Lucy's jaw dropped. An actual customer? Important as was her talk with Emile, a customer—her very first—took precedence.
She closed her opened mouth and, swishing her skirts out of the way, hastened toward the wide double doors, entrance to the tavern. Pausing a moment to don her most hospitable smile, she threw the doors wide.
A thin man cowered on the threshold. His clothes were plain and soiled, his nose was large and veiny.
Lucy's smile did not waver. A customer was a customer.
"Welcome," she sang. Gesturing with one arm, she stepped back from the door. "Please come in. Make yourself comfortable." Pride coursed through her. Now she was, indeed, a tavernkeep.
But the thin man did not cross the threshold. Instead, he peered around Lucy. "Where'sh Pip?" His peer turned suspicious. "Where'sh ever'body?"
Remembering the motley crowd from her first night at the tavern, Lucy coughed. "Ah...you are the first." She swung her arm again, repeating her gesture of welcome.
But the drunk did not obey her invitation. His eyes jumped around the room. Lucy was well aware of what he saw. A clean, well-tended room. A good place to eat, perhaps, but not a place to debauch.
His gaze returned to Lucy; there was a surprisingly shrewd light in his eyes. "You ain't the same as t' other ones. None o' this is the same as 'twas before." With this dire indictment, he stumbled backward, away from the open door.
Lucy's wide smile faltered. "Wait—"
But he was already stomping off.
"Stay!" Lucy cried.
Moving hastily, he didn't look back.
Lucy stood with one arm holding the open door. Her first customer...had become no customer at all. The tavern had been open for business for two days, and they had yet to entertain a single customer.
But—no matter. Customers would indeed arrive. Of course they would. She had once visited the other tavern in the town, the King's Head. Her place was superior, with better food and cleaner mugs for ale. Soon customers would come flocking to her door.
Making sure to regain her smile, Lucy turned to face the room.
Moll and Gawain watched her quietly, clearly waiting to take their cue from her.
Emile, however, was shaking his head. His expression said he was not surprised by the drunk's rejection. Not even a drunk would want to rest here.
Emile's attitude hit Lucy like a slap. Oh, of course he had counseled against buying the tavern in the first place, but she had hoped that after seeing all her hard work, he might have changed his mind, might have seen she had a good chance for success...
Apparently not. Pressing his lips together in obvious disapproval, Emile turned to gaze out the kitchen door.
Lucy took a deep breath, smiled, and clapped her hands. How mortifying if anyone should guess she had even wanted Emile's support. Surely she had not expected it.
He probably did not like her even one little bit.
"So, then! What about that ale we put up?" she asked, addressing Moll and Gawain. "Think you it is ready for uncorking yet? Let us see what sort of brewers we are."
"Aye, mistress." Moll seemed as eager as Lucy to forget about losing the customer. "Let me get the barrel."
"I will find a ladle." Gawain set down his harness.
With her smile firmly in place, Lucy strode toward Moll and the barrel she opened. From the smell, she was fairly certain they were passing fine brewers.
But from the corner of her eye, she saw Emile move toward the door he'd earlier eyed. He moved away from them all. He wasn't going to join the group; he wasn't going to try Lucy's ale. In fact, even as she made sure not to watch him, he slipped right out of the room.
Swallowing, Lucy managed to keep her smile. Not only did her husband have no faith in the tavern, he obviously had no wish to humor her in the attempt. How could she have imagined he might have any affection for her?
He was only a husband on pain of death, after all.
Behind her firm smile, she cringed. She badly needed to have that talk with him and remove her threats.
If only she could get him alone.
~~~
Moll kept her feet quiet on the upstairs rushes. She did not want Gawain to see her—yet.
It was several hours past dawn. The tall man stood to one side of the window that looked over the back meadow. His head was turned at an unnatural angle. He was clearly trying to see outside without being seen himself.
He was spying.
Moll's heart sped, but she kept her voice even as she crossed her arms. "Anythin' interestin' out there?"
