craning her head to look about the common inn room as if it were a palace chamber. The innkeeper said nothing, but the knowing disdain in his eyes spoke volumes.
Nathaniel's protective hackles rose. "On second thought, we will share a chamber," he ordered. "Your largest chamber."
Miss Trent brought her attention back to the conversation at that. She shot a questioning look at Nathaniel, who shrugged. He pulled the innkeeper aside for a brief sotto voce discussion. Then Nathaniel grabbed their sacks, tossed them over his shoulder, and tilted his head at the stairs. He went up them without waiting for her.
Willa hesitated at the foot of the stairs. Despite Mr. Stonewell's interesting attributes she was in no hurry to begin her wedding night.
The burly man came and went, bringing items to and from the kitchen.
He kept his gaze openly on her while he moved about the room, sweeping so idly that it could be nothing but a pretense.
Well, then. Yes. Definitely time to follow Nathaniel. Willa shot up the stairs, feeling the man's eyes on her back all the way up.
Mr. Stonewell stood at the top of the stairs against the candlelight, looming just a bit. Willa swallowed. Big scary man downstairs, big semiscary man upstairs. Decisions, decisions.
"Aren't you coming to bed?"
Miss Trent stood apparently frozen there on the middle step, watching him. Her eyes were as wide as twin blue moons in the meager candlelight.
What was the matter with the girl? When he'd realized she wasn't right behind him he'd thought she might have ducked out to the necessary. He'd waited, just a moment, before remembering the innkeeper's assumption.
"I really think it would be best if you stayed with me at all times, miss—ah, Willa," he said gently. She didn't respond. If he was not mistaken, she was actually holding her breath. Why? What had he—
Aren't you coming to bed?
Ah
. He cleared his throat. "I did not mean—" He stopped. There was no real hope of clearing that one up here in the hallway. He stepped back and bowed, gesturing toward the open door of the room. "Your chamber awaits, milady," he said grimly.
She lifted one foot to the next step, then hesitated again. "
My
chamber? Don't you mean ours? I am your wife."
Well, actually, no, not really
. Something else best not discussed in the hall. "I will take the floor," he assured her.
For some reason, she did not seem as relieved by that as he would have thought. She sent him a peevish glance and stomped the rest of the way up the stairs, sweeping past him—if he was not severely mistaken—with a decided sniff.
What had he done this time?
He followed her to their rough room and shut the door, closing them in together.
Willa started at the turn of the key in the lock. She shivered. The room was chill, of course. This was not a true haven of hospitality like John and Moira's inn. No one had come up before them to light the hearth or to warm between the sheets with a pan full of hot coals, something Willa had done many times for guests in the past.
She knelt to the hearth to do it herself with the tinder-box supplied on the mantle. Mr. Stonewell peered over her shoulder to see what she was doing. "Here, now. I'll take care of that."
"Already done," Willa said cheerfully, and it was. Within seconds she'd struck the steel against the flint, creating sparks to drop onto the tinder beneath where the meager coals sat on the grate. She stood, dusting her hands. "It won't warm up in here for hours, unfortunately."
She turned to see Mr. Stonewell gazing at her strangely. "What is the matter?"
He blinked. "Nothing at all. I simply don't know many women who can start their own fire."
Willa snorted. "Then I daresay you must not know many women." She stepped to one side, hoping he'd take the hint and move away so she could get past. He didn't, only remained there, gazing at her as if he were seeing her for the first time.
Suddenly Willa became very aware of the fact that she was alone with
Nathaniel's protective hackles rose. "On second thought, we will share a chamber," he ordered. "Your largest chamber."
Miss Trent brought her attention back to the conversation at that. She shot a questioning look at Nathaniel, who shrugged. He pulled the innkeeper aside for a brief sotto voce discussion. Then Nathaniel grabbed their sacks, tossed them over his shoulder, and tilted his head at the stairs. He went up them without waiting for her.
Willa hesitated at the foot of the stairs. Despite Mr. Stonewell's interesting attributes she was in no hurry to begin her wedding night.
The burly man came and went, bringing items to and from the kitchen.
He kept his gaze openly on her while he moved about the room, sweeping so idly that it could be nothing but a pretense.
Well, then. Yes. Definitely time to follow Nathaniel. Willa shot up the stairs, feeling the man's eyes on her back all the way up.
Mr. Stonewell stood at the top of the stairs against the candlelight, looming just a bit. Willa swallowed. Big scary man downstairs, big semiscary man upstairs. Decisions, decisions.
"Aren't you coming to bed?"
Miss Trent stood apparently frozen there on the middle step, watching him. Her eyes were as wide as twin blue moons in the meager candlelight.
What was the matter with the girl? When he'd realized she wasn't right behind him he'd thought she might have ducked out to the necessary. He'd waited, just a moment, before remembering the innkeeper's assumption.
"I really think it would be best if you stayed with me at all times, miss—ah, Willa," he said gently. She didn't respond. If he was not mistaken, she was actually holding her breath. Why? What had he—
Aren't you coming to bed?
Ah
. He cleared his throat. "I did not mean—" He stopped. There was no real hope of clearing that one up here in the hallway. He stepped back and bowed, gesturing toward the open door of the room. "Your chamber awaits, milady," he said grimly.
She lifted one foot to the next step, then hesitated again. "
My
chamber? Don't you mean ours? I am your wife."
Well, actually, no, not really
. Something else best not discussed in the hall. "I will take the floor," he assured her.
For some reason, she did not seem as relieved by that as he would have thought. She sent him a peevish glance and stomped the rest of the way up the stairs, sweeping past him—if he was not severely mistaken—with a decided sniff.
What had he done this time?
He followed her to their rough room and shut the door, closing them in together.
Willa started at the turn of the key in the lock. She shivered. The room was chill, of course. This was not a true haven of hospitality like John and Moira's inn. No one had come up before them to light the hearth or to warm between the sheets with a pan full of hot coals, something Willa had done many times for guests in the past.
She knelt to the hearth to do it herself with the tinder-box supplied on the mantle. Mr. Stonewell peered over her shoulder to see what she was doing. "Here, now. I'll take care of that."
"Already done," Willa said cheerfully, and it was. Within seconds she'd struck the steel against the flint, creating sparks to drop onto the tinder beneath where the meager coals sat on the grate. She stood, dusting her hands. "It won't warm up in here for hours, unfortunately."
She turned to see Mr. Stonewell gazing at her strangely. "What is the matter?"
He blinked. "Nothing at all. I simply don't know many women who can start their own fire."
Willa snorted. "Then I daresay you must not know many women." She stepped to one side, hoping he'd take the hint and move away so she could get past. He didn't, only remained there, gazing at her as if he were seeing her for the first time.
Suddenly Willa became very aware of the fact that she was alone with
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