To her surprise, Emile grinned. He set one hand upon her shoulder. "That's just what I'm afraid of."
Lucy blinked. More warmth. In fact, it was happening again, right now, that strange closeness between them. Only this time, he really had touched her. Lucy bore the weight of his hand on her shoulder and felt downright giddy. The touch, the way he was smiling at her—
Why, it was almost like...affection.
Emile's eyes darkened. His golden smile faltered. With strange wariness, he lifted his hand from her shoulder.
"And ye'll want t'make sure not to keep any oats about," the stoop-backed man droned on. "Oats're plain dear and a horse can git along wi'out 'em."
Emile's eyes averted. Nodding brusquely, he backed away, right into the door. With uncharacteristic clumsiness, he fumbled it open and stumbled through.
"And clean linens," the stoop-backed former owner continued. "The guests'll be clamoring after them, too, but don't you pay 'em no mind."
No longer warm, Lucy stared at the door through which her husband had just disappeared. There. That was more like the Emile she knew, running away from her, afraid and antipathetic.
But for a moment there, for one luminous moment, it had been...different.
"Are you listenin' to me?" the stoop-backed former owner demanded.
Surprised, Lucy jerked her eyes from the door. "Oh, yes. I am listening." She stopped to clear her clogged throat. "In sooth, I have not missed a single word."
~~~
In the dim stairwell, Emile passed a shaking hand across his forehead. He was saved having to wonder what had just happened between himself and Lucy in the storeroom by Gawain coming down the stairs. The lanky steward was the one servant Lucy had not sent home.
Emile paused with one hand to his temple.
Gawain hesitated in his progress down the stairs.
The two men stared at each other.
Then, his brows rising superciliously, Gawain continued his graceful float downward.
"So?" Emile asked as Gawain swept past him. "Did you write it?"
Gawain did not pause in his downward progress. "I wrote it," he muttered. "For all the good it will do."
Emile hopped down the stairs after Gawain. "What do you mean, for all the good it'll do?"
Gawain spoke to the air in front of him. "Latham is not about to come save us."
Emile snorted as Gawain reached the bottom of the stairs. "Lucy's wagon and all of her servants show up in Bonham with a tale of bloodthirsty robbery—? Of course he'll come save her. At a run."
"Hmpf." Gawain's boots echoed as he crossed the empty tavern room. He exited through a door on the opposite side of the room.
Emile followed him.
The night Lucy had announced she was buying the tavern, Emile had known it would be impossible to talk her out of the scheme. He'd also known that use of reason was not the only remedy. He could get her father to come fetch her.
Latham would come. Of course he would. What was Gawain talking about? Emile strode after the steward, straight into the kitchen.
"Hey!" Emile came to a stop in the center of the room. He made a slow revolution. "Where is everyone?"
Gawain opened a cupboard. He peered inside. "Exodus," he scoffed. "En masse."
"Ah ha!" Emile held up an index finger. "No staff. Did you put that in your letter?"
Gawain straightened from the cupboard and turned around. "You simply will not understand."
"What?"
"Latham believes in Lucy. She wrote her own letter, you know. And if she said that she can make this work, her father will take her at her word—not at yours."
Emile chewed on the whiskers beneath his lower lip. "Do you think she can make it work?"
Gawain's gaze went off past Emile's shoulder. "No."
Emile nodded. "Then Latham will not believe it, either."
Gawain's gaze shot back to Emile. "Latham has not seen what I have. He has not seen what has become of Lucy since we left home—how she has changed."
Emile stilled. "How she has changed?"
Gawain simply stared at Emile.
Emile slowly turned hot, starting with his feet planted wide on the rushes of the kitchen floor and curling upward to his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Lucy had not changed, he wanted to protest. But the look in Gawain's eye, the heat seeping up, told him different.
"It was the robbery," Emile claimed. "The woman's been soft in the head ever since."
Gawain just kept looking at him.