Gawain jumped. He hadn't expected her. Of course not. He'd thought to see her through the window. But he put a good face on it. Indeed, he managed to look innocently righteous.
He was smart enough not to try answering.
Smiling cheekily, Moll decided to confront the matter for him. "Or mayhap what you were lookin' for is right 'ere now." She leaned lazily against the wall. "Me."
His eyes hooded, but he didn't deny it. "You are back earlier than usual this morning."
Moll's heart raced even faster. He knew she left every morning. Very well. But he could not know where she went. "Oh, Gawain, I had no idea." She let her lashes fall in a mockery of modesty. "You notice me."
He blinked several times in rapid succession.
Moll stalked toward him. "Dare I think 'tis love? Or is it just my body you crave?"
The idiot took her seriously. "I have no cravings for your body." Drawing himself straight, he let his lip curl. "However, the master cannot say the same, now, can he?"
"The master?" Moll felt brought up short. Gawain thought she was meeting Emile? "But—"
Gawain raised an eyebrow, accusing.
Moll frowned. Didn't he know? The master was cursed, rendered physically incapable by his wife. Emile could hardly be out tossing wenches.
It only took a moment for Moll's face to clear. Gawain did not know.
And she should correct him?
Why, this misconception could not be more to her advantage! If Gawain thought she went out to meet the master early every morning, he would never think to dig further. Her true destination would remain secret.
Moll smiled at him. "My, but you are a sharp one. No gettin' anything past you."
Gawain raised his chin. "Indeed, there is not."
Moll would have been fine if he had stopped there. She would have felt no need to show him a damn thing.
But the hypocrite had the nerve to go on. "Even less," he told her, "can you slip your sins past your Lord and Redeemer."
Moll nearly choked on her scorn. The worm. As if he did not have any sins of his own!
Oh, she would show the pig his own true nature.
Repressing any outward show of her feelings, Moll sighed. She made it a big sigh, one that got her breasts moving. "Oh, Gawain." She slid him a longing look. "Believe it or not, sometimes you do make me...think about things."
His gaze flickered downward. She had known it would. He was a man, wasn't he?
"You make me think." Moll sighed again. "About how different people can be."
Being the honest, saintly man he was, Gawain managed to drag his gaze up from her breasts. "Are people so very different?" he asked in a frigid tone.
"Aye." Moll suspected he was not going to keep a cold temperature for long. "For example, there is Emile...and then there is you. As different as night and day." She took Gawain's hand. He was too surprised to resist. The next instant she had that hand against her breast. Grinning, she explained, "And I do like variety."
He did not snatch his hand away as she'd expected. In fact, he did not move at all. He stood there with his hand on her breast as if she'd just turned him to stone. Only his eyes changed. As Moll stared into them during that long moment, the clear gray darkened.
He was excited, Moll realized. The thought caused a stirring of her own excitement, deep inside. For two weeks the man had been sniffing down his nose at her. He was not sniffing now. Oh, no. She did not think he coul
d even breathe. He seemed, indeed, like a taut bowstring whose arrow did not know where to fly. She either had amazing power over him or...
Moll's eyes widened. "You are a virgin!"
At this, he jerked his hand away. For an instant, she saw something in his eyes, something...
No. It couldn't be. Something vulnerable?
In the next instant, he smashed the notion. "And you," he hissed fiercely, "are a born whore." The haughty mask had fallen back over his face.
Moll's bemusement vanished. "Aye, I'm a whore." She could hardly deny it. But she took a step back to survey Gawain. "But what are you? So moral, so decent. Yet you don't toss me out for letting the master plow me, do you?"
Gawain's face turned white.
Moll felt her lip curl. So much for his excitement over herself or even her breast. "It serves your purposes to have someone 'entertain' the master, doesn't it, to keep him away from the mistress? Your own true lady love." A snort escaped her. "A married woman."
Gawain stared at Moll like she was a demon raised from hell. Oh, she'd figured him out all right. The self-righteous prig was in love with Lucy. So in love he saved himself for her, spurning all other women in order to honor the chosen one.
