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Authors: Marion Chesney
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order to avoid scandal, I told the landlord that I had gone out to search for something that had dropped from the carriage. You are that something. Get in this sack immediately and do not utter one word until I get you upstairs."
He looked stern and forbidding, and, in any case, Emily felt too weak to protest further.
She climbed into the sack. He tied the string at the top and heaved her onto his back. Emily could hardly breathe. The sack had contained grain of some sort, and little particles of dry chaff went up her nose with every breath she drew.
She was bumped against his back as he strode across the inn courtyard.
"Evening, my lord," came the landlord's voice. "Found what you were looking for?"
"Yes, thank you." The earl's voice. "I hope I did not waken you."
"No, my lord. Expecting the mail coach any moment. No sleep for me this night. Allow me to carry that."
"No, no. I am well able to handle it."
"Lucky it waren't stolen, my lord. I call to mind..."
The earl dumped the sack on the floor. Emily suddenly knew she was going to sneeze. The landlord's voice droned on and on, somewhere above her head. Emily tried not to think about sneezing; she tried pinching the bridge of her nose. It was no use. The sneeze was coming. Ah ... Ah ... _Ah ...
oooof!_ The earl had kicked the sack, and his foot had caught her on the side of the head. It had the effect of stifling the sneeze at birth. The kick had been no more than a nudge, but Emily began to think the earl really meant to kill her. If you tied your wife up in a sack and then kicked her in the head, it followed that your feelings toward said wife were not of the sweetest.
At last, she felt herself being lifted up again.
"Looks uncommon like a dead pig you've got in there, m'lord," said the landlord.
"How very clever of you," came the earl's voice. "That is exactly what it is. I never go on any of my honeymoons without a dead pig."
"Eh? Ah, my lord. I was near taking you serious-like. That's a good 'un. I'll tell missus. I never goes on my honeymoon without a dead pig!"
His laughter followed them up the stairs. The earl opened the bedroom door and let out a sigh of relief. He opened the sack and released Emily by simply dragging the sack along the floor until it was clear of her.
"We will go into this matter in the morning, my lady _wife,_" he said. "We are going to bed. Do not look so stricken. I have no intention of touching you."
Emily quailed before the blazing contempt in his eyes. She picked up her nightgown and cap and headed for the parlor door, meaning to change in the privacy of the other room.
He caught her by the hair and jerked her about. "Oh, no, you don't," he grated. "Stand still."
He took her cloak from her shoulders and threw it on a chair. He twisted her about and deftly untied the tapes at the back of her dress and the tapes at her waist. He removed her corset _elastique_ and contemptuously pinged it across the room. She clutched desperately at her shift, but he said coldly, "It either goes over you head or is ripped from your body. Take your pick, madam."
All at once, too tired, too numb with cold to feel ashamed, she raised her arms meekly above her head. He crumpled the shift into a ball, and then dropped her nightgown over her head.
"Sit down by the fire."
Emily sat down while he shoveled coals on the fire. He then carried over a water can and basin, slid off her torn stockings, and bathed her feet. It was all done deftly and impersonally.
He then picked her up, carried her to the bed, and tucked her in.
As he began taking off his own clothes, she turned and buried her suddenly hot face in the pillow.
The terror of what he was about to do to her would, she was sure, effectively keep her awake, but her eyelids drooped and a welcome darkness engulfed her.
The earl climbed into bed and jerked the curtains closed. He lay with his hands behind his head, staring up at the canopy, which was gleaming red from the leaping flames of the
He looked stern and forbidding, and, in any case, Emily felt too weak to protest further.
She climbed into the sack. He tied the string at the top and heaved her onto his back. Emily could hardly breathe. The sack had contained grain of some sort, and little particles of dry chaff went up her nose with every breath she drew.
She was bumped against his back as he strode across the inn courtyard.
"Evening, my lord," came the landlord's voice. "Found what you were looking for?"
"Yes, thank you." The earl's voice. "I hope I did not waken you."
"No, my lord. Expecting the mail coach any moment. No sleep for me this night. Allow me to carry that."
"No, no. I am well able to handle it."
"Lucky it waren't stolen, my lord. I call to mind..."
The earl dumped the sack on the floor. Emily suddenly knew she was going to sneeze. The landlord's voice droned on and on, somewhere above her head. Emily tried not to think about sneezing; she tried pinching the bridge of her nose. It was no use. The sneeze was coming. Ah ... Ah ... _Ah ...
oooof!_ The earl had kicked the sack, and his foot had caught her on the side of the head. It had the effect of stifling the sneeze at birth. The kick had been no more than a nudge, but Emily began to think the earl really meant to kill her. If you tied your wife up in a sack and then kicked her in the head, it followed that your feelings toward said wife were not of the sweetest.
At last, she felt herself being lifted up again.
"Looks uncommon like a dead pig you've got in there, m'lord," said the landlord.
"How very clever of you," came the earl's voice. "That is exactly what it is. I never go on any of my honeymoons without a dead pig."
"Eh? Ah, my lord. I was near taking you serious-like. That's a good 'un. I'll tell missus. I never goes on my honeymoon without a dead pig!"
His laughter followed them up the stairs. The earl opened the bedroom door and let out a sigh of relief. He opened the sack and released Emily by simply dragging the sack along the floor until it was clear of her.
"We will go into this matter in the morning, my lady _wife,_" he said. "We are going to bed. Do not look so stricken. I have no intention of touching you."
Emily quailed before the blazing contempt in his eyes. She picked up her nightgown and cap and headed for the parlor door, meaning to change in the privacy of the other room.
He caught her by the hair and jerked her about. "Oh, no, you don't," he grated. "Stand still."
He took her cloak from her shoulders and threw it on a chair. He twisted her about and deftly untied the tapes at the back of her dress and the tapes at her waist. He removed her corset _elastique_ and contemptuously pinged it across the room. She clutched desperately at her shift, but he said coldly, "It either goes over you head or is ripped from your body. Take your pick, madam."
All at once, too tired, too numb with cold to feel ashamed, she raised her arms meekly above her head. He crumpled the shift into a ball, and then dropped her nightgown over her head.
"Sit down by the fire."
Emily sat down while he shoveled coals on the fire. He then carried over a water can and basin, slid off her torn stockings, and bathed her feet. It was all done deftly and impersonally.
He then picked her up, carried her to the bed, and tucked her in.
As he began taking off his own clothes, she turned and buried her suddenly hot face in the pillow.
The terror of what he was about to do to her would, she was sure, effectively keep her awake, but her eyelids drooped and a welcome darkness engulfed her.
The earl climbed into bed and jerked the curtains closed. He lay with his hands behind his head, staring up at the canopy, which was gleaming red from the leaping flames of the
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