then they would flee farther
into
the building than out of it, and even if they did run out, eventually they came back in and the whole business started again.
Claire laughed and commiserated.
Before many minutes had passed, the innkeeper and his wife had pulled up two chairs, the wife had poured herself a cup of tea while the innkeeper had fetched himself a tankard of ale, and they settled in for a lengthy chat.
It considerably amused Rannulf that he was sitting at a table in an inn that no stretch of the imagination could describe as fashionable, fraternizing with the servants. Bewcastle, his brother, the duke, would have frozen them into two icicles with a single glance. He would have quelled their pretensions with the mere lifting of one finger or one eyebrow. But then one look at Bewcastle and no one below the rank of baron at the very least would dream of even raising his gaze from the floor unless invited to do so.
“Why,” the innkeeper asked suddenly, “was Mrs. Bedard on the stagecoach, sir, while you was on horseback?”
“We been wondering,” his wife explained.
Rannulf met Claire’s eyes across the table. Her cheeks had turned pink.
“Oh dear,” she said, “
you
tell them, Ralph.”
She
was the actress. Why could she not come up with a suitable tale? He gazed at her for a few moments, but she was looking back at him as expectantly as the other two were. He cleared his throat.
“I did not take the delicacy of my wife’s sensibilities into account at our wedding breakfast,” he said without taking his eyes off her. “Some of our guests had imbibed too much of the wine, and a few of them—my own cousins, in fact—made some risqué remarks. Embarrassed though I was, I laughed. My bride did not. She excused herself, and it was only later that I discovered she had fled her own wedding night.”
The color had deepened in her cheeks.
“See?” the innkeeper’s wife said, poking her husband in the ribs with one large elbow. “I told you they was newlyweds.”
“I finally caught up to her yesterday,” Rannulf continued and watched her catch her lower lip between her teeth. “I am happy to report that I have been forgiven for my inappropriate laughter and all is now well.”
Her eyes widened.
The innkeeper’s wife turned her head to beam tenderly at Claire.
“Don’t you mind none, ducks,” she said. “The first time is the worst. I didn’t hear no sobbings, mind, and I don’t see no trace of tears this morning, so I daresay it was not so bad as you feared. I expect Mr. Bedard knows how to do it right proper.” She laughed conspiratorially and Claire joined her.
Rannulf glanced sheepishly at the innkeeper, who glanced sheepishly back.
They went outside after breakfast, Rannulf and Claire, though he was surprised when she asked to join him. He wanted to see his horse, to make sure it had taken no harm yesterday and had been properly tended. He wanted to rub it down and feed it himself this morning. Claire put on her half boots and her cloak with the hood up, and they made a dash for it across the open yard, trying to step on tufts of grass as they went and avoid the worst of the mud and manure.
She sat on a clean pile of hay while he worked, her hood back, her hands clasped about her knees.
“That was some story,” she said.
“About you as skittish bride? I thought so too.” He grinned at her.
“The landlady is going to tidy our rooms herself and make sure fresh fires are laid in the hearth in both rooms,” she said. “It must be a great honor to have her personal services instead of those of the maid. It seems hardly fair so to deceive them, Ralph.”
“You would rather we told the truth, then?” he asked. His horse was looking none the worse for wear, though it was doing some restless snorting. It wanted to be out and moving.
“No,” she said. “That would not be fair either. It would lower the tone of their house.”
He raised his eyebrows but made no
into
the building than out of it, and even if they did run out, eventually they came back in and the whole business started again.
Claire laughed and commiserated.
Before many minutes had passed, the innkeeper and his wife had pulled up two chairs, the wife had poured herself a cup of tea while the innkeeper had fetched himself a tankard of ale, and they settled in for a lengthy chat.
It considerably amused Rannulf that he was sitting at a table in an inn that no stretch of the imagination could describe as fashionable, fraternizing with the servants. Bewcastle, his brother, the duke, would have frozen them into two icicles with a single glance. He would have quelled their pretensions with the mere lifting of one finger or one eyebrow. But then one look at Bewcastle and no one below the rank of baron at the very least would dream of even raising his gaze from the floor unless invited to do so.
“Why,” the innkeeper asked suddenly, “was Mrs. Bedard on the stagecoach, sir, while you was on horseback?”
“We been wondering,” his wife explained.
Rannulf met Claire’s eyes across the table. Her cheeks had turned pink.
“Oh dear,” she said, “
you
tell them, Ralph.”
She
was the actress. Why could she not come up with a suitable tale? He gazed at her for a few moments, but she was looking back at him as expectantly as the other two were. He cleared his throat.
“I did not take the delicacy of my wife’s sensibilities into account at our wedding breakfast,” he said without taking his eyes off her. “Some of our guests had imbibed too much of the wine, and a few of them—my own cousins, in fact—made some risqué remarks. Embarrassed though I was, I laughed. My bride did not. She excused herself, and it was only later that I discovered she had fled her own wedding night.”
The color had deepened in her cheeks.
“See?” the innkeeper’s wife said, poking her husband in the ribs with one large elbow. “I told you they was newlyweds.”
“I finally caught up to her yesterday,” Rannulf continued and watched her catch her lower lip between her teeth. “I am happy to report that I have been forgiven for my inappropriate laughter and all is now well.”
Her eyes widened.
The innkeeper’s wife turned her head to beam tenderly at Claire.
“Don’t you mind none, ducks,” she said. “The first time is the worst. I didn’t hear no sobbings, mind, and I don’t see no trace of tears this morning, so I daresay it was not so bad as you feared. I expect Mr. Bedard knows how to do it right proper.” She laughed conspiratorially and Claire joined her.
Rannulf glanced sheepishly at the innkeeper, who glanced sheepishly back.
They went outside after breakfast, Rannulf and Claire, though he was surprised when she asked to join him. He wanted to see his horse, to make sure it had taken no harm yesterday and had been properly tended. He wanted to rub it down and feed it himself this morning. Claire put on her half boots and her cloak with the hood up, and they made a dash for it across the open yard, trying to step on tufts of grass as they went and avoid the worst of the mud and manure.
She sat on a clean pile of hay while he worked, her hood back, her hands clasped about her knees.
“That was some story,” she said.
“About you as skittish bride? I thought so too.” He grinned at her.
“The landlady is going to tidy our rooms herself and make sure fresh fires are laid in the hearth in both rooms,” she said. “It must be a great honor to have her personal services instead of those of the maid. It seems hardly fair so to deceive them, Ralph.”
“You would rather we told the truth, then?” he asked. His horse was looking none the worse for wear, though it was doing some restless snorting. It wanted to be out and moving.
“No,” she said. “That would not be fair either. It would lower the tone of their house.”
He raised his eyebrows but made no
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