by Deb Marlowe
“Do not hit the mare,” the big man told Ludo.
The driver had clearly reached the end of his endurance. He stood again, chest swelling. Pointing a shaky finger he rasped, “Get that nag moving, Edgar. Now!”
Edgar crossed to the horse’s head. She greeted him with a nicker of obvious relief. But instead of coaxing her forward, the big man moved alongside her and began to unhook her from the traces.
“What are you doing?” Tru thought Ludo might have an apoplexy right there in front of them. “Stop it! Stop it! We have to go!”
“I asked you not to hit the mare. You didn’t listen.” Edgar spoke with utter complacency. “Now we don’t listen to you any longer.”
Ludo’s mouth hung open. It worked noiselessly for several seconds. Then he started to move, nearly dancing in his inability to contain his rage. Suddenly he lifted the whip again and with a whistling sound as it sang through the air, he laid it across Edgar’s shoulders.
Edgar appeared to be just as unaffected as the horse had been, which only spurred Ludo on. He began to strike the horse’s broad back again, even as Edgar’s hands flew to free her.
Tru took a last step closer. Watching closely, timing it smoothly, he reached out and snatched the dangling whip as Ludo pulled it back for another blow.
“As I said, that’s quite enough.” Tru adopted his brother’s finest ducal manner and threw plenty of hauteur into it. “What is all of this about? Whose animal is this?”
“Mine. The mare is mine.” Edgar looked down when the cat in his pocket mewled a protest. “And the cat.” He had got the horse free and pulled her a few steps away from the wagon. She went willingly enough now. “I’m Edgar. Rose is my mare. I’m a carter.”
Ludo snorted. “Well the cart is mine, you dim-witted fool. Ridiculous to call yourself a carter if you have no cart!”
“Indeed,” Tru agreed. “In much the same way as it to expect to move a load with no horse.”
“I had a cart,” Edgar said, his expression and tone both still flat. “I was busy. I delivered goods all over the city and across the countryside.” He soothed the mare’s flank with one hand while the other rested between the cat’s ears. “It’s eight hundred and twenty-four cart lengths from the docks to the brewery. That’s three thousand, two hundred and ninety six steps.”
“What happened to your cart?” Tru asked with sympathy.
“Stolen. And wrecked at the bottom of a ravine.”
Ludo laughed. And Tru made a decision.
“I never lost a parcel or forgot an address, when I had a cart,” Edgar continued. His tone remained even, his expression flat. “I made money and we lived well.”
“You didn’t live well once it was gone, did you?” Ludo sneered. “Lucky you were that I took you in. Now I’ve lost all patience. I want you, your nag and your things out of my barn. Today.”
His hand on the mare’s bridle, Edgar turned to go.
“Wait!” Tru followed and looked at the big man over the back of the horse. “How would you like a job with me? I need a stable manager in my new place.”
Edgar blinked. “But I’m a carter.”
“And you’ll need money for a new cart, will you not? Come and manage my stables for a time, you’d have a place to keep your mare—and your cat. All while you earn a decent salary.”
“A new cart,” the big man repeated.
“What do you say?”
Edgar eyed the whip Tru had forgotten he still held. “Will you strike your horses? Or mine?”
Tru looked down in surprise, then tossed the thing back toward Ludo. “No.”
Edgar nodded. “Then I accept. Until I can buy a cart.”
Tru nodded. “Good, then. Glad to have you.” He looked about, impatient once more. “I’ll hire one of the gigs to carry my wife, but I’ll have to wait for one of the wagons to come back to transport our luggage.”
“How much luggage?” Edgar asked.
“Not much. A couple of trunks and portmanteaus. Though one of them is heavy,” he said, remembering the pots.
“Hold her?” Handing the mare over to Tru, Edgar walked back to the cart and fished a folded tarpaulin out of the back. “This is mine as well.” He ignored Ludo’s protests. “I remember something that might help.”