The heat curled and twisted and became something more like bonds, a heavy rope knotting in Emile's chest. It was the robbery, he wanted to shout. Lucy had made up a whole fantasy husband from that event. Emile hadn't done anything to her.
Gawain's voice was low and deadly. "Harm a hair on her head, and you will be sorry for it."
Emile sliced a hand through the air. "It is not me." But at the same time he had to wonder: what if it was him—just him, the real man and not the hero? Ever since he'd been arguing with Lucy about going home and buying the tavern, she'd been treating him with less solicitude, less honor. A great deal less. In fact, she seemed to have forgotten all about the hero in the forest.
But even though she was no longer regarding Emile as a hero, she did not appear put off by him. In fact, just a few minutes ago in the little storeroom, she had looked up at Emile, Emile-no-longer-the-hero, with an expression completely inappropriate to the signing of legal papers. It had been an expression so warm it was still making his belly tight.
"Even if it is me," Emile conceded, "I wouldn't do anything about it. Not harm or—or anything else."
Gawain's eyes briefly flared. "Indeed. And what is to stop you—but me?"
Emile opened his mouth. There was plenty to stop him. He was planning to leave Lucy. Very soon. Perhaps he should tell Gawain that, explain about his coming untimely 'demise.' That should satisfy the other man.
Or, perhaps it would not. Perhaps Gawain would question how Emile's future departure had anything to do with his present sinful designs.
Emile was searching for some way to appease the steward when a female voice brought both men's heads around.
"Hello?" Low and husky, the voice came from the garden door. "Is anybody here?"
Over the threshold stepped a buxom wench dressed as a barmaid. Thick tresses of blond hair were stuffed beneath her shawl. The woman came to a dead halt upon spying Gawain.
To Emile's utter astonishment, Gawain turned a bright shade of red. "What do you want here?" the steward demanded.
The barmaid tilted her chin saucily. "I want to speak to the master."
"The master!" Gawain gave an impressive snort. "And what would the likes of you have to say to him?"
"The likes of me?" The barmaid raised her eyebrows. "Why, I'm no better than I pretend to be. Which is more than I can say for some fellows standing right here in this room."
Gawain's face went even redder. "I did nothing to be ashamed of."
She scoffed. "Spying on me at my work!"
"Your work!" Gawain looked like a beet. "You were working on your—"
"Er, I am the master," Emile decided to claim. If someone didn't do something soon, Gawain was going to have an apoplectic fit. Emile turned to the barmaid with a smile. "Pray, what did you want to speak to me about?"
The barmaid's contemptuous demeanor instantly disappeared. With a very different expression, she asked Emile, "I want to know if 'tis true."
"Eh, if what is true?"
Her fingers tangled in the ends of her shawl. "I want to know if 'tis true I can keep my place. Here, that is. As a maid."
Gawain gasped. "Brazen!"
The maid ignored him. She fixed her gaze on Emile, her fingers tightening on her shawl.
Amused by Gawain's response to her, Emile considered the wench. She looked clean, reasonably intelligent, hale. He thought of his wife. Lucy refused to go home, she had just bought the tavern, and she did not have a soul to work for her. Knowi
ng Lucy, she would forbear hiring anyone in order to save money.
"It might not be a bad idea," Emile muttered.
"What?" Gawain yelped.
"Lucy could use some help, else she'll try to make over this entire place by herself. And she said any who were willing to work could stay on."
"What?" Gawain pointed a long bony finger toward the barmaid. "You cannot mean to hire her. I tell you, she is a—a—woman!"
Both Emile and the barmaid turned to stare at Gawain.
Gawain jerked himself straight. "I mean a—that kind of a woman. You know what I mean."
Yes, Emile knew what he meant, but he chose to ignore it. For one thing, he could see the woman's fingers were so tight on her shawl they were white. She was desperate. And he was sincere in wanting to hire help for Lucy. A desperate barmaid would probably work for wages low enough that Lucy would be willing to pay them. Besides, the woman made Gawain uncomfortable.
