The Innkeeper's Daughter

by Michelle Griep

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Morning sun slanted through the taproom’s window, highlighting a gouge on Alexander’s left boot. He frowned. The hike back from the cave last night had proved to be treacherous in more ways than one. Sleep had been a miser during the long hours of the night, doling out scant moments of shuteye. Wooden frames absorbed his thoughts as he tried time and again to figure out what they might be used for other than the destruction of life and limb.

  A yawn stretched his jaw, and he rubbed his hand over the stubble on his chin. Snatching a peek at his reflection in the glass as he strode across the empty room, he reconsidered doubling back for a shave. No good, for it looked to be seven already, or maybe half-past.

  Behind him, a stair creaked, but not the usual grinding of feet tromping down. The wood groaned on the third step from the top, caused by a loose nail on the right. He’d made that mistake only once, having memorized the quietest route. Whoever descended now was trying to remain undetected—and failing miserably.

  He smirked. Five to one it was Quail.

  Alex darted into the corner near the hearth. Not the best of hiding places, but one that ought work. Two breaths later, a Quail-sized shape darted through the taproom and out the front door. A bit early in the day for a man who usually snored until noon.

  Alex followed, taking care to ease the door shut behind him. Ahead, ragged coattails disappeared into an alley. Should he follow and see what the fellow was about? A glance at the sky supplied an answer. Pah! It was more likely eight, and who knew how long it would take to find Thatcher—if indeed the man were about. If not, Alex had a hard ride ahead of him.

  Giving up on Quail, he skirted the perimeter of the Blue Hedge and headed toward the back stable yard. Hopefully the inn maintained a mount or two, or at least should, for it had been a coaching inn at one time. He bypassed a pile of cracked shingles, each step mocking his resolve. Who was he kidding? This place didn’t even have a suitable roof. The best he could hope for was a swaybacked mare with the mange.

  He pivoted, intent on visiting Farnham’s Mount and Tack on the west end of town—until a feminine voice turned him back around.

  “Just open up!”

  He rounded the corner of the inn, then paused.

  Across the yard, Johanna pushed against a half-hung slab of wood until her cheeks flamed a most becoming shade of red. A basket lay forgotten nearby as she put her heart and soul into trying to shove open the stable door.

  Alex grinned. He’d wager a guinea in favor of the barn.

  Crossing the yard, he stopped a few paces behind her. “It appears to me the door is winning.”

  She straightened, the fabric of her shawl pulled taut against stiffening shoulders. Was she angry her efforts had failed … or that he’d noticed?

  Turning, she faced him with a small smile—a practiced one, the kind she likely used on any patron. Which, of course, he was.

  Then why the surge of disappointment rising to his throat?

  “Good day, Mr. Morton. Can I be of assistance?”

  He smirked. “I believe that question ought be mine.” Sweeping one hand toward the pathetic door, he asked, “May I?”

  “Be my guest. The wretched thing is intent on keeping me out.”

  “We can’t have that now, can we?” He drew nearer, glanced upward, and grasped the edge of the wood. Instead of shoving, he lifted, then coaxed the top wheel into the rail it had slipped from. Two breaths later, he shoved the door open wide. The smell of straw and manure wafted out. A whinny from deep inside raised his hopes. Maybe he’d underestimated the inn’s capabilities.

  He turned to her, expecting a real smile this time.

  She frowned. “You made that look entirely too simple.”

  “It was. You merely forgot to assess the situation first. The easiest way to manage a difficulty is to think before acting.”

  Her brows lowered, and though she gazed at him, he suspected she didn’t see. Her eyes were too glassy. Her fingers clenched together too tightly. Some kind of sour memory trembled across her lower lip. What tormented her?

  Leaving the door behind, he closed the distance between them, alarmed that the proper Miss Langley did not retreat. “Are you all right?”

  She blinked up at him, her eyes widening when her senses apparently caught up with the present. “Oh!”

  The red on her cheeks spread to her whole face, and she bent to retrieve her basket. “You are out early this morning, sir.”

  The woman was far more deft at wrangling a conversation than a barn door. “Indeed. Seems a great many people are.”

