The Innkeeper's Daughter

by Michelle Griep

  The front door swung wide, and in stumbled Quail, breaking the magic of the moment, especially when he lurched over to Alex.

  “Ha ha!” He spread his arms wide. “Now here’s a man of hidden talents. A wine merchant, a carpenter”—the tang of rum travelled on the man’s breath as he leaned closer—“and a soon-to-be bridegroom.”

  Straightening, Alex shot a glance around the taproom. Thankfully Johanna was in the kitchen for the moment.

  He faced Quail. “That was a fine show you put on. Didn’t think you had it in you.” Shoving a finger into Quail’s chest, he pushed him back. “I wonder what other talents you’re hiding.”

  “Nothing for you to worry your pretty head over. And speaking of pretty heads …” Quail’s dark eyes brightened as they followed Johanna’s reappearance into the taproom. “Have you told her yet?”

  Clenching the hammer, he fought to keep from swinging the thing at Quail’s head just to shut him up. He narrowed his eyes at the fellow. “Didn’t you say you’d be leaving once this puppet show was done?”

  “A week more, then I’m gone.” He shrugged. “And what of you?”

  He glowered at the man. “That’s none of your affair.”

  “Affair? How apropos.” Quail shifted a knowing glance from him to Johanna, then staggered back a step and slapped one hand to his chest. The other he held up in the air, a Shakespearean pose—one that crawled under Alex’s skin. “Many a true word hath been spoken in jest.”

  Tossing down the hammer, Alex grabbed the fool by the collar. “I am not jesting. Stay out of my business.”

  He released him, and an interesting transformation took place. A thunderhead darkened Quail’s face, all signs of mirth—and drunkenness—vanished and was replaced with a deadly stare. Quail’s voice lowered, his words sharp as a lance. “I haven’t the time for the thrashing you deserve, but you’ll meet your comeuppance one day. And I shall be glad to hear of it.”

  He stalked past Alex and disappeared up the stairs, boots pounding the planks.

  Setting down her cloth, Johanna strolled over to Alex. Even after an evening of racing about, waiting on customers, she looked lovelier than ever with her skin aglow and hair loosened to fringe her face. Her fresh innocence stabbed him like a knife in the back—for that’s exactly what his announcement would do to her when he told her of his engagement. And he’d have to now, before Quail bandied the news about.

  “Mr. Quail looks none too pleased.” She quirked a brow at him. “What was that about?”

  “You know Quail. Nothing but drama. It’s in his blood.” He tried to turn away from her, to avoid telling her what he must, but heaven help him, he couldn’t. He knew that. He just didn’t know how. Helplessness spread over him like a rash.

  She smiled, brilliant enough to shame an August sun. “But he did do an excellent job. We are well on our way to paying Mr. Spurge.”

  He couldn’t help but smile back. “I am happy for it.”

  She stepped closer, so near, the heat of her lit a fire in his belly.

  “There is … something …” For a moment she looked away, as if she might find the courage to speak from the corner of the room. Maybe if he looked there too, he’d find a store of bravery to tell her about Louisa.

  “What I mean to say is …” Straightening her shoulders, she met his gaze head-on. “There’s something I must ask you, Alex—”

  She clapped a hand to her mouth.

  He chuckled. Such a prim little miss. Reaching, he pulled away her hand, and against his better judgment, did not let go. “Don’t be so mortified. I rather like hearing my name pass over your lips.”

  Scarlet blazed a flush on her cheeks, and her hand trembled in his grip. “What you must think of me.”

  He bent close. “Would you like to know?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was nothing more than a fairy’s breath, altogether too alluring.

  War waged in his chest, heart pumping blood and guilt and desire. Wisdom screamed to step away, put space between them, tell her of his duplicity then walk off. He should, and he would, but now? Impossible, not with the way hope and yearning intensified the brown in her eyes.

  He lifted her hand to his mouth. “I think you are kind.” He kissed her pinky. “You are strong.” His lips moved to her ring finger. “None compare to your beauty—”

  “Not so,” she interrupted. “Especially not now.”