Emile nodded importantly. "'Twere Lucy's own words, she would keep any who are willing to work." He peered at the barmaid. "So, then. What is your name, sweet?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Moll, and there's no sweet about it."
Emile poked his tongue into his cheek. "Well, Moll. You may not be sweet, but you are willing to work, aren't you?"
She lifted her chin. "Oh, aye. Just give me a chance."
"A chance! Did you hear that?" Emile gestured triumphantly at Gawain. "The wench wants a chance. And who are we—good Christians—to deny her that chance?"
Gawain drew himself up. "I would never stand in the way of a sinner's true repentance."
"There!" Emile pronounced as if that settled everything.
Gawain glared at the barmaid. "Penitent?" he asked sarcastically.
The barmaid grinned. "You heard the master. A good Christian, he is."
Gawain narrowed his eyes. "I will believe your 'penitence,' miss, when I see it. And when I do not—" He gave a dire, warning glare to her, shot a good bit of it toward Emile, and then stomped from the room.
As soon as the door had shut after him, the barmaid sniffed. "Self-righteous ass."
Emile could hardly disagree with this assessment, but he looked to the side and rubbed his chin.
The barmaid turned to him, belligerent. "You will not be sorry you hired me."
"I won't?" Emile asked and then cleared his throat. "I mean, of course I won't. It's just—" He stopped to cough, unable to look at the wench. It was not his place to tell a person how to live her life. It certainly was not his place to stand in the way of anyone's survival. But he had Lucy to consider. "It's just—this is to be a respectable establishment now. You will have to...help maintain that respectability. Ahem. If you know what I mean."
She was not insulted. Rather, she raised her brows at him, wry. "Why, you are not so very different from the other one."
"Eh—?"
"Not so very different at all. You cannot enjoy the deed yourself, so you want to make sure none of the other fellows has any fun, either." She laughed knowingly.
Emile gave her a sidelong look. How did the wench know he had not bedded Lucy?
She waved a hand. "Does not matter to me. Make yourself feel better however you like. Just so long as I can keep my place."
"You can, as long as you—"
"Yes, yes. I understand." The woman rolled her eyes. "Where shall I start?"
Sucking in his lips, Emile pointed in the direction of the stairs. This responsibility, at least, he could pass off to someone else. "The mistress is up there. You'd better ask her."
Moll gazed in the direction Emile pointed. A momentary doubt flickered over her face. "Well, I never heard of her doing anything to a woman," she muttered. Shrugging, she made for the door.
Emile shut his eyes. Oh. So that's what the maid had meant about him not enjoying the deed. She thought— Pest, she must have heard the stupid story from one of Lucy's servants during the few days they'd been in town.
Opening his eyes again, Emile shook his head. If they all only knew... The expression on Lucy's face in the storeroom a few minutes ago would have warmed the blood of any man toward whom it had been directed.
Her expression had been not only desirous, but also warm, full of something close to affection.
Affection? Emile abruptly straightened. Oh, no. He wasn't interested in anything like such an emotion from Lucy. He was not going to get involved.
True, he would make sure Lucy was safe until her father came to fetch her. But once that happy event occurred, he would be a free man again. No ties, no promises.
That way no one could get hurt.
He relaxed at the thought. All he had to do was wait for Latham to arrive.
How long could that be, anyway?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was impossible to get him alone. While Lucy had scrubbed and cleaned, torn down moldy plaster and dragged from room to room what furniture remained usable, she had waited for an opportunity to speak to her husband and release him from the marriage.
But the man was as elusive as an eel. Only when there were other people around did she find Emile in the same room with her. And though he slept in the chamber outside her own, he woke too early for her to find him in the morning. At night, he stayed out late—she knew not where. Exhausted from her labors during the day, she fell asleep before he came home.
All this was true, but was any of it an excuse?
Of course not. The problem was that an idiot idea had got into her brain.
Maybe he liked her.
It was an impossibly stupid idea, but she couldn't get rid of it. Maybe he liked her. Maybe when she finally did manage to have her talk with him—just maybe—he might not take off immediately. Perhaps he might...dally.
