* * *
She slept for a good six hours in Lord Chilton’s soft feather mattress tester bed. It was he who woke her, his fingertip lightly smoothing over her eyebrows. What an odd feeling it was, and strangely soothing, and also, somehow terribly improper, she knew that, but still, it felt so interesting she said nothing, just sighed. The fingertip stopped and dropped away.
“You’re awake, Miss Smith. Come, open your eyes. It’s nearly noon and I have begged and pleaded with Miss Clorinda to feed you luncheon and not tear your fair hair out. It was difficult since you are in my bed and she knows it and has drawn her own conclusions based on your sitting on Mackie’s lap last night after tripping down his ale.”
She wished he’d stroke his fingertips over her eyebrows some more. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. He was leaning down, not more than a few inches from her face.
“Your eyes are very, very dark,” she said. “Not black, but certainly not brown either. Were your parents Moors?”
“No, but my mother was part Irish, I heard it said. I am told that my eyes are even darker than hers, strange surely. Other than the eyes, I am my father’s son, at least my person is. For the rest of it, I pray devoutly each morning that—” He paused and frowned at her. “I didn’t mean to say that. How odd of me.”
She raised her hand and lightly traced her own fingertip over his dark brows, first one, then the other. He didn’t move, just looked down at her, his expression unreadable.
“How is Owen?”
“He is complaining. A good sign.”
She dropped her hand and lightly pushed at his shoulder. He straightened, then rose. She sat up and stretched. “The gall of him, complaining and whining. He gets ill, forcing us to stop our journey, and then he complains about it, as if it’s my fault, and the good Lord knows it isn’t.”
“He’s just a man, Miss Smith.”
“A boy who will grow into a man. If he’s complaining now, just wait another five years.”
Again, he chuckled, still a rusty sound, but it pleased her that she had made him chuckle. She smiled up at him, stretched once more, and got out of his bed. She felt about for her slippers and slipped into them, drawing up her leg to tie the ribbons about her ankles.
“You are strangely at your ease around me, a gentleman, Miss Smith. Showing me your ankles even. I am not used to such bounty from young ladies.”
“Don’t look, then. With you standing there, how else am I to tie my slippers?”
“A good point. Come now, let’s go downstairs and have luncheon. Owen has Miss Clorinda to attend him. I venture to say he’ll soon be feverish for quite another reason.”
“What would that be? Oh no, she’s not feeding him wine or beef or heavy things like that, is she?”
“No, Miss Smith, she is giving him gruel with a dollop of honey on top.”
“Excellent, don’t worry me like that again. Oh dear, my hair.”
He handed her a comb with a dark hair in it and pointed to the small mirror atop the bed table. He stood by the door, his arms folded over his chest, watching her while she smoothed out the tangles, then splashed water on her face from the pitcher beside the mirror. He watched her lightly pat her cheeks with a soft towel.
He’d watched only one other lady perform her toilette. He’d been so very young, a babe, really, but the picture of her in his mind for just a brief instant made pain slice through him even though her face was an indistinct shadow in his mind. He remembered humming, a smile, a very lovely smile, and it was given to him, from her. He turned away, opened the door, and walked into the narrow dusty hallway.
“Come along, Miss Smith.”
It was midnight. Three days they’d been here at the Black Hair Inn. Strangely enough, Lord Chilton had remained as well, saying only when she commented on it, “I am being amused for the moment.” Nothing more, just that, and she’d wanted to hit him, for it sounded like she and Owen were oddities for his entertainment. Still, she was very grateful for his presence. Without him, she just knew that Mr. Tewksberry would have tossed her and Owen out on their respective ears.
She knew Mr. Ffalkes was coming, she just knew it, so when there was a knock on the bedroom door at midnight, she didn’t rise, didn’t say a single word. The door flew open, crashed against the wall, and Mr. Ffalkes strode into Lord Chilton’s former bedchamber, given over two days ago to Owen.
“Ah!”
“Good evening, Mr. Ffalkes. How did you find us?”
“Find you, damn your eyes, you stupid—”
“I pray you to keep your voice down, sir. Your son is still ill and is now sleeping.”
Mr. Ffalkes grunted at that, but did look at his son curled up beneath a mountain of blankets. “What’s wrong with him?”
“We were riding an entire night in the rain. He came down with a cold. He is improving and should be quite recovered by the end of the week.”