“They’ll have a chamber for me.” Her rescuer sounded quite confident. Was this because he was a spy, or because he was willing to pay extra if necessary? Or was it simply because he was a confident gentleman?
What must that be like?
When the carriage drew to a halt, Delia stared down at her soaked half-boots and let out a heavy sigh. She wasn’t ready for him to remove his warmth from along her side. Despite what he’d said about things looking up since he’d discovered her, they would part ways shortly. Even if their paths did, by chance, cross sometime in the future, he’d not have much reason to put his arm around her again.
It was… nice.
She swallowed hard.
Jack pushed the door open, and a cold rush of wind and thick flurries blew inside. And climbing out behind him, she already felt bereft to leave the privacy and coziness of the carriage.
“I’ll bring your bags around after I’ve got the horses put away in the stables.” The voice reminded her that they were not alone—that a very sturdy-looking gentleman had been driving them.
“Thank you, Mr. Coachman, for stopping,” Delia offered up, surprising the driver. “You saved my life.”
“Ah, yes, my thanks as well, Cyril.” Jack seemed to find her expression of gratitude humorous. The driver, this Cyril fellow, simply shook his head and then urged the horses to pull away.
“Don’t the horses mind the cold?” Delia asked. Having lived in the city for most of her life, she’d never before considered the ins and outs involved in traveling long distances in these sorts of conditions.
Having walked through some of it herself now, she couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the horses and driver.
“Racehorses wouldn’t like it much, but this pair, Reliable and Sir Finch, are accustomed to harsh weather.” Jack didn’t bother looking at her as he answered. Head down, he all but dragged her by the arm, intent upon getting them inside. “And their feet don’t feel the cold at all.”
“Why not?”
“Below the knees, they’re mostly just skin and bones. No fat or nerves to be bothered by it.”
Delia twisted around, wondering which was Reliable and which was Sir Finch, but the horses had already disappeared behind the building.
“Do you intend to spend all night out here?” Jack held the door, and annoyed voices shouted complaints from inside.
“Oh, no. I’m sorry.”
This taproom was even busier than the one in Half-Moon Village had been. With the door closed behind her now, after a few curious looks, the patrons went right back to their eating and drinking. Most were playing cards, and one burly fellow with a cigar dangling from his mouth pulled one of the few women in the room—a barmaid—onto his lap.
She laughed and slapped at him playfully.
Delia inhaled, filling her lungs with a not entirely unpleasant aroma of beef stew, ale, smoke, and… perspiration.
A fire burning in a large hearth, along with so many bodies, ensured the room was anything but cold.
Jack hadn’t released her arm yet but pulled her along beside him.
Not having any plan set in place for herself, she followed him meekly, vaguely noting that patrons stepped aside for him to pass.
Before they arrived at the bar, the man behind it glanced up. “Your regular suite this evening?”
“The drive up the rock would be impossible.” Jack finally released her arm and rested both of his on the long, smooth counter. The innkeeper nodded while glancing suspiciously in Delia’s direction.
Although she couldn’t be sure without her spectacles.
“I figured you might be needing it.” The man flicked a glance in her direction. “We’re all filled up for the night, madam. You’re welcome to bed down in the stables if you like.”
Was he suggesting she sleep with the animals? He was!
Her heart sank into her belly, but she reminded herself it was better than dying on the side of the road. And it was rather appropriate, really, with Christmas just a few days away. She was determined to find a silver lining.
“Thank you, sir—”