolled out, quieting only when the door slapped shut.

  She’d sigh, but what good would it do? Just last week, she had wished aloud for a band to attract customers. Why did her brother have to choose that one instant to listen to her? And if he’d made such a deal with Mr. Quail, what kind of a pact had he made with Mr. Morton?

  Her gaze slid upward, past the ramshackle awning with the ratty strand of oak-leaf garland hanging from one end, beyond the top window that wouldn’t shut all the way and over the roof, sagging like the shoulders of an old woman. Not a cloud dotted the afternoon sky. Endless blue stretched clear up to heaven—straight to God’s ear. Apparently, He’d heard her speak as clearly as Thomas had.