by Sara Portman
She was not so fortunate.
“Miss Crawley, the few things you have told me about yourself, when taken together, do not make sense. In my experience, tales that do not make sense are rarely true.” He crossed his arms and gave her a look that dared her to prove him wrong.
She could only stare mutely back at him. She had no response that would not seem to be a confirmation.
“You may keep your secrets,” he continued, watching her closely. She was aware of every place in her body that became the subject of his examination and willed it to be still. He could interpret any movement, any tick, any outward reaction whatsoever, as her confession. “But know this, Miss Crawley. You are correct in one respect—that crest you spied on the side of this coach is that of a marquessate. I am on my way to London to meet the wealthy heiress who shall become my bride. There is enough money and influence between the two families that there is very little you could do to trouble us. There is, however, a great deal we could do to trouble you, if you give us cause.”
Juliana opened her mouth to respond, but was caught when no answer came. Her instinct was to be as she had always been—to reassure him that she would be no trouble to anyone and then sink quietly into her corner of the coach, as far from man and beast as she could be. But for some unaccountable reason, she sensed the only power she retained in that moment was the last trace of fear and mistrust that he held for her. She could not bring herself to erase it.
“If you mean to remind me of your close friendship with a duchess, do not,” he continued. “I am not so stupid as to believe that a woman who consorts with duchesses wears a threadbare shawl and lacks fare for the mail coach.”
“But I told you I missed the…”
He lifted a hand, halting her objection. “Do not. I overheard the innkeeper in Peckingham talking with my coachman. The mail coach will pass again tomorrow, not Friday as you claimed.”
Juliana’s breath caught. He had known. He had known the very first claim was a lie the moment she’d spoken it, and still he’d taken her in. Now she was left to wonder at his reasons. Still, he had not harmed her yet. And every moment they sped along the road was a moment closer to London and farther from Beadwell.
“I was dishonest,” she admitted, feeling the need to explain the lie. “About the mail coach. I have no funds until I reach London, and even then I am not certain how quickly I will be able to access my money. Until then, I am forced to make economies.”
One brow arched elegantly. “Economies such as accepting passage from strange men while unchaperoned?”
“Precisely,” she said, ignoring the doubt and censure in his question.
He nodded slowly. “Thus the reason your first stop in London shall be the solicitor’s office.”
“Yes.”
He had continued to dig and she had continued to reveal, despite his assurance that she could keep her secrets. She did not want to play any more guessing games about her future plans. She would not allow an arrogant lord to decide whether she was on the right course and determine he might be entitled to change it.
They needed another topic of discussion. A benign one. She knew, despite her shortcomings, she must engage in conversation. Reticence on her part was only encouraging his interrogation.
She nodded toward to the dog, lounging comfortably at his lordship’s side and considered the animal carefully. “Does it have a name?” she asked finally, meeting the dog’s dark eyes.
The dog showed no discomfort with the inspection.
“Gelert,” his master said. “His name is Gelert.” Reminded of the dog’s presence he reached out his hand and buried it into the mottled, disordered fur on the dog’s back. The dog sighed.
“Gelert.” She tested the name. “It is an odd name for a dog.”
“It is an honorable name for a dog.”
“How so?” The dog did not look honorable. It looked like a stray. A very large, potentially vicious stray.
“Gelert is legendary,” he explained.
“Legendary?” Juliana inspected the animal with renewed curiosity.
His lordship cleared his throat. “This Gelert is not legendary. The original Gelert is the hero of a Welsh folk-tale.”
She nearly smiled. A story. How perfect. She hoped it was a long one. In an effort to delay even further she asked, “How does your dog come to have a Welsh name?”
“I have a Welsh grandmother. She liked to tell stories.”
“I should very much like to hear Gelert’s story.”
“Would you, Miss Crawley?” He tilted his head and a stray lock of dark hair fell onto his brow. “I should caution you, it is not a delicate one.”
However gruesome the tale, it was better than interrogation. “I am not squeamish, my lord. And you have piqued my curiosity.”
“Very well.” He slouched more deeply into his seat for the telling of the tale. “The first Gelert was a gift to Llywelyn, Prince of Gwynedd, from King John. A favored hunting dog. As the legend tells, for one hunt the dog did not respond to his master’s call and Prince Llywelyn hunted without him. When he returned from the hunt, it was to find his infant son missing, the cradle overturned, and the dog’s mouth smeared with blood.”
He had not misled her. The story was indeed upsetting. “I don’t understand. There is no honor in killing a child,” she pointed out, her attention now riveted to the present Gelert. As though to aid her imagination, the dog chose that moment to lift his muzzle and lick his paw. She could not help but envision him calmly cleaning blood from his fur. She shivered.
“Prince Llywelyn must have agreed, for as the story is told, he immediately drew his sword and ran the dog through.”
Juliana cringed. Indelicate indeed.
