Edith Layton by Gypsy Lover Page B

feet. The man was stirring. “But not now. Go!”
    Meg fled. She ran into the inn, up the stairs, into her room, bolted the door, and sat on her bed. After a moment, she rose, lit her lamp, and then sat down on the one chair. She sat, shivering, wondering what to do next. What she most wanted to do was hide.
    But she waited. By the time she became aware that she was cold, it was growing late, and the night was passing. It was dead silent, and for the first time she began thinking about what to do next. She wouldn’t go to bed. Sleep would make her vulnerable. But when first light appeared, she’d watch from her window, be sure that the villains were nowhere in sight,then creep down the stair, avoid the treacherous serving maid, and get on the first coach going in any direction.
    That decided, Meg breathed normally for the first time in a very long time.
    A clattering at her window made her shoot to her feet, and begin to edge back toward the door. Then she froze, wondering if someone was throwing things at her window precisely so she would leave her room, so they could grab her when she did. She looked around wildly, but saw no weapon with which she could defend herself. The lamp by the bedside might catch her sleeves on fire if she hurled it. The bag she traveled with was too soft to hurt anyone. There wasn’t a hearth in the wretched little room, so there wasn’t even a fire poker to defend herself with.
    She suddenly thought of the only possible lethal weapon at her command. She snatched it up. Then she edged away until she stood with her back to the door. She raised her weapon and looked at the window, breathing rapidly, waiting for the inevitable, whatever it might be.
    The shutters flew inward. A dark shape slipped inside, and stooped when it saw her.
    “Is that for me?” Daffyd asked, gesturing toward the heavy chamber pot she’d raised over her head. “Thankee. Considerate of you. But I don’t need it. I had the whole outdoors to use just now.”
    “Why didn’t you come in the door?” she demanded, still holding the chamber pot over her head.
    “Oh. And I suppose you’d have let me in if I knocked?” he asked sweetly.
    “If you said who you were.”
    “Right. And since I didn’t want anyone to know, I’d have whispered. So if you didn’t hear me, I’d have had to shout. Then the world would know you had a man coming to your room.” He cocked his head to the side. “Or did you want that?”
    “No,” she said, “Of course not, no.”
    “You might as well put it down,” he said conversationally, eyeing the way her arms were wavering under the weight of the chamber pot. “If it slips you’ll have the mother of all headaches. Is it full, by the way?”
    “Oh,” Meg said, lowering her arms and looking at what she held. “No, of course not, no.”
    He noted her pallor, her breathless, repetitive speech. He frowned. Then his voice changed, grew softer, gentler. “Put it on the floor,” he told her. “Things get heavier the longer you hold them. Then sit down. The men who bothered you won’t be back. I won’t hurt you. You’re safe. Really.” He reached out a hand. “If you can’t put it down, give it to me. No sense hanging on to it. Or is there?”
    “No, of course not, no,” she said, and held the chamber pot out to him.
    He took it, put it on the floor, and studied her. Her eyes were wide, her face was white, and her breathing was quick and shallow. He’d seen this before. “Just sit,” he said. “We’ll talk. When you feel like it. You’re fine, it’s fine, nothing will hurt you now.”
    She stood still.
    He sighed. “I promise,” he said quietly. “I won’t hurt you.”
    She believed him. She suddenly realized that what he said was true. It was over. She was safe. He hadn’t attacked her, he’d saved her. She made a queer little sound, like a stifled sob, and looked at him directly for the first time since he’d come into her room. “Thank you,” she said.