  He pressed his mouth to her middle finger. “That is exactly what I find most attractive about you.” Her index finger melted against his lips. “You do not flaunt your loveliness.” He finished by pressing a kiss into the middle of her palm, then lowered her hand, hating himself for what he must say next. “Johanna, there’s something I must tell you.”

  “Oh, Alex.” His name was a quiver between them. A promise. A vow.

  He had to end this. Now. “You need to know I—”

  “I love you.” She launched forward and pulled his mouth to hers.

  Her body moved against him with the heat of a thousand fires, and he staggered from the force—of the kiss, of his desire, of the knowledge he’d already signed a document pledging himself to another. This was wrong in so many ways, on so many levels, too many to count.

  And far too impossible to withstand, especially when she fit herself against him.

  “Johanna,” he whispered against the lobe of her ear, the bend of her neck, the bare skin at the curve of her collarbone. A groan, primal and hungry, rumbled in his chest. This was the woman he wanted, the one he must have, with a need that would not be mastered. A shudder tore through him from head to toe.

  “Johanna—” His voice broke, and he gently set her from him. Everything in him screamed to profess his love to her, as she had for him, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

  The passion in her gaze rose bile to his throat. The gleam of her smile, with lips yet swollen from his kiss, punched him in the gut.

  She reached, and with a touch so tender it cut him to shreds, she placed her palm on his cheek. “I never thought to be this happy—is this a dream? Are you a dream?”

  No. He was a vile, filthy scoundrel of the worst degree.

  His fingers shook as he gently pulled her hand from his face. The question in the bend of her brow shattered his heart. He’d never be the same.

  And neither would she, not after he crushed her with the words he must speak. Sucking in a breath, he retreated a step. In wagering that he could extract himself from an engagement to Louisa, he knew now—and without doubt—that he’d lose the beauty in front of him. Would to God that he’d never thought otherwise in the first place or things might’ve been different.

  “Alex?”

  He memorized her sweet tone, the way her lips moved when his name whispered over them, for it would be the last time she ever spoke his name in love.

  “Johanna,” his ragged voice violated the sanctity of what had been. “I am engaged to another. We are to marry by week’s end.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Dazed, worn, cheeks chapped by tears and throat sore from crying, Johanna sat in the stable yard on an upturned barrel, staring at the sky. The sun had risen not long ago—maybe. Hard to tell with an underbelly of grey clouds dragging low. Had she a pin, she’d poke a hole in them to release a torrent. But would that do any good? She’d sat here crying all night and didn’t feel the better for it.

  Clenching her shawl tight at the neck, she hung her head, glad the sun didn’t gloat on her sorrow. Better if it didn’t show its face, for she never wanted to see it—or Alex—again. Oh, Alex. What a fool she’d been. Her heart constricted, and she folded deeper and lower, hunched like an elder ready to fall into a grave.

  The kitchen door creaked, but it took too much effort to lift her head. So she sat, listening to footsteps grow louder but helpless to acknowledge whoever it was that drew near.

  “Johanna?”

  Mam’s voice wavered—or had her hearing begun to shut down as well? />
  “Oh, my girl.”

  Arms wrapped around her, tucking her close.

  “My precious, only girl.” Mam crooked her finger beneath Jo’s chin, forcing her to meet her gaze. “What has you in such a state?”

  She worked her jaw, but nothing came out.

  “Jo?” Her mother peered closer, her good eye searching for truth.

  “Alex—” Johanna shuddered. Just saying his name cut sharp. “Alex is to be married.” The awful words stabbed so deeply, she winced.

  But it was the sagging of Mam’s brows, the quivering downturn of her lips that undid her.

  She wilted into Mam’s arms and buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. Grief, sorrow, pain so awful it was not to be borne surged out until her tears waned—and then another, stronger flow convulsed her again.

  “I was wrong, Mam,” she cried. “I was so wrong about him. I thought he loved me. I truly did. He’s nothing but a liar, just like Father.”

  “In some ways he is—but in many more he is not. Don’t be so hasty, my love.”