“Over the sound of the dog’s dying yelp, however, he heard a baby’s cry. When he lifted the overturned cradle, he found, underneath it, his unharmed infant son and, behind it, the body of a dead wolf.”
She gasped and stared up at the storyteller. “ Gelert was not the villain, but hero? And he was killed for it?”
His lordship nodded.
“Was Llywelyn remorseful?”
“He was. The dog was buried with great ceremony. It is said the prince could hear the dog’s dying yelp for the remainder of his days and never smiled again.”
Juliana exhaled, hoping to expel the disturbed feeling the story had settled upon her. “What an awful tale. Why would you burden your pet with such an unhappy legacy?”
“It is a legacy of great honor. Gelert’s loyalty and fierce protectiveness are legendary.”
She looked to the dog again. He’d been calm through their journey thus far, but very watchful. Though he had not displayed it, she could easily believe in his ferocity. Would he, if called upon, rise to the legacy of his eponym? She was no threat to Gelert’s master, but could she trust an animal to know it?
Perhaps the story had not been a wise way to pass the time after all. She decided silence might be better for a while, if his lordship would allow it. She sat very still in her seat, lowered her eyes to her lap and made no more attempts at conversation.
Even with the cooperation of her companion, the silence was fleeting. Within minutes it was broken by a violently loud clap of thunder, followed closely by the insistent rapping of rain buffeting the roof and walls of the carriage. Juliana’s heart fell. Of all things, a storm.
Chapter Three
The storm brought her worst fear.
“We shall have to stop,” his lordship said, calling out to be heard above the racket caused by the pelting storm.
“Already?” she asked, his simple observation sending a thread of panic through her despite the fact that she had known it already.
He looked out at the heavy rain, falling in torrents around them. “A half-hour of this and the roads will be impassable. Better closeted at an inn than stuck
in the mud. Either way, our progress is halted.”
“But we’ve barely covered any distance. Are you sure you want to stop?”
He turned his attention to her. “No. I am quite sure I do not want to stop, but the weather requires otherwise.”
She was revealing herself again, but she couldn’t help it. They were not far enough. She was not far enough. If she were taken to cursing, she would have cursed the vindictive weather. She craned her neck to watch out the carriage window.
“Albert shall know to stop at the next town,” he clarified. “There is no help for it.”
She shouldn’t have waited. If she had importuned the angry matron and her beleaguered son, she would be an hour closer to London by now. They may have stayed ahead if the weather altogether.
Alas, she had not approached the matron. It seemed only a few moments passed before she felt the carriage slowing, marking their approach to the next village. “How long do you think we shall have to stay here before continuing?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I am no more able to predict the weather than you are, but if the rain ceases before nightfall, the road should be passable by the morning.”
Her eyes flew to his. “Tomorrow?” She looked at the scene again and back to him. “Do you mean to stay the night here?”
He peered at her, making her feel as though he found her very odd. She was used to being found odd, so it did not quell her questions. “Do you think such a delay is wise?”
“I am not choosing to delay,” he said, impatience rising in his tone and tightening his jaw. “The choice has been made for us. If you are concerned about the cost, do not be. I shall arrange for your room as well as my own.”
Her own room.
They were definitely not far enough from Beadwell for her to have her own room. She could be quite easily found here, especially if she drew attention to herself by arriving unchaperoned in a fancy coach with an oversized, highborn lord who paid for her stay. The night stretched long before her, sitting in a strange room by herself, listening to every noise. She would be like an animal caught in a trap, with nothing left to do but wait for the arrival of the hunter.
“I…I could…” What could she do?
She could curl up in the corner of his lordship’s room and feel much more secure there. She looked up at him. She couldn’t very well propose such a thing. Then he would certainly believe—if he did not already—that she was trying to snare him by compromising her reputation. He had not, after all, divulged to which marquessate his family belonged. And yet, how could she endure the entire night alone, knowing she was trapped prey?
The noise from the rain was riotous in their small space. It was raining very hard. Perhaps with the roads washing out, there wouldn’t be two rooms available and they would have no choice but to stay together. Or, better yet, perhaps there would be no rooms at all and they should be forced to continue. Heartened by this thought, Juliana fortified her courage for their arrival. When the coachman appeared at the door, she allowed him to assist her down from the passenger compartment under the shielding cover of his cape, which he held over head. Stepping gingerly to avoid the rapidly forming puddles, she hurried with him toward the entrance of a small stone building from which candlelight beckoned, warm and golden, in the windows.
Despite the cozy warmth that enveloped her inside the dimly lit inn, when the coachman drew the cape from above her head, she felt nothing but cold. She needed only a moment to see the room was empty, save a young, aproned girl who wiped a rag across a table in the corner. The picture before her could not have been more opposite to her prayers.
The door opened again behind her, allowing in a great gust of rain-filled wind. She turned to see that her companion had entered, gripping his cane in one hand, with Gelert, more horse than dog, at his side.