  “What do you mean? Please don’t tell me my brother is trying to move about.”

  “No, no. Nothing of the sort. I was speaking of Mr. Quail.”

  She glanced across the yard to the inn. “Is his whole band awake? Perhaps I ought stay and help Mam.”

  “No, only him, and he slipped out the front. The rest are yet snoring.”

  Her “hmm” competed with the song of a morning sparrow, every bit as sweet and pleasing to the ear.

  “Then if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Morton”—she sidestepped him—“I should be on my way.”

  He followed her into the barn. Rays of light crawled in through holes in the roof, highlighting her curves as she passed from beam to beam. That he noticed was no surprise, and in fact, could not be helped. What did astonish him was the sudden desire to make those curves his own. Permanently. What would it be like to come home to this woman every evening? To wake to that face every morn?

  His steps lagged as an even wilder thought hit him broadside. Once he finished this assignment, he’d have more than enough money to return here and ask for her hand—yet that would require taking her into confidence now for her to even consider him then. And that he couldn’t do, not after taking a vow of silence to Ford.

  He raked his fingers through his hair. What was he even thinking? Pah! He was becoming as batty as Brentwood. Aah … that was it. Naturally his thoughts ran toward matrimony, after having witnessed the happiness of his fellow officer’s marriage and with his own dilemma to avoid such with Miss Coburn.

  He caught up to Johanna, where she set her basket onto the seat of a pony cart.

  “I am in need of a horse, Miss Langley. Is there one I might borrow?”

  A shadow crossed her face. “I am afraid our pony would not take you very far, and that is all we have on hand. You might try Farnham’s Mount and Tack over on the west side.”

  “Brilliant idea.” He bit back a smirk. “I shall, right after I help you hitch your pony to the cart.”

  “Really, Mr. Morton, there is no need.”

  Reaching for her hand, he lifted it, turning her smudged fingertips so that she might see. “Your gloves say otherwise, and I think we both know there’s no stable boy to help you.”

  She pulled back, eyes sparking. “How would you know that?”

  A smile stretched his lips. The woman was entirely too easy to fluster. Brave, though, for keeping up a respectable front when everything around her was rotting and raw. He aimed a finger at the harness lying on the floor of the cart. “Your tack is in a heap and dirty, instead of pegged on a wall. It smells like the stalls could use a good mucking. And this floor hasn’t been swept in what … two weeks? Or three? From the looks of it, I’m guessing you had to let your stable boy go, and Thomas has been filling in. Though now that he’s laid up, this part of the inn is suffering. Am I correct?”

  Moments dragged, as did the slope of Johanna’s shoulders. Still, her chin refused to lower.

  Brave indeed.

  “Very well,” she said at last. “Posey is over there.”

  He followed the tilt of her head. Two stalls down, nearly blending in with the shadows, a rough-coated New Forest stood at the stall door—swaybacked, just as he suspected.

  Alex blinked to keep from rolling his eyes and strode over to open the stall. The creature twitched an ear, nothing more. At least she was still breathing, he’d g
ive her that, but by faith, he’d seen better horses in queue for the glue factory. Alex coughed to prevent a “Sweet mercy!” from flying out his mouth. No doubt Johanna would be mortified by his thoughts.

  “C’mon, girl.” He tugged on the head-collar, leading Posey over to the cart where Johanna stood in breath-stealing contrast to her surroundings. For a moment, he paused, impressing her image deep into his mind. It would be a welcome sight to revisit on a cold, dark night. Except for the raven hair pulled up beneath her bonnet, everything about the woman was light and air.

  She clasped her hands in front of her, a strange tension lurking behind her beautiful facade. He got the distinct impression that laughter was a friend who rarely came to call on her. What would it take to cause a genuine smile? How would it feel to be the recipient? A foreign urge ran through his veins to be the man—the only man—to make her laugh.

  “You look at me as though I may disappear at any moment, sir.”

  He cleared his throat, hoping the action would rid such strange notions. Releasing Posey’s head-collar, he reached for the harness. Better to set his mind on something else. “Tell me, what do you know of Mr. Quail?”