Bitter acid stirred inside Moll. She quickly reminded herself she did not believe in love, not the kind between a man and a woman. She certainly did not feel envious of the emotion. To Gawain, she warned, "So be very nice to me, sirrah. If I ever do tire of the master, Lucy is sure to snatch him up."
If she'd slapped the man, the effect could not have been more pronounced. Gawain's face drained of any remaining color.
Satisfied, Moll straightened. She'd proved Gawain was as low, if not lower, than herself. Not only that, but her freedom and privacy in the mornings were now guaranteed. The steward would not bother her again. Turning, she stalked toward the stairs.
But the image of Gawain's stricken face stayed with Moll as she tripped quickly down the stairs. It left a festering bitterness inside. It was as if—oh, too ridiculous—but it was almost as if she had only proven that she was the lowest one of all.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The woman's pestilential father did not come. What could a man do but turn to drink?
It was well past midnight, so Emile was careful as he opened the door to the chamber outside Lucy's, the outer room where he kept his cot. He winced as the door made a loud squeak at the halfway point. 'Twere best Lucy not waken and discover her husband somewhat the worse for drink. And late getting home. Again.
He slipped through the doorway. He didn't attempt closing it and thus risking another loud squeak. Since no fire had been lit, the room was dark. Putting his hands in front of himself, he carefully slid one foot forward in an attempt to find his bed.
"Mmph!" His toe connected with something metal. Whatever it was skittered across the room with a series of clangs and bangs.
"Sh!" Emile scolded the object. He bent to attempt corralling the thing with his hands. It was ridiculous to believe he might find it, but it must have bounced against something and returned in his direction for he actually felt the object. Unfortunately, the drink made his fingers fumble, and he lost it again somewhere around his ankles.
"Pest!" He dropped to his hands and knees, blindly searching for the cursed thing. Bang! And clang again! Christ's blood, whatever it was had somehow wrapped around his foot.
Abruptly, Emile froze. From the corner of his eye, he saw a light flicker under the frame of the door to the inner chamber, the room housing Lucy. He'd woken her.
A pox. He'd been doing his best to avoid the woman. She was—dangerous. Her smile after she'd been unable to persuade that pitiful drunk to come in and try her tavern... Emile had wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out again. She'd worked so hard, but no customers had walked through her door that day or the day after—nor until this day, nearly a week later.
If only her father would arrive already and rescue her.
The door of the inner chamber opened. Illuminated by the single candle she held, Lucy appeared, clad in a thick woolen night rail. "Finally, you are home— I mean, what is all the noise?"
"Sh!" Emile warned, as if the damage had not already been done. He attempted to walk toward her, with the vague notion of shooing her back into her room. But his foot didn't work right. A loud clanging noise accompanied his attempt to stay upright. "Huh—?"
He looked down. By the light of Lucy's candle, he could see his foot was stuck in a chamber pot.
"Oh, such noise," Lucy scolded. "You will wake the entire household." She swept into the room.
In an ideal world, Emile would have freed himself of the embarrassing chamber pot and eliminated the necessity of his wife setting down her candle and coming over to take him by the arms. But the world was hardly ideal, so all he could do was stand there stupidly off-balance and rather enjoying the fussy expression on her face.
"Come, let's sit down." She took his forearms and then stopped. With a frown, she looked up into his face and what he knew to be a loopy grin. "You are drunk!"
Emile lifted a finger. "Pleasantly intoxicated." Meanwhile, the room spun alarmingly.
"Sit," Lucy ordered and gave him a little push.
He landed on his rump on the edge of his cot. This was a surprise for he hadn't known it was behind him. Pleased to have avoided the floor, he stomped his caged foot.
"Hush." With a hand on his knee, Lucy halted his cheerful symphony. "Let me get that off..." She knelt in front of him.
Emile could feel his foot gently tugged as she manipulated the chamber pot. She was firm but not rough. Really, quite sweet.
"There," Lucy said.
