“I plan to enter the inn at first light, while Lumley and his cohorts are still sleeping. It seems likely that just one of the dastards will be with Scottie, while the two others share other quarters.”
“You would need to be sure of the room, would you not, so as not to make a mistake and alert them to your presence?” she asked.
“Correct. The innkeeper will know, of course. But we have to assume he is friends with Lumley and would not willingly aid us.”
“So a confrontation must be done carefully, and with no chance for him to raise the alarm,” interjected Olivia.
“Yes.” The next words did not come easy. “That is where I must ask your help. A lone female, appearing distraught and disheveled at the inn’s door, is not likely to raise suspicions despite the early hour. My guess is the proprietor will unbolt the door to allow you entrance—”
She quickly took over the narrative for him. “At which point I shall fall faint into his arms and beg for a seat and a reviving cordial. He will have no choice but to assist me into a private parlor, leaving the door untended so that you may enter unobserved.”
“I was thinking—”
Ignoring his attempt to speak, Olivia continued in a rush. “My histrionics will keep him distracted long enough for you to slip into the parlor.” A tight smile. “At which point you will have the opportunity to persuade the man that it is in his best interests to cooperate with you.”
John raised a brow. “You are frighteningly good at plotting this sort of thing.”
“I have had ample experience,” came the cryptic reply.
Yet another intriguing facet of Olivia Sloane.
“How—” he began.
“Never mind that now. What matters is that it’s a good plan. I have every confidence that it will work.”
“Let us pray so,” he said softly.
“This seems a good spot.” John drew the tired horses to a halt by an opening in the hedgerow. The scudding moonlight showed a faint cart path leading into a sloping meadow of tall grasses. And looming straight ahead, the dark silhouette of a granite outcropping rose out of the fescue, high enough to provide a vantage point over the road. “We are not more than a quarter mile past the inn, which puts us in perfect position for our plan.”
Olivia nodded. Tired, hungry, bruised to the bone by the bumps and ruts, she wanted only to descend from the hellish perch and feel the solid earth beneath her feet. She had purchased provisions that morning so at least they had food and drink to fill their bellies. As for sleep—the thought stirred a longing for her soft featherbed at home. But the truth was, her nerves were coiled too tightly to unwind into repose.
Time enough for rest when this ordeal was over.
A glance at John as he guided the team through the narrow opening showed fatigue etched on his face. His cheekbones were sharp as knifeblades, and the shadows under his eyes were black as burnt coals.
“Dare we light a fire?” she asked, once they had stopped and he had unhitched the horses. “I could toast some bread and cheese, as well as heat water for tea.”
He looked to the thick copse of trees between them and the inn. “Yes, I see no harm in it. I noted a few farmhouses nearby, so a wisp of smoke won’t attract any undo attention.”
A pot and several primitive utensils had been added to their meager store of possessions. John set to gathering wood and kindling a flame while she unpacked the hamper. Sheltered within a niche of the wind-carved stone, the sticks were soon blazing with a welcome warmth.
They ate in companionable silence, the earl seemingly lost in his own thoughts.
Brooding no doubt about the coming day, thought Olivia, and all that could go wrong.
All will go right.
Looking up, she offered a silent prayer to the heavens.
Perhaps it was just her imagination, but the tendrils of mist seemed to skirl away, leaving the stars to shine with a sudden brighter brilliance—a sign that she chose to take as a good omen. Her father had held a great respect for primitive traditions and talismans…
Impelled by some powerful inner force, Olivia rose without a word and began to sway slowly back and forth in front of the undulating flames. After a few moments, she raised her arms, adding the rhythmic gestures she recalled from the tribal dances in Crete.
John looked up. He said nothing but beneath the curl of his dark lashes she saw the glimmer of a question.
He thinks me mad—and perhaps I am.
“My father wrote extensively about native rituals,” she explained. Sway, sway. “Every culture has rituals for good luck—they are designed to align the local gods in their favor.” Sway, sway. “Like my father, I am very open-minded about these things. I see no harm in appealing to all the deities in the universe.” Sway, sway. She began to move her feet in soft, shuffling steps, tracing a wide circle around the fire.