  “Funny. He asked the same of you last night.”

  “Did he, now?” He straightened, chewing on that like a tart bite of apple. Why would Quail take notice of him? “And what did you tell him?”

  “Nothing much.” Her tone rang true, then lowered. “Which is the sum total of what I know of you.”

  “Would you like to know me better?” The question spilled out from habit. He’d learned long ago that offense with women was sometimes the best defense, but this time the crafty technique sank in his gut, sickening him.

  “Yes—no. Of course not.” She retreated a step, the pretty glow of her cheeks flaming once again.

  Pulling his eyes from her, he threaded the bridle over Posey’s head. The pony resisted the bit, but he stuck a thumb in the corner of her mouth to encourage her to open her teeth. “A word of warning, Miss Langley? Be careful around Mr. Quail. He may not be what he seems.”

  “Are you?” Her voice was soft but the question pricked.

  “Sometimes I wonder.” His words travelled on an exhale, too low for her to hear, too bitter to remain in his mouth. He settled the back piece over Posey’s withers, buckled the bellyband, then slung the breast strap across her chest and buckled that as well.

  “What are you doing here, Mr. Morton?”

  He made quick work of the breech strap. “Is it not apparent? I’m hitching your pony to the cart.” He crossed the reins over the pony’s withers, checked all the buckles, then turned to fetch the cart.

  “No, I mean why lodge at the Blue Hedge when you might stay at the viscount’s estate?”

  “Well, well.” A slow grin spread across his mouth, and he paused. “It seems you know more about me than you admit.”

  Her brows lifted, practically disappearing beneath her bonnet. “You don’t deny your relationship with Lord Coburn? You make no excuse for warming a seat at his gaming table nightly?”

  He shrugged. “Why should I?”

  “But”—her head shook slowly, as if she tried to sort out the workings of the universe—“lying and gambling go hand-in-hand.”

  “Maybe for some, but not for me. I am not a man given to dishonesty. There is no reason for me to cover up either my association with the viscount or how I spend time with him.”

  “I—I don’t understand. Why stay here”—she threw out her hands—“when clearly you can afford better?”

  Hah! If only she knew he was on his way to beg more money from Thatcher. Leaving the cart behind, he closed the distance between them, stopping only when the tips of his boots touched her skirt hem. She bowed her head, as was proper for such a bold advance.

  But he lifted her chin with the crook of his finger and stared deep into her endless brown eyes. “Why I remain here should be apparent.”

  She turned so fast, a swirl of dust rose from the barn floor. “I intend to repay you in cash, Mr. Morton. Nothing more.”

  So, that was the snake that bit. What had happened in her past to cause her such an assumption? His hands coiled into fists at the possibilities, yet he harnessed his rage and lightened his tone. “Johanna.”

  She whirled, anger etching lines along her jaw, the exact response he expected. But as her mouth opened, a retort about to launch from her tongue, he held up his hands.

  “I expect no recompense. Neither in coin nor anything else. Your friendship, your brother’s, your mother’s …” He shook his head, emotion squeezing the air from his lungs. The long dead, little orphan boy within resurrected with a surprising gasp of air, and he staggered back a step, speaking aloud the realization. “Though I am a stranger, I’ve felt part of your family this past week. That is payment enough. Truly.”

  Her lips twisted, and it took all his strength not to reach out and smooth them with his finger.

  “You don’t believe me?” he asked.

  “I suppose time will tell. Nevertheless, I shall repay my debt to you.”

  “Though an admirable trait, determination may be your downfall. Some things are better left in God’s hands.”

  The lines of her face softened, and she murmured, “Thank you for the reminder.” Then her shoulders squared, and she blinked up at him. “Are you almost finished? I shouldn’t like to hold you up any longer. Where did you say you were off to?”

  “I didn’t.” The answer slid out from an assemblage of evasive responses he’d collected over the years. This time, however, it left a bitter aftertaste. He’d lay bare his life to one of his fellow officers, but never to a woman. Why the sudden guilt for not doing so now?

