she rambled about her plans for the future, Meagan busied herself by washing with cold water and a rough cloth, trying to ignore her. When the innkeeper's wife arrived with a tray of food, the two girls sat down facing each other, sharing the wobbly table between the beds. The stew held more barley than beef and seemed to have cooled down considerably during the trip upstairs. Priscilla pushed around in the bowl with her spoon, searching for meat and smiling to herself.
"What do you look so pleased about?" Meagan demanded.
"I was just wondering where I'll be dining tomorrow night... I'll wager that I'll be living like a queen by then. Did you hear Lion mention the name Bingham? Do you suppose he knows them? I've heard such tales from James about their house! It's supposed to be modeled after the Duke of Manchester's, only Anne Bingham wanted it grander—"
"If I were you I'd tread a little more cautiously," Meagan broke in curtly, "If you don't use more discretion in your dealings with Captain Hampshire, you may find yourself eating with me in the kitchen!"
Priscilla wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue, a gesture which ended in a huge yawn. Stretching like a cat, she lay back on her bed and was fast asleep, the empty wine glass dangling from her slender fingers.
Meagan sighed as she leaned over to remove it and spread a quilt across her friend. By now the stew was cold. The fresh decanter of wine beckoned to her, and after pouring a glass, she leaned back against the feather pillows. Dusk had darkened into night by the time she finished the wine and ceased her brooding. On an impulse, she decided to venture downstairs. There was a longing inside her for honest human contact, a craving for laughter.
An oil lamp had been lit in the paneled hallway, throwing elongated shadows down the steps. Meagan descended quietly, listening to the muffled voices that drifted up from the kitchen and the taproom. Although she had been hoping to run across the friendly wife or daughter of some fellow traveler, the first person she saw in the taproom was Lion Hampshire. The room was not empty. A handful of men were gathered around a large gate-leg table arguing over a sheaf of papers, two more were hunched across a game table, and one lone fellow snored against the wall near the fireplace. Lion sat not far away, scowling at a newspaper while drinking from a stoneware jug. Gilded by the firelight, he looked more handsome than ever.
The wine gave Meagan courage to venture in among the men, and she walked up to Lion and peeked over the top of the paper. "Hello."
He turned his chin a fraction as he observed her, squaring his jaw. Meagan noticed the hair that showed above the open collar of his shirt, curling against his nut-brown neck. She felt alarmed at the sudden pounding of her heart.
"Ahh, Meagan. Is anything wrong? Has Her Highness made a proclamation?" He smiled a little, in spite of himself, and Meagan's own mouth twitched helplessly.
"No, as a matter of fact, she's asleep."
"Then, why—?"
"I'm bored silly, and that dark room was driving me to distraction." She glanced longingly at the chair next to his. "Would you mind very much if I sat down for just a few minutes?"
"Be my guest. I apologize for not offering you a seat sooner.
She sank down, spreading her skirts.
"Let me get you a glass of wine," Lion said, gesturing to the tavern keeper. From behind his cage-topped bar, the burly man poured the glass and brought it across the room, eyeing them knowingly.
"I can see why you might feel a little crazed after an evening shut up with Priscilla," Lion remarked.
Startled by his comment, she decided to speak her mind. "Pardon me for saying so, but I think that's a rather odd attitude for a man to hold about his bride-to-be!"
"You're absolutely right."
"You admit it?" she exclaimed incredulously.
"I fear I must. I have no talent for deception." He smiled slightly, but there was an unmistakable bitterness in his
"What do you look so pleased about?" Meagan demanded.
"I was just wondering where I'll be dining tomorrow night... I'll wager that I'll be living like a queen by then. Did you hear Lion mention the name Bingham? Do you suppose he knows them? I've heard such tales from James about their house! It's supposed to be modeled after the Duke of Manchester's, only Anne Bingham wanted it grander—"
"If I were you I'd tread a little more cautiously," Meagan broke in curtly, "If you don't use more discretion in your dealings with Captain Hampshire, you may find yourself eating with me in the kitchen!"
Priscilla wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue, a gesture which ended in a huge yawn. Stretching like a cat, she lay back on her bed and was fast asleep, the empty wine glass dangling from her slender fingers.
Meagan sighed as she leaned over to remove it and spread a quilt across her friend. By now the stew was cold. The fresh decanter of wine beckoned to her, and after pouring a glass, she leaned back against the feather pillows. Dusk had darkened into night by the time she finished the wine and ceased her brooding. On an impulse, she decided to venture downstairs. There was a longing inside her for honest human contact, a craving for laughter.
An oil lamp had been lit in the paneled hallway, throwing elongated shadows down the steps. Meagan descended quietly, listening to the muffled voices that drifted up from the kitchen and the taproom. Although she had been hoping to run across the friendly wife or daughter of some fellow traveler, the first person she saw in the taproom was Lion Hampshire. The room was not empty. A handful of men were gathered around a large gate-leg table arguing over a sheaf of papers, two more were hunched across a game table, and one lone fellow snored against the wall near the fireplace. Lion sat not far away, scowling at a newspaper while drinking from a stoneware jug. Gilded by the firelight, he looked more handsome than ever.
The wine gave Meagan courage to venture in among the men, and she walked up to Lion and peeked over the top of the paper. "Hello."
He turned his chin a fraction as he observed her, squaring his jaw. Meagan noticed the hair that showed above the open collar of his shirt, curling against his nut-brown neck. She felt alarmed at the sudden pounding of her heart.
"Ahh, Meagan. Is anything wrong? Has Her Highness made a proclamation?" He smiled a little, in spite of himself, and Meagan's own mouth twitched helplessly.
"No, as a matter of fact, she's asleep."
"Then, why—?"
"I'm bored silly, and that dark room was driving me to distraction." She glanced longingly at the chair next to his. "Would you mind very much if I sat down for just a few minutes?"
"Be my guest. I apologize for not offering you a seat sooner.
She sank down, spreading her skirts.
"Let me get you a glass of wine," Lion said, gesturing to the tavern keeper. From behind his cage-topped bar, the burly man poured the glass and brought it across the room, eyeing them knowingly.
"I can see why you might feel a little crazed after an evening shut up with Priscilla," Lion remarked.
Startled by his comment, she decided to speak her mind. "Pardon me for saying so, but I think that's a rather odd attitude for a man to hold about his bride-to-be!"
"You're absolutely right."
"You admit it?" she exclaimed incredulously.
"I fear I must. I have no talent for deception." He smiled slightly, but there was an unmistakable bitterness in his
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