  Her tears stopped. The sniffles didn’t. Between shaky breaths, she listened hard, waiting for Mam to explain herself, but her mother simply continued to rub a big circle on her back.

  Finally, she withdrew and looked at Mam. “What do you mean?”

  “Well …” Her mouth quirked, not a smile, for that would be irreverent, but a definite movement nonetheless. “He’s not married yet, is he?”

  Johanna broke away and set her feet in the rut she’d worn in the dirt from pacing the long night away. “You don’t understand.”

  “Then tell me.”

  She plodded her way to the broken hay rake then back to the barrel. Again and again. Taking up the cadence she’d developed from hours of practice. Perhaps if she focused on her steps, the words would come easier. “I’ve never loved a man in this way. I never even knew what love was. Last night I … I gave my whole heart to Alex, just handed it right over, and he shattered it into a thousand pieces.” She stopped and faced Mam. “What kind of man does that?”

  “One who is as confused as you.”

  Her jaw dropped. Surely Mam wasn’t suggesting Alex had been less than brutal. A hundred retorts burned on her tongue.

  “Tut-tut. Let me speak.” Mam wagged a finger at her. “I suspect it was as excruciating for Alex to tell you of his betrothal as it was for you to hear.”

  Unbelievable! Her mother stood there defending the man who’d caused her such pain? She threw out her arms. “How can you say that to me? I am your daughter! Should you not care about my broken heart? It hurts, Mam!” She clasped her hands and wrung them, scraping flesh upon flesh, bone upon bone. “It hurts so much.”

  “I know, my sweet. Well do I know.” Mam closed in on her, wrapping one arm around her waist and leading her back to the barrel. With gentle pressure, she guided her to sit.

  “It is hard to believe now, Johanna, but love gets easier once the heart is broken. It’s a casting away of the shell. Of course it hurts. It’s meant to. But broken things are always the beginning of better things. A plant could not grow without first the ground being broken. The most plentiful yields come from a field ravaged by a plow.”

  The anger she’d been simmering all night boiled into a rage. “I don’t care! I don’t care about fields or plants or anything. I can’t. If that’s what love is about, I’ll have none of it—ever again.”

  Mam gathered Jo’s hands into her work-worn fingers. Veins spidered blue across the backs of them, tracks enlarged by years of hard living and labor. “Take care, my dear, for your words smack of bitterness.”

  “I am bitter.” Her voice sounded as petulant as a toddler—and she didn’t care one whit. “I am angry and ragged and torn. How can God stand by and watch this happen to me?”

  “Johanna.” With a single word, Mam rebuked more soundly than a month’s worth of sermons. “God is not sitting about, watching impassive. Our tears are His. You never—ever—cry alone.” She reached and tucked a loose coil of hair behind Jo’s ear. “You must bring your broken heart to God—or your broken heart will make you leave Him. What will you do?”

  A sigh—as sharp as the pinprick she’d wished for earlier to poke the sky with—deflated her shoulders. “I don’t know, Mam. I just don’t know.”

  “It’s all right, my girl. Sometimes answers don’t come easy. But I intend to uncover a few.” Mam turned on her heel, her lopsided gait pounding toward the kitchen door.

  Jo stood. “Where are you going?”

  Mam glanced over her shoulder, her good eye gleaming. “To strike up a little conversation.”

  Morning light crept in the window on tentative feet. Alex couldn’t blame its weak entrance. If given the choice, he wouldn’t want to keep company with himself either. He flung the pillow he’d cursed all night across the room and sat up, fully clothed. Why he’d even bothered to try to sleep annoyed him further. Every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was the shattered, horrified pain in Johanna’s eyes. Hurt put there by him. In all his years as a Bow Street officer, he’d locked up many a lesser villain than the scoundrel he’d become. This time he’d gambled everything—and lost.

  A rap on his door drew him to his feet. He’d not heard heavy footsteps, so it was a woman, most likely. He’d bet five to one it was Johanna, wanting an explanation, or maybe wanting to vent her wrath. His heart plummeted to the floor, and were it visible, he’d stomp on the thing. When he’d told her last night he was to be wed, the blood drained from her face until he feared she might swoon, then without a word, she’d turned and walked away. No screaming. No tears. No anything. Rage of that caliber had to blow sooner or later. It appeared the time was now—and he deserved every bit of it. Steeling himself, he yanked open the door.