  He bent to work. Lifting one shaft of the cart, he leaned his weight into it, edging it backward, then pulled forward again, threading the shafts through the harness loops at Posey’s sides. The poor nag hadn’t moved a bit while he’d been distracted with Johanna. Likely it wouldn’t go anywhere at her behest, either, but dashed if he’d let her hitch the cart alone.

  All secured, he turned to offer her a hand in. “Here you are.” Once she settled on the seat, he gave her the reins. To his amazement, as she adjusted her hold and clicked her tongue, the pony’s head came up and ears pricked.

  “Hopefully you’ve not far to travel?” he asked.

  She quirked a brow. “Surely you don’t expect me to own up to my destination when you guard yours like a soldier.” The pony stepped out, and the cart slid past him. “Good day, Mr. Morton.”

  “Touché, Miss Langley.”

  As she drove off, he stood there. Unmoving. Silent. Counting the beats of his heart to keep from contemplating the desires she created. The more time he spent with Johanna Langley, the more he became a stranger to himself. Who was this man who suddenly envisioned raven-haired children and a wife to warm his bed each night? Family and hearth and home? Blast Ford for bringing up marriage in the first place. He’d managed without a family up to this point in life. He certainly didn’t need one now.

  He stalked out of the barn with a growl. Better to find Thatcher, finish his mission, and hightail it out of Dover for good—and without a wife.

  By the time Johanna reached her friend Maggie’s house, a line of foam dripped from poor Posey’s mouth. Guilt crawled in, taking root deep in Jo’s stomach as she patted the old dear between the ears. “Sorry, girl,” she whispered.

  Drat that Mr. Morton. She’d pushed Posey harder than she ought, a vain attempt to leave behind his kindness, his curiosity, his rugged good looks. Why was she enthralled instead of appalled that he’d left the inn with a gruff shadow of stubble darkening his jaw? She should have pulled back immediately when he’d reached for her hand. And what did he mean it ought be apparent why he remained at the inn? Surely it wasn’t because of her. But if it were … a slow burn spread outward from her heart.

  She turned and marched toward Maggie’s home, putting an end to such ninny-headed thoughts. Shifting her b
asket into one hand, she rapped on the front door. Behind the wood, little Charlotte’s cry leached out, growing louder with each passing second. Sweet thing, probably frazzling her mother to no end. Good. The tension in Jo’s shoulders loosened. This might work.

  It had to work.

  The door swung open, framing her friend’s flushed cheeks and bleary eyes. Her apron hung like an ill-pegged shirt on a clothesline, and stains darkened the fabric of her sleeves. Jo smiled. Margaret Scott was a portrait of desperate motherhood.

  Indeed, this would work.

  “Good morning, Maggie. I’ve brought you some of Mam’s famous baps.” She set down the basket of freshly baked rolls and opened her arms. “Let me take little Lottie for you.”

  “Aah, Jo, you’re a Godsend today.” Maggie passed off her babe and swooped up the gift, then pushed the door open wider. “Come in, back to the kitchen.”

  A few coos and baby jiggles later, she followed her friend, nuzzling her cheek against the top of Charlotte’s fuzzy head as she went. How good it felt to snuggle a little one in her arms. Charlotte must’ve agreed, for her crying faded into whimpers and ended in a hiccup.

  Jo paused inside the kitchen door. “Oh Maggie, what on earth?”

  Pots bubbled over on the hearth, except for one—which had a smear of grey smoke darkening the air above it. Yellow pools of stickiness dotted the floor in splotches. Jars and bowls covered the table, some tipped on their sides, a few broken. An acrid smell of rotted flowers and mouldy lemons hung on the air, competing with the sour odor of soiled cloths heaped in the corner.

  Maggie threw out her hands, blowing a piece of hair from her face in the process. “Don’t say it. I know this place is a disgrace. I’ve been trying to finish the last of the elderflower jam for Sam to bring to market, and if I don’t get it done today, ach! He’ll be very cross. He’s already delayed his London trip by a fortnight. Any later and, well … I suppose you didn’t come to hear me rattle, eh?”

  “Actually, your words are exactly what I’d hoped to hear.”