Chapter Eight
Pearl had experience in these matters. She nursed me well, but I was left so weak. Drained and lethargic, I cried for days. I could barely dress myself at first. Pearl took me in, waited on me herself, let me stay for weeks as I recovered.
--from the Journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright.
Callie shivered in the damp air seeping from the window. She was watching for Tru—and chiding herself for that kiss. Part of her knew it for a mistake. He’d been avoiding her ever since—no small feat on a ship as small as the Spanish Lady. She’d spooked him—and given him tangible evidence that she wasn’t . . . normal. He would never kiss a woman of his own social class with so much heat and passion and want. And a woman of the lower layers of society? Well—he’d likely not have stopped at such a kiss.
So she’d once again proved herself an anomaly—but some part of her still couldn’t regret it. In fact, she was beginning to think that Hestia had been right. This trip was good for her. She could feel herself relaxing, opening up. She blushed. Blossoming.
More than that—at last she knew. Finally she could understand the temptation, the sheer addictive pull of heat and desire. So much more than just physical yearning—more than the surprising clash of straight-edged jaw and soft, thick hair, of tender lips and hardened chest—though that was delicious enough. She’d never before grasped how seductive the heady feeling of being wanted could be. How it acted as a balm to a wounded soul, could steal in and soothe aches that had become a part of you.
She pushed the thought aside as she caught sight of Tru returning. He opened the door and beckoned her, wearing an odd expression. “I’ve arranged transportation.”
She shot him a questioning look, but he brushed it aside. “You’ll just have to see for yourself.”
She took his arm and followed him out.
“Chloe,” he said as they rounded the corner of the building. “I’d like you to meet our first employee.”
She stopped short—and stared. “Our first—” She didn’t go on. She was too caught up in the sight before her.
A man, holding a horse. He made her a respectable bow.
She swallowed. The horse was large and handsome. The man was large and . . . not. Across the horse’s withers crossed a set of makeshift poles. They extended behind the animal where a tarpaulin covered them.
“This is Edgar. The mare belongs to him.” Tru pointed to a pocket in the man’s enormous and outdated frock coat. “As well as the cat.”
From the pocket a kitten mewed agreement. Tru raised his brows at her in a silent signal for . . . assistance? Understanding?
“Edgar has a gift, a way with animals. I’ve just borne witness to it myself. I’ve asked him to manage the stables for us at the new inn.” Tru waved a hand. “Edgar, my wife. Madame Chaput.”
Edgar bowed again. Callie glanced at the animals, met his direct gaze—and nodded. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Edgar. How wonderful to have found our first employee so soon.”
He watched her without blinking. “Only until I have the money for a cart. I’m a carter,” he said, in the manner of an explanation.
“Oh?” She looked to Tru.
“Edgar’s cart was stolen. He needs a new one. I offered him the chance to earn the money working in our stables.”
“That sounds like a good idea all around.” She eyed the contraption attached to the horse.
“Edgar rigged that up so he could transport our baggage.”
“It’s a travois,” the big man said. He had a curious, even way of speaking, without inflection or a change in tone. “An old way to move things. The red Indians in the Americas use them.”
“Have you traveled to the Am
ericas?” Callie asked, impressed.
“No. I read about it in a book when I was a boy.”
“And you recall it well enough to reconstruct one? After so long?”
“I remember everything.” Turning, he indicated the luggage the clerk’s men were stacking nearby. “Is that all of your baggage?”
“That’s it,” Tru answered. “Will it fit?”
Edgar studied the pile for a moment. “Just.” He beckoned the men forward. “Bring me the heaviest first.”
He had their luggage secured soon enough, and Tru gestured. “We’ll walk this way a bit before we’ll find the gigs for hire.”
“Is it so far?” she asked, looking to Edgar. “To the inn?”
“Not so far. I’ll have to come behind, going slow to navigate the travois.”
“Why do we not all walk?” Callie suggested. “I’d like to see something of our new city.”
