distant trees. She nibbled her bottom lip. Just how far did he intend to travel? If they went too far, she would not get back to Tunbridge Wells in time to catch the morning coach.
Her trunk. How could she have been so stupid? She clutched at Mr Evernden’s sleeve.
A stony expression met her gaze. ‘What?’
‘I left my luggage behind.’
‘You can collect it in the morning.’
The savage edge to his tone and the vicious flick of his whip above his horses’ heads gave her but a moment’s pause. ‘We must go back. What if it is stolen?’
‘Miss Boisette, if you think I would set foot in that place again…I have never in my life been ejected from anywhere, let alone a common inn.’ Anger vibrated from him in waves.
She quelled a sudden urge to laugh at his injured expression. ‘Then you have me to thank for a novel experience.’
He scowled.
She’d gone too far. She edged away a fraction.
‘It’s an experience I could have done without,’ he said. ‘And I’d liefer not go through it again. If it is not too much trouble, I would appreciate your behaving with suitable decorum at this next inn.’ Despite his repressive tone, he no longer sounded furious.
A sideways glance revealed his lips in a slight curve. ‘Gad,’ he muttered, staring straight ahead. ‘A novel experience.’
Her lips twitched. She pressed them together, but not before she knew he’d caught the beginning of her smile.
‘Don’t worry about your trunk,’ he said after a brief silence. ‘It will be safe at the Sussex Hotel. The landlord appears to run a tight ship.’
‘As we found to our cost.’
He smiled. ‘Indeed.’
Her breath caught somewhere between her throat and her heart. The grin made him younger, almost boyish. His eyes crinkled at the corners and danced with green pinpricks of light. Unable to resist, she smiled back.
The travelling must have sent her wits to sleep. Signs of friendliness posed risks she dare not entertain. Men were dangerous enough without encouragement. She straightened in her seat and braced herself for what might lie ahead.
At a crossroads, he slowed the horses and turned them off the London Road. Sylvia tried to read the signpost, but the faded letters flashed by too fast. High hedges and overhanging trees cast deep shadows in the rutted, twisting lane. A flutter of disquiet attacked her stomach. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Somewhere we will be welcome, of that I can assure you. It is not far now.’
Did he have to be so mysterious? This stiff young man at her side thought her a wanton. So he should. She’d behaved like a strumpet, gambling everything on his desire to be rid of her. What if he changed his mind? Alone with a young and virile man, who-knew-where, tasted of risk.
Better him, than one of those other men at the Sussex Hotel. Better? A sudden tremble shook her limbs. She clenched her fingers around her locket, a familiar anchor to her past in the storm-tossed ocean of an uncertain future. If it came to a confrontation, somehow she had to make him understand she was not like her mother.
The Bird in Hand’s mullioned windows flickered with warm light, a lighthouse in the deepening dusk. Wood smoke scented the cool air and the front door stood open in welcome.
Christopher hadn’t been here since his grandmother had died, but it looked the same as always. The blackened Tudor timbers breathed permanence, despite the green of new thatch and a recent extension to the adjoining stables. A plaque over the weathered oak door boasted of hosting Good Queen Bessin the year fifteen hundred and fifty-six—along with half of England’s other inns. He brought the horses to a stand.
A balding groom ran out from the stables and grasped the team’s bridles.
A wonderful aroma of roasted meat filled Christopher’s nostrils and set his mouth watering. If he could count on one thing, it was Mrs Dorkin’s cooking.
‘How pretty,’ Miss Boisette said.
‘Yes.’ Christopher rolled
Her trunk. How could she have been so stupid? She clutched at Mr Evernden’s sleeve.
A stony expression met her gaze. ‘What?’
‘I left my luggage behind.’
‘You can collect it in the morning.’
The savage edge to his tone and the vicious flick of his whip above his horses’ heads gave her but a moment’s pause. ‘We must go back. What if it is stolen?’
‘Miss Boisette, if you think I would set foot in that place again…I have never in my life been ejected from anywhere, let alone a common inn.’ Anger vibrated from him in waves.
She quelled a sudden urge to laugh at his injured expression. ‘Then you have me to thank for a novel experience.’
He scowled.
She’d gone too far. She edged away a fraction.
‘It’s an experience I could have done without,’ he said. ‘And I’d liefer not go through it again. If it is not too much trouble, I would appreciate your behaving with suitable decorum at this next inn.’ Despite his repressive tone, he no longer sounded furious.
A sideways glance revealed his lips in a slight curve. ‘Gad,’ he muttered, staring straight ahead. ‘A novel experience.’
Her lips twitched. She pressed them together, but not before she knew he’d caught the beginning of her smile.
‘Don’t worry about your trunk,’ he said after a brief silence. ‘It will be safe at the Sussex Hotel. The landlord appears to run a tight ship.’
‘As we found to our cost.’
He smiled. ‘Indeed.’
Her breath caught somewhere between her throat and her heart. The grin made him younger, almost boyish. His eyes crinkled at the corners and danced with green pinpricks of light. Unable to resist, she smiled back.
The travelling must have sent her wits to sleep. Signs of friendliness posed risks she dare not entertain. Men were dangerous enough without encouragement. She straightened in her seat and braced herself for what might lie ahead.
At a crossroads, he slowed the horses and turned them off the London Road. Sylvia tried to read the signpost, but the faded letters flashed by too fast. High hedges and overhanging trees cast deep shadows in the rutted, twisting lane. A flutter of disquiet attacked her stomach. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Somewhere we will be welcome, of that I can assure you. It is not far now.’
Did he have to be so mysterious? This stiff young man at her side thought her a wanton. So he should. She’d behaved like a strumpet, gambling everything on his desire to be rid of her. What if he changed his mind? Alone with a young and virile man, who-knew-where, tasted of risk.
Better him, than one of those other men at the Sussex Hotel. Better? A sudden tremble shook her limbs. She clenched her fingers around her locket, a familiar anchor to her past in the storm-tossed ocean of an uncertain future. If it came to a confrontation, somehow she had to make him understand she was not like her mother.
The Bird in Hand’s mullioned windows flickered with warm light, a lighthouse in the deepening dusk. Wood smoke scented the cool air and the front door stood open in welcome.
Christopher hadn’t been here since his grandmother had died, but it looked the same as always. The blackened Tudor timbers breathed permanence, despite the green of new thatch and a recent extension to the adjoining stables. A plaque over the weathered oak door boasted of hosting Good Queen Bessin the year fifteen hundred and fifty-six—along with half of England’s other inns. He brought the horses to a stand.
A balding groom ran out from the stables and grasped the team’s bridles.
A wonderful aroma of roasted meat filled Christopher’s nostrils and set his mouth watering. If he could count on one thing, it was Mrs Dorkin’s cooking.
‘How pretty,’ Miss Boisette said.
‘Yes.’ Christopher rolled
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