“I’ll see the horses, sir,” the coachman said, giving Juliana the nonsensical concern that he’d overheard her thoughts. Of course he hadn’t. Seeing to the horses was the logical thing. He rushed to exit and closed the door behind him.
His lordship stood there, dark and dripping, and she marveled that she had ever mistaken his profile for that of a feeble, elderly man. Despite the cane, he stood erect—intimidatingly so—and he was quite tall. She was not particularly small, but this man was two head above her. Intelligent eyes surveyed everything in the room, her included, and unruly locks of dark hair clung, damp, around the edges of his face. In the brightness of the warm candlelight, she thought she saw a thin scar edging along his chin. As though obliging her curiosity, he reached up, doffed his hat, and shook it, sending a shower of droplets radiating from it. The dog sidled away from the spray, then proceeded to shake himself in very much a similar manner to rid himself of the results of the rain.
Juliana had realized the dog’s large scale even lying across the generous seat of the traveling coach, but upright the animal’s head reached the man’s elbow. They were both threateningly large, ragged, and dark.
Even as she feared them both, however, she felt an odd comfort in the menacing image they presented. There was no sense in it. Neither the man nor the animal had any duty to protect her. Still, she vowed to stay close to them—as close as her courage would allow.
“Ho there,” called a booming voice, and Juliana looked up to find a man with a broad smile and equally broad waist descending the stairs to greet them. His smile faltered only briefly at the very image upon which Juliana had so recently been musing before he steered himself directly toward his lordship and clapped the much taller man roughly on the back. “You are fortunate today, my good man. You are the first to arrive and you’ve your pick of rooms. With the washing we’re getting, we’ll be full up and turning them away within the hour I’d say. Excellent timing, sir. Very lucky.
Lucky, indeed, Juliana thought. No part of this journey had gone in her favor.
“If my luck were that good, sir,” her companion responded flatly, failing to return the innkeepers joviality, “the sun would shine and we would be in London before nightfall. As that is not our fate, we shall instead take two of your rooms and a hot meal.”
The innkeeper’s attention immediately shifted to Juliana upon the announcement that their party would require two rooms. She chafed under his thorough assessment and had to prevent herself from exhaling in relief when he finally turned back to his lordship.
“Which shall you require first sir, meals or rooms?”
“Meals first. Rooms second,” came the reply.
“Very good, sir. Very good.” The innkeeper nodded but did not move to arrange for either request. Instead he peered uncomfortably at Gelert. His mental deliberations played clearly across his face as his attention shifted from dog to master and back again. He didn’t want the dog in his common room. Neither did he want to offend his lordship. While the dog may cause trouble or damage, the fancy lord represented significant income. In the end, his mercenary nature won out. “I’ll have to charge a supplement if ye plan for the dog to stay inside. Otherwise, it’s in the stables with the other animals.”
“Understood,” was his lordship’s only response. He made no move toward removing the dog from the common room and the innkeeper seemed quite pleased with this decision. He had not, Juliana realized, quoted the amount of the supplement.
It was painfully clear to Juliana, as the innkeeper led their odd party to a table in the corner of the room, that her intent to avoid drawing notice had failed miserably. She had thought to be unremarkable so that the innkeeper would not recall her presence in the event anyone arrived to inquire after her. Instead, they were the only travelers in an empty room and she was a lone woman traveling with a wounded lord, who was clearly not her husband, and his horse of a dog.
* * * *
Michael lowered himself stiffly onto the wooden bench and pointed to a spot at his feet upon which Gelert obediently lay. Supplement, indeed. The dog w
as likely better mannered than most of the travelers who passed. As though proof of Michael’s thought, the front door opened again, sending in a gust of damp air they could feel even seated at their table some five yards away. The newcomers who arrived with it received no more than a passing glance from Gelert, who remained quiet. They, on the other hand, did not. The four men were loud and complaining and one of them bellowed loudly to call the innkeeper when he did not immediately appear.
His annoyance with these new arrivals only added to his already black mood, attributable to the ache in his leg, his hunger, and his annoyance at the delay. He needed to get to London and cooperate with this ridiculous betrothal so he could be allowed to return to Yorkshire. He had responsibilities there. If the storm were not raging so fiercely, he would go for a long walk, rain or no, to relax both his limbs and his frustration.
Instead, he turned his attention to his enigmatic travel companion. She had proven disappointingly ungenerous in her willingness to satisfy his curiosity, applying both avoidance and outright lies. Did she really expect him to believe that she didn’t know how to converse properly? Or that, at the same time, she was personal friends with a duchess? The two claims were equally preposterous whether taken together or separately. The only truth he suspected he had received was the address to which she desired to be delivered in London, but even that could be inaccurate, provided it was in the vicinity of her true destination.
One wouldn’t guess it to look at her. Despite the boldness of her lies, she had the odd habit of falling into the meek posture of a mistreated servant, all hunched and quiet. He didn’t like that either. She was considerably more interesting when she lifted her attention and engaged in conversation.