“Then walk, we shall.” Tru offered his arm and she took it, and together they moved off. She stayed close at first, through the first press of the congested wharf. She’d been in the London docks before, working with Hestia, so she was familiar with the stink and the noise and the unrelenting ebb and surge of many curses and orders in as many languages. These were not so extensive, of course, but still loud, coarse and frantic. The chaotic background here, though, carried on in flamboyant French—and the further they went away from the harbor and into the city, the more she was surrounded by the familiar lilt of the Breton language.
She wanted to close her eyes and drink that homey sound in through her pores, to wallow in the warmth that washed over her. Her mother’s language. Just the sound of the words meant calm strength, solid support, comfort.
She did close her eyes, for just a moment, as they waited to cross a traffic-filled street, and let it ease her. Then she opened them and found Tru watching her, the corners of his mouth lifted, just the slightest bit.
She stared back at him a moment. Bright and blue, his gaze shone from the frame of his newly dark hair and thin, framing sideburns, and suddenly she realized how much had changed in a short time. Looking at him weeks ago, her wayward mind would have summoned words like spoiled, annoying and obstacle. Now, instead, she was struck by such descriptors as generous and friend.
Let’s not forget kiss, a part of her whispered slyly.
She glanced away, let her attention wander over their new and odd companions—and then she turned deliberately back and gave him a great, happy, hopeful smile.
His jaw slackened.
Callie tilted her head, listening again, and thought that this scheme might work, after all.
* * *
That confidence faded a bit when they reached their destination. The Sword and Sheath, the sign proclaimed, with an unfortunately phallic rendition carved into the hanging wooden sign.
“That will have to change,” she murmured.
Her equilibrium returned however, as she spun about, taking in the situation. The inn was decently sized, taking up one entire side of a slanted, cobblestoned square near the walled border of the city. It appeared to lie along a major route, judging by the traffic bustling by. The foot traffic was brisk too. People passing stared at their arrival, a few smiled and nodded. Callie took it all in and leaned over to Tru. “I think we can make this work.”
He tucked her arm into his as the double doors opened. Smiling widely, an older man bustled out to greet them. “Madame! Monsieur! You are come! Welcome to your new home!”
Tru let her go and clasped the man’s hand, smiling and nodding as if greeting an old friend. “Gaubert, you old dog. A bit late, eh? But we are here at last and after all of your reports, we are eager to see what you have done with the place.”
“What haven’t I done? That would be easier to tell!” The grizzled old Frenchman cast her a comic grimace. “Scrubbed, polished and hammered until my fingers bled! But all is in readiness for you. You may take your first customer now, should you wish it.”
Tru laughed. “Let’s see the place first, shall we?”
Gaubert directed Edgar around to the stables and assured him there would be a boy to help him unload. Then he bowed low in front of Callie and offered her an arm. “If I might, Madame?”
She smiled. “As gallant as ever, Gaubert.” She laid her hand on his. “Please, lead on.”
She exhaled on a long, low breath as he led her into the entry hall. It was small, but paneled in rich carved wood, with a high desk to the left and an open doorway leading into the taproom on the right.
Two women stood at anxious attention and both bobbed nervous curtsies as she entered.
“This is Marie,” Gaubert waved toward the sturdy, middle-aged woman. “She worked here a bit, for the previous owners.”
“I filled in, Madame, when the place grew busy. But I learned enough to know how things go on.”
“That will be helpful,” Callie said candidly. “I’m sure I’ll have questions for you.” She gave her a polite nod and then turned to the other waiting servant—a young girl, likely no older than thirteen. “Hello,” she offered. “I am Madame Chaput.”
“This is Victoire. She’s the scullery,” Gaubert said a bit roughly.
The girl kept her eyes down as she bobbed again, clutching her cap.
“What a lovely name.” Callie eyed the girl closely. “Have you worked in a kitchen before, Victoire?”
Mute, she nodded vigorously.
“How nice. And have you learned to cook any dishes?”
“No, Madame.” It was barely a whisper.
“Would you like to?” Callie asked.
