Read Online Gail Eastwood by A Perilous Journey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: A Perilous Journey
Ads: Link
it would betray the conflicting emotions whirling through his mind.
Rafferty believed that the pair were siblings, at least. It would explain the resemblance between them and the unloverlike closeness he had noted. It hurt his pride a little that they had not confided in him, but, he reasoned, were he in their situation, he might not have done so either. At least there was certainly no marriage in the wind between them. A curious feeling of elation mixed with his other reactions.
He was horrified to think that any of these people were associated with Baron Pembermore, however. The talk bruited about London held the baron to be a scoundrel—a gamster and wastrel of the very worst sort, despite high connections. Could the man truly be the young pair’s guardian? Was he the reason they were running away? How in heaven’s name had his uncle come to be mixed up in the affair? Brinton struggled with these questions, aware that in the back of his mind a skeptical voice kept asking,
Is any of this story true?
“Your rooms are ready, my lord.” The innkeeper’s voice cut into Brinton’s thoughts.
Abruptly turning his back on the fire, the earl saw that cider was being served to the squire and Mr. Cornish and that the innkeeper was standing expectantly in the doorway to the hall, ready to lead his party upstairs. Rafferty willed an inscrutable mask of control to cover his features. He would fathom out this puzzle, but not yet.
***
The challenge of leaving the room without betraying her role kept Gillian from succumbing to the panic that had begun to surge through her. The squire and Mr. Cornish’s tale had confirmed her worst fear—that, somehow, someone had indeed traced her and Gilbey to Taunton. Gillian had to assume that only the unforgiving weather and the extraordinary crowds had saved them from being found. What a mixed blessing that she and Gilbey had been prevented from taking their coach! She felt a warm surge of gratitude toward Lord Brinton for making possible their escape.
The earl, however, was impossible to read. She had watched him get up and move before the fire. He had moved casually, but she suspected that he had made the connection between his passengers and the Devonshire runaways. Was he shocked by what he had heard? Was he angry that they had deceived him? What would he do now? There had been no clue to his reaction.
Gillian gathered up the men’s wet garments and her own, hoping the squire and his friend were not watching her. She nearly staggered under the weight of the coat and two cloaks as she followed after the others. She trailed slowly up the stairs, trying to avoid the dragging ends of the voluminous cloaks. Ahead, Gilbey limped along with his weight on Brinton’s arm. The earl was coughing under the strain of assisting him.
The little procession entered an elegant room furnished all in Chinese yellow. Gillian dropped her burden onto the nearest satin-clad chair, longing to sink down on top of it. Her arms ached, and she felt exhausted to the very bone, but to sit without the earl’s permission would be unthinkable in a servant.
Brinton needed a moment to recover and catch his breath, but then he inspected the rooms and dismissed the innkeeper, requesting him to send up a hearty tea. As soon as the man departed, Gillian headed for the mate to Gilbey’s chair by the fire. To her dismay the steps she had intended to be firm and purposeful faltered, and her knees wobbled. Her brother looked at her in consternation. Brinton was by her side in an instant, grasping her elbow and guiding her to the chair.
“I’m all right,” she said, but her voice came out as a throaty whisper and there was a catch in it.
Oh, no
, she resolved,
not tears again!
Brinton squatted in front of her chair, looking up into her eyes and taking her hands into his. He removed her gloves and began to rub her fingers, as if she were a child just come in from the cold.
“I—I just need to eat,” she stammered
Rafferty believed that the pair were siblings, at least. It would explain the resemblance between them and the unloverlike closeness he had noted. It hurt his pride a little that they had not confided in him, but, he reasoned, were he in their situation, he might not have done so either. At least there was certainly no marriage in the wind between them. A curious feeling of elation mixed with his other reactions.
He was horrified to think that any of these people were associated with Baron Pembermore, however. The talk bruited about London held the baron to be a scoundrel—a gamster and wastrel of the very worst sort, despite high connections. Could the man truly be the young pair’s guardian? Was he the reason they were running away? How in heaven’s name had his uncle come to be mixed up in the affair? Brinton struggled with these questions, aware that in the back of his mind a skeptical voice kept asking,
Is any of this story true?
“Your rooms are ready, my lord.” The innkeeper’s voice cut into Brinton’s thoughts.
Abruptly turning his back on the fire, the earl saw that cider was being served to the squire and Mr. Cornish and that the innkeeper was standing expectantly in the doorway to the hall, ready to lead his party upstairs. Rafferty willed an inscrutable mask of control to cover his features. He would fathom out this puzzle, but not yet.
***
The challenge of leaving the room without betraying her role kept Gillian from succumbing to the panic that had begun to surge through her. The squire and Mr. Cornish’s tale had confirmed her worst fear—that, somehow, someone had indeed traced her and Gilbey to Taunton. Gillian had to assume that only the unforgiving weather and the extraordinary crowds had saved them from being found. What a mixed blessing that she and Gilbey had been prevented from taking their coach! She felt a warm surge of gratitude toward Lord Brinton for making possible their escape.
The earl, however, was impossible to read. She had watched him get up and move before the fire. He had moved casually, but she suspected that he had made the connection between his passengers and the Devonshire runaways. Was he shocked by what he had heard? Was he angry that they had deceived him? What would he do now? There had been no clue to his reaction.
Gillian gathered up the men’s wet garments and her own, hoping the squire and his friend were not watching her. She nearly staggered under the weight of the coat and two cloaks as she followed after the others. She trailed slowly up the stairs, trying to avoid the dragging ends of the voluminous cloaks. Ahead, Gilbey limped along with his weight on Brinton’s arm. The earl was coughing under the strain of assisting him.
The little procession entered an elegant room furnished all in Chinese yellow. Gillian dropped her burden onto the nearest satin-clad chair, longing to sink down on top of it. Her arms ached, and she felt exhausted to the very bone, but to sit without the earl’s permission would be unthinkable in a servant.
Brinton needed a moment to recover and catch his breath, but then he inspected the rooms and dismissed the innkeeper, requesting him to send up a hearty tea. As soon as the man departed, Gillian headed for the mate to Gilbey’s chair by the fire. To her dismay the steps she had intended to be firm and purposeful faltered, and her knees wobbled. Her brother looked at her in consternation. Brinton was by her side in an instant, grasping her elbow and guiding her to the chair.
“I’m all right,” she said, but her voice came out as a throaty whisper and there was a catch in it.
Oh, no
, she resolved,
not tears again!
Brinton squatted in front of her chair, looking up into her eyes and taking her hands into his. He removed her gloves and began to rub her fingers, as if she were a child just come in from the cold.
“I—I just need to eat,” she stammered
Similar Books