"Freedom," Emile chortled. He rotated his bare foot. Dimly, he celebrated the fact the pot had been empty. Mostly he was aware of his wife, so curvy and tender and still kneeling beneath him. He was very, very aware of the intimacy of the situation, the two of them all alone together in the middle of the night. The candlelight flickered over the curve of her cheek and the line of her brow.
She fished his boot out of the empty chamber pot and dropped it into his lap. "Is this what you have been doing every night you have not been at home? Drinking?"
"Aye." Emile nodded cheerfully.
"How...productive."
"Well, it is fun," Emile observed. It had also been a way to escape the mad notion he ought to try rescuing his wife from her imminent financial disaster himself. Such was utter insanity. He was incapable of any venture so important.
From her seat on the floor, she looked up at him. In her eyes he could see her own doubts flicker: her doors had been open for business almost a fortnight and still no customers.
Then she tilted her head and frowned. "Where have you been imbibing enough ale to get drunk?"
"Not ale, sweet. Beer. 'Tis almost the same, though." Emile leaned back, away from the temptation she presented. He put his hands around one upraised knee. "I was at the King's Head." To emphasize this treachery, he yawned.
"The King's Head!" Lucy gaped. "You got drunk at our rival's tavern?"
"There is no point drinking here."
Her open mouth remained that way. She knew the truth of his statement. It would be lonely to get drunk at her clean, but empty, tavern.
She attempted argument anyway. "But—to take what little coin we have and then give it over to the competition!"
"Yes-s-s," Emile replied. "I suppose that might be considered...stupid." If only she would get off the floor. She made images that were even more stupid go through his head: her body flowing up against his, her hair unbound...spread over her naked shoulders as she looked up from his pillow...
His lashes lowered.
"Aye, stupid. That is the correct word for it." With her own mind clearly not running along the same road as Emile, she scrambled to her feet.
Before she could step away, he grabbed her arm. He simply couldn't help himself. He didn't want her to go away...yet.
The contact made her jump. "Wh
at? What are you doing?"
Her tone was sharp, but he could feel a fine trembling in the arm beneath his hand. Even with senses dulled by spirit, he could tell she was moved by his touch.
"Just let me look at you," Emile begged. Muttering, he added, "Usually you wear a great deal more clothing."
Her eyes widened. With a sharp tug, she retrieved her hand from his. "You are drunk," she decided.
Sighing, he leaned back on his hands.
Lucy wrapped one of her hands around the other. She peered at him in an odd manner. "But at the same time...we are alone."
Emile didn't move, but his state of awareness leaped. Was she thinking along the same road as he after all?
She bit her lower lip. "I— There is something I have been meaning to tell you, uh, for a while now."
Emile tilted his head. Anticipation caused a pleasant tingling all over himself.
Lucy closed her eyes. "It is about the threats I made. Before we left Bonham."
Emile stopped breathing. What was the blasted woman up to?
Lucy opened her eyes again. "I— You should know. Those threats, they are null. I will not carry them out. They are no more."
Emile still couldn't breathe. Had she thought those threats still carried weight? Judging by the tortured expression on her face, she had. And she'd felt guilty about still 'using' them.
Slowly, Emile let out his held breath. As he breathed in again, his lips curved. "That is...very honorable of you." He managed to turn a laugh into a cough. The poor woman looked so earnest. "Very generous."
A line formed between her brows. "You do not believe me?"
"No, no, no. I believe you." He coughed again, desperately trying not to laugh.
Lucy took a step back. "Then you are mocking me." She looked more baffled than insulted, however.
"Nay, nay." Emile struggled to sober his amusement. "It's just— Lucy, your threats have not held any teeth for some time now."
She stared at him. After a moment, she blinked. "What?"
"When your strongbox was stolen," Emile explained. "You then lost the coin needed to chase after me. You couldn't have hired enough men yourself, and by the time you sent for your father—" Emile shrugged. "It would've been too late." He smiled. "To release me yourself was a nice idea, though."
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