Read Online A Difficult Disguise by Kasey Michaels - Free Book Online Page B

magnificence of his best private parlor and bedchamber.
    Ten minutes later Fletcher and Billy were ensconced in a private dining room, for if the truth be told Fletcher hadn’t really relished the idea of sitting elbow to elbow with a gaggle of strangers, whether it be to make polite conversation or watch in awe the magnitude of their ineptitude in the handling of simple eating utensils. He’d had enough of both during the celebrations in London. The plank table in front of them was piled high with cold meats, two whole chickens, and a variety of fruit, and the array of local foodstuffs warmed his heart. “Make the most of it,” Fletcher said, pulling off a chicken leg for himself, “for tomorrow night we will be sleeping beneath the stars.”
    Billy, who had been in the act of securing the other drumstick for herself, sat back, Fletcher’s words effectively destroying what had until that moment been a raging hunger in her belly. “Why would you want to do that?” she asked, aghast. She had known he had spoken of doing just such a harebrained thing, but she hadn’t really brought herself to believe it.
    After all, what sensibly minded person would give up clean sheets and a roof over his head to sleep in a damp field surrounded by smelly sheep and all sorts of creeping things, and with the chance of rain pelting them at any moment? It was ludicrous, that’s what it was. Besides, after two months of bedding down in the Lakeview stable, Billy had been looking forward to stretching out in a real bed.
    “I do some of my best thinking out of doors,” Fletcher responded, “not that I owe you an explanation. What, ho! My, my, and what have we here? Hello there, sweetings. Aren’t you a pleasant surprise!”
    Billy looked toward the doorway to see a barmaid coming into the room carrying two mugs of ale. Actually, Billy thought nastily, she saw what Fletcher must have seen, which was the barmaid’s absolutely magnificent bosom.
    The barmaid plunked down the two mugs, nearly knocking Billy off the plank seat with a swing of her full hips as she turned to Fletcher, to smile and wink, saying, “Will there be anythin’ else yer’ll be needin’, sir? My name is Beatrice, sir, an’ I’d be ever so pleased ter serve yer.”
    “Isn’t that wonderful, Billy?” Fletcher asked, never removing his gaze from Beatrice’s mind-boggling cleavage. He’d sworn off women for a while, but that did not mean he had been so foolish as to believe he could forsake fun. “And when would you be free to, um, serve me, Beatrice?”
    Beatrice gave a toss of her dirty blond head. “Those louts in the coffee room will be home with their naggin’ wives come midnight. Perhaps yer might loik a bit o’company then, sir? I kin be very, very good company.”
    “Oh, if that isn’t above everything wonderful,” Billy exclaimed, taking a deep drink of ale, which was her first experience with anything stronger than goat’s milk. The liquid tasted vile, but she conquered the urge to spit it out. “And what am I supposed to be doing while the two of you cavort all over the place—hiding in the cupboard with my hands clapped over my ears?”
    Fletcher slowly turned his head to skewer Billy with his iron-gray gaze. “As I recall, Billy, you spent last night tucked up in one of my stalls. May I suggest you go make friends with the ostler so that he might be so kind as to provide you with clean straw? Or, if you are not too fastidious or too wet behind the ears, perhaps dearest Beatrice here has a friend for you.”
    Billy’s mouth opened and closed several times before she stood, reached out to rip the remaining drumstick from the chicken, exclaimed, “I ain’t in the petticoat line,” and stomped out of the parlor, slamming the door behind her.
    She stood in the narrow hallway for five minutes—or five years—trying her best to convince herself she didn’t give a tinker’s dam about what was or was not going on behind that closed door.