  Piercing brown eyes sparked up at him beneath a mobcap.

  “Mrs. Langley.” His head dipped, driven downward by respect and shame and guilt. He’d prepared for battle with the daughter, not the mother. His stomach roiled like the one—and only—time he’d taken too much libations and was sorry for it the morning after.

  “I can only assume this is about Johanna,” he mumbled. Apparently even his voice wanted nothing to do with him today either.

  “No, it is about you.” She bustled past him, forcing him to either step back or be flattened, then she shoved the door shut. “Can you think of a more secure place to talk?”

  “No.” He dragged over the single chair gracing the room and offered it to her, then sat opposite the woman on the corner of his bed. Her all-knowing gaze, the kind only a mother could produce, sagged his shoulders. He looked at the floorboards. “I’ll be leaving today, but before I go, you must know I never meant to hurt your daughter. I hate what I’ve done to her.”

  “And I hate what Ford is doing to you.”

  He jerked up his head, the direction of her words nearly whiplashing him.

  One side of her mouth curved. “I thought as much. If you intend to marry Louisa Coburn for the sake of a directive, then you’re stepping beyond the bounds of being a good officer into a foolish one.”

  Stunned, he worked his jaw, but was hardly able to formulate questions in his mind let alone speak any. He shook his head, completely at a loss. “No more games, Mrs. Langley. Please.”

  She folded her hands in her lap, calmly, as if she weren’t addressing the reprobate who’d broken her daughter’s heart. “I was young once, beautiful, like Johanna. And just like her, I fell in love with a Bow Street officer.”

  “At least you and your husband had a happily ever after.”

  “I wasn’t speaking of my husband.”

  His eyes shot wide. This lady, who ran an upstanding if not ramshackle inn, had dallied with another man?

  She chuckled. “Oh, it’s not that I didn’t love William, for I did, but in a different way than I loved Richard.”

  Surely she didn’t mean … but of course. It made sense, if not in a twisted fashion. He leaned forward, the straw tic
k crunching beneath him. “Richard Ford?”

  She nodded. “Richard was never satisfied with mere officer status. He wanted more, to become a magistrate, which was an impossibility for he held no land. He would need an act of parliament. When a high-paying assignment involving an MP came up, he took it, no questions asked, hoping to garner favor from the man.” Her lower lip quivered, and she shut her eyes. “The reckless fool.”

  They sat in silence, save for the muted snores from down the hall. Mrs. Langley’s mouth pinched, little ruffles of skin tightening together in fine pleats. Whatever she remembered couldn’t be pleasant.

  “And the assignment was?” he prompted.

  Her eyes fluttered open, and she smoothed her hands along her apron. “Richard was to deliver the MP’s daughter safely to her mother, a colonial who’d returned home months earlier. Shortly after setting sail, Richard took ill. Unattended by necessity, the girl was ravished and left unable to identify the attacker. By the time they landed, she knew she was not only ruined, but with child. Richard blamed himself, of course, for such is his strong call to duty. So, risking his own happiness, he married the girl. When I received his letter, I was devastated.”

  Alex dug deep into the farthest fields of his memories, a fruitless harvest, for he’d never once heard of the magistrate’s wife. “I had no idea Ford was married. I am sorry for your loss.”

  “Not as sorry as I was, though William Langley was a comfort. And, well, I wouldn’t have my sweet Johanna or Thomas were it not for him.” For a moment, the lines of her face softened, and it was easy to picture her as she might’ve looked in younger years, when a fellow named William and one named Richard both loved her.

  But the creases reappeared, carving row upon row at the sides of her mouth and corners of her eyes. “Richard Ford threw away what he wanted for what he thought was right—but that didn’t make it so.” Her voice grew hard as well. “If you lose what you love to gain that which you don’t, merely out of a sense of duty, such an action can never be right. Think on that.”