Of course, Lucy feared putting such an idiot idea to the test. No wonder she hadn't been able to maneuver her husband alone. She didn't want to find out she was wrong.
She was a terrible person.
On a brisk morning five days after Emile had signed the papers purchasing the tavern, Lucy could no longer stand her own self-deception. She decided she would simply have to create an opportunity to speak with her husband. She'd run out of urgent tasks to accomplish and no longer had an excuse to delay.
Although they had yet to receive any customers, Lucy had a batch of rolls baking in the oven of the large tavern kitchen. Moll swept a floor that was already spotless, and Gawain sat in a corner working on a broken harness they'd found in the barn.
Picking up one of the gleaming pewter mugs, Lucy took a rag to polish it yet more. Biting her lower lip, she stole a glance across the room.
Emile tuned a lute in the corner. The instrument was obviously giving him trouble, almost sliding into tune before sailing wildly out again.
Every time the lute exhibited this misbehavior, Emile would look up and gaze out the open door toward the kitchen garden, as if he were expecting someone to arrive from that direction and aid him in the exercise.
Lucy chewed on her lip. This was as good an opportunity as any for getting him alone. If she managed it, then she would find out. Did he like her even a little bit? Her stomach knotted.
Taking a deep breath, she turned to Gawain. "How does that harness come?" If he finished it, he could take it back to the barn. Lucy would find some errand on which to send Moll. She'd have Emile to herself.
But Gawain's scowl didn't bode well for completion of his task. "It comes, mistress."
Moll stopped sweeping long enough to bark a mocking snort. "I doubt anything that man touches would come."
Emile's head shot up from his lute. He sent Moll an alarmed look, obviously warning, though of what Lucy could not fathom. He then switched his gaze to herself, as if checking to see if she were angry.
She wished he would not look at her that way, as if he were afraid of her. Why did he not look at her the way he had the day he'd signed the papers, as if he might like her?
Perhaps because you are still holding the threat of the gallow
s over him.
Lucy coughed. "Ah, my rolls!" From the opening of the oven, she could smell they were done. It was too late to think of a way to get rid of the servants. Lucy set down the mug she'd been polishing and picked up a wooden peel. Shoving it into the oven, she got the tool under the rolls and slid them out. The aroma of freshly baked bread spread freely through the room.
Judging by the direction of his gaze, Emile was attracted by the scent.
Perhaps her fresh rolls would create an opening. Smiling shyly, Lucy offered, "Would you like to try one?"
He hesitated. Afraid to accept a favor? But with a shrug, he set down his lute. "Could you not find yourself a baker in town?" He ambled over.
Lucy averted her eyes and set the peel down on a counter. "Ah...no one competent was available for hire." In sooth, she had not looked to hire a baker. Neither had she looked for a cook, a groom, or any other help beside the maid Emile had foisted on her. She could not afford such...yet.
Emile plucked up one of the rolls, tossed it from one hand to another to cool it and then snatched it for a bite. After swallowing, he looked toward Lucy with widened eyes. "'Tis good."
It was difficult to hide her gratification. Trying not to blush, she said, "I'm glad you like it."
She could almost swear Emile blushed, too. For a magical moment they looked at each other.
Again. Oh, it was happening again, a drop of evidence he might like her.
Emile cleared his throat and looked down. "I do like it and will gladly take another." He reached over the batch.
"Nay." Lucy batted his hand. "The rest are for our guests."
"We have guests?"
Lucy lifted her chin. "We may get some."
With a snort, Emile snatched another roll.
Rather than bat his hand again, Lucy wrapped her own hands in her apron. She simply had to talk with him.
"Ah, Emile?" She stopped when her voice noticeably cracked. "Ahem. Emile, mayhap you would come outside with—?"
The sound of a knock interrupted her, coming from the large double doors of the tavern.
"Mistress." Moll stopped sweeping and glanced excitedly toward Lucy. "A customer!"
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