The rain turned into a biblical downpour during the last agonizing mile. Emmy trudged alongside Harland and the horse, her shoes squelching in the puddles, her teeth chattering with the cold.
Darkness had fallen swiftly over the countryside, and there was little moonlight to help show the way. She followed them almost by sound, by the suck and splash of the horse’s hooves in the mud, cursing the ache in her legs and the fact that the thin soles of her stupid slippers provided almost no protection against the rocky ground.
Her stockings were soaked, her sodden skirts a heavy encumbrance that made every step more difficult. She was so hungry, she was almost faint with fatigue.
No other travelers passed them on the road. No one else was foolish enough to be out in such weather. Emmy blinked through the teeming rain, which seemed to be going sideways rather than straight down, driven by a blustery, malevolent wind.
Harland’s voice floated back to her. “It rained like this on the morning of Waterloo. It was miserable. But the rain might have been what won the day for us. The French cannons got stuck in the mud. They left them behind when they retreated, and we were able to capture most of them.”
One such cannon had injured him. Emmy sent up a brief prayer of thanks that he’d been spared. However miserable he was now, at least he was alive. Able to savor the rain on his skin. Able to harass poor innocent criminals like herself.
The higgledy-piggledy outline of the Bertie Arms finally came into view, and she let out a sigh. It was even worse than she remembered. Torrents of water streamed from the low-pitched roof and the timber-framed facade barely looked capable of supporting the upper floors. The entire structure seemed to be held up by a wish and a prayer.
Harland’s features became more distinct as they staggered into the inn yard, lit by a feeble lantern flickering valiantly against the gusty wind. Emmy’s stomach dropped at the thought of spending a night in such a place, but anywhere was better than being out here in the dark and the rain. Even if the place had fleas, rats, and cobwebs, at least it would be warm and dry.
A scrawny youth scurried out of the barn and led the horse away, and Harland headed for the ramshackle front door, which looked as though it was barely hanging on by its hinges.
“We’ll pose as man and wife,” he muttered. “We’ll share a room.”
Emmy scowled, but didn’t argue. Whether it was for her protection, or simply because he didn’t trust her not to run, she didn’t care. She was too cold and too miserable. She clutched her travelling bag to her stomach.
In very little time, the greasy-haired landlord—no doubt having ascertained the quality of Harland’s clothing in one practiced glance, despite the mud, and identifying a wealthy patron—had shown them past a crowded taproom and up an unreliable set of stairs to what he proudly told them was “the best room in the inn.” He clearly didn’t believe Harland’s introduction of them as “Mister and Mrs. Brown.”
Harland took charge, ordering a warm brick to be placed in the bed, and a hot bath to be sent up immediately. Warm soup, bread. Candles—beeswax, not tallow.
The landlord touched his forelock respectfully. “Yes, sir.”
The man had probably never had a member of the aristocracy under his roof before. Emmy kept forgetting that Harland was an earl in his own right, as well as the second son of a duke. Even without using his title, he had a natural air of command that elicited almost universal respect. It must be a result of his army training.
She exhaled in relief when she saw the fire in the hearth. Harland strode forward and kicked it with his foot to rekindle it, then added two more logs, and she held her hands out to the feeble warmth, pathetically grateful.
The room was small, with one canopied bed, a single drop-leaf table flanked by two chairs, a washstand, whose broken front leg was propped up with a gilt-edged Bible, and a rickety-looking chest of drawers that lacked all but two knobs.
Harland let out a deep sigh, then turned and extended his arm out toward her. “Grab hold of my cuff, would you? There’s no way I can get this jacket off without assistance.”
Emmy was still shrouded under his greatcoat, clutching the edges with fingers that seemed frozen in place. Her hair was wet through, the ends dripping mournfully down her back, and her skirts were making a puddle on the threadbare rug beneath her. Bracing herself for the rush of cold air, she shrugged the coat off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor in a sodden heap along with her bag, then grabbed Harland’s sleeve and tugged hard as he pulled first one arm, then the other, from the wet garment.
He tossed it onto one of the chairs, then unknotted the rumpled cravat from around his neck and laid it aside.
“You need to get out of those wet things. You’ll catch your death. Sit near the fire and dry your hair. I’ll see about something hot to drink.”
He left before she could frame a response.
Emmy sank onto one of the hard chairs. She’d never been so cold, nor so despondent. This storm was a disaster. Danton had only given her until tomorrow evening to get the jewels, and they still had a good six hours to travel in the morning—assuming they could procure a new carriage. She didn’t want to imagine what would happen to Luc if she didn’t get back in time.
Nausea racked her body. Could she persuade Harland to hire a horse and take the jewels back to London without her? Could she trust him to send them to Danton, so that he released her brother, before he set his trap to catch the Frenchman?
It was probably a moot point. He wouldn’t leave her here alone and forfeit his capture of the Nightjar. He wanted both her and Danton.
Her teeth began to chatter, either in fear or cold, and she hugged her arms around her waist in misery. What she wouldn’t give for a nice cup of tea. Her head was pounding, her fingers and toes aching now they were warming up again.
Harland was right. She couldn’t stay in her wet clothes. With a grimace, she managed to undo a couple of the buttons at the back of her dress, then tugged the sopping gown over her head. Cotton ripped, and buttons bounced across the floor, but the thing was ruined anyway, so what did it matter? She stripped off her wet petticoat, stays, and chemise, and sent up a grateful prayer that she’d brought a change of clothes.
Fearful that Harland might come back at any moment, she pulled on a dry chemise and wrapped herself in the blanket that draped the bed. It covered her from shoulder to ankle.
The door opened, and she glanced up to see Harland with a maid behind him, carrying a tray. The girl set it on the table and lit a candle on the corner of the dresser. “Your bath’ll be up shortly, ma’am.”
Harland nodded, and she bobbed a curtsey, and left.
He gestured toward the tray. “I got you tea,” he said gruffly. “With milk and sugar. And soup. I hope that’s all right.”
Emmy almost scowled at him for being so kind. She was used to high-handed, imperious, Harland. Thoughtful, solicitous Harland was so much harder to keep at bay. Tears prickled her eyes, and she blinked them away. She hated crying. Weakness. She was just at a low ebb, that was all.
Thankfully he’d already turned away and didn’t see her shameful lapse. The bed creaked as he sat on the edge and removed his boots with great difficulty, leaving him in shirt, breeches, and stockings. Emmy averted her gaze from the way his wet breeches clung lovingly to his legs.
“Drink the soup,” he ordered.
Against all expectations, the stew was hot and delicious. Emmy felt better with every mouthful. Harland took the chair across the scarred table from her and made quick work of his own bowl, and Emmy had the strangest thought that this was what it would have been like if they really had been married: Mister Brown and his wife, sharing their meal in quiet companionship.
Harland looked so approachable, so human. In his open-necked shirt, with his hair damp and tousled, he could have been a rugged laborer fresh from the fields, instead of one of the most elevated members of society.
A feeling of regret, of wistfulness, slid over her as she watched him eat. If she’d been an ordinary girl instead of a criminal, able to choose her own destiny, she would have wanted something exactly like this: a husband, a family, a home. Her stomach clenched in misery. This was a cruel glimpse into a future she could never have.
She wanted a man she could trust with her secrets. Someone with a quick wit and a wicked sense of humor. A contradiction of a man—strong shoulders and gentle hands. A man who wouldn’t bore her, or belittle her, or mock her, except to tease in a loving way. A good-hearted man who would open doors for her and was kind to dogs. A man like him, who would give up his coat and shiver just to keep her warm.
She trusted him. She loved him. She was an idiot.