Her head rose, her eyes huge as she nodded.
“Good. We shall be spending a great deal of time together and I shall need an assistant.”
“Yes, Madame.”
Callie’s gaze was drawn away as Tru moved into the taproom. The chairs were drawn up onto the tables, and she could see that it was a good-sized room, with a hearth and a lovely, battered bar.
Gaubert nodded dismissal to the servants and led Callie in after him.
Tru’s hand ran along the bar’s edge. The false scar looked raw and realistic in the dim light. “I know you’ve been acting as tapster, Gaubert, but I’ll have to take over from you. I’ve important papers that need to go back to the family straight away.”
Callie caught the old man’s grudging look of approval. “Aye, of course. I’ll head out first thing in the morning.”
“Would you like to see the upstairs rooms, Madame?” Marie still hovered in the doorway. “I’d be happy to show you.”
“We’ll both go along.” Tru left the bar and came over to claim Callie from Gaubert. Her heart tripped, then raced into a gallop as he pulled her close and draped an arm across her shoulders. “Chloe and I are very excited to start this new business and this new phase of our lives. We’ll greet it together.”
They all trooped up the stairs together in the end, and Callie made all the appropriate noises and comments as they toured the guest rooms, galleries and even the servants’ rooms at the top of the house.
Yet Tru remained the real center of her focus. He’d dropped very naturally into his role as Monsieur Chaput, innkeeper. And he’d picked up Edgar and his animals. She strongly suspected there was a story there—and that Edgar had been more in need of their aid than he might understand. And Tru had given it as easily as Hestia had ever taken in an abandoned, abused or starving woman.
She didn’t know why she was surprised. Here it was, another instance proving that he was not the selfish lordling she’d supposed him to be. Disturbing—how time kept proving them both to be so different than she’d thought. He was more observant and caring than she’d ever credited and she was—
In a world of trouble.
He’d taken her hand as they’d come downstairs to explore the private parlors—small, but well appointed, she noted. But Tru paused as Marie opened the door to another set of rooms at the back of the main floor. Callie was pressed close to h
is side as he stopped on the threshold to examine the features of the apartment.
“This is our best room—saved for the wealthier guests due to its size and the attached sitting room.” Marie crossed and opened a door on the far side. “There’s a smaller room adjoined to the bedroom—not much bigger than the size of a bed itself, but it works well for an accompanying servant to sleep in.”
Tru’s gaze searched out her own. He tugged her inside and to the doorway Marie held open. A large bed took up a great deal of room beyond. The east wall held the door to the servant’s sleeping quarters. Letting her go, Tru went to throw open the window sash. Soft sunlight came in the southern facing window, and past that Callie could see the kitchen garden. Further beyond stood a brick wall that must surely be part of the stable block.
Tru spun about. He rested on the windowsill a moment, then strode to her and lifted both of her hands. “No,” he said. “I think that the Madame and I will claim these rooms.”
Their gazes met. She refused to let hers waver, yet her head had grown suddenly busy, imagining the two of them here, alone and intimate—and not. Images flooded in, Tru in shirtsleeves, shaving. Tru watching her as she huddled in the bed, sheets to her chin. Tru indulging in a hot bath, chest bare and head thrown back against the tub . . .
“But, sir,” Marie gaped at them. “As I showed you, the master’s rooms are at the top of the stairs, just off the first landing. The wealthier clientele will expect—”
He cut her off with a shrug. “Should we manage to attract some wealthier clientele, I am sure we can arrange something suitable upstairs. But my wife spends long hours in the kitchens. She needs a place to get away from the hustle and bustle, a quiet spot to relax.” Letting go of Callie’s hands, he crossed behind her, pulled her up against him and nuzzled her hair as they faced the rooms together. “These should do nicely.”
He was after the extra bedroom. She understood and applauded his motives. But a part of her could not help but react to the casual touching, the consideration. More dangerous than even her vivid imaginings, it touched her, tempted her, set off a dangerous yearning that it would be more than part of their charade.