she crossed the busy room with Wolf, she felt all eyes upon them.
‘We ordered some mutton stew and chicken pies,’ said Campbell in his gentle burr. ‘Couldnae wait all night for yous to come down.’ He grinned. ‘We’ve a jug of ale for while we wait.’
A serving wench, with what looked to Rosalind to be an indecently revealing décolletage, brought cutlery and plates to the table.
‘We are to eat…in here?’ Rosalind had never eaten in the public room of an inn before. She glanced anxiously around.
‘The food will be the same whether we eat here or waste our money paying for a private parlour,’ said Wolf as he gestured for her to take the seat beside Campbell on the inside of the table.
She did as she bid, trying not to notice the less than subtle interest from the people seated around them. From the corner of her eye she saw the landlord make his way over.
‘The rooms are to your liking, sir…’ His eyes dropped to her hand, pausing just for a second or two on the bare fingers of her left hand. Rosalind held her head up defiantly, determined not to be shamed even though she knew what the man must think her. But the heat in her cheeks betrayed her.
Wolf gave a curt nod.
‘And your lady?’ The landlord persevered.
Wolf turned a glacial eye upon him.
The landlord paled. ‘I’ll see to your food, sir.’
Rosalind dropped her gaze, wishing that the ground would open up and swallow her. Was it her imagination or was there a lull in the surrounding buzz of conversation?
Only after the landlord had departed did she whisper furiously at Wolf, ‘You should have told him I was not your lady.’
‘So concerned for his good opinion, Miss Meadowfield?’ He smiled a cold mocking smile.
Her cheeks burned all the hotter. ‘No, but he will think the worst of me. My reputation—’ She heard Kempster snigger, and broke off what she had been about to say, knowing how ridiculous her reaction was—for she had no reputation left to lose.
‘Pray continue. Your reputation…?’ Wolf raised an eyebrow.
She cast her gaze down, and spoke the words quietly, ‘I meant only that I did not wish him to believe me something that I am not.’
‘I see.’
She raised her eyes to his.
‘You wished me to tell him that you are not my lady but a thief.’ His words were spoken easily enough and in no hush.
‘Ssh! People will hear.’
‘Will they indeed?’
‘They are beginning to stare,’ she whispered in a panic.
‘Let them,’ he said. ‘I am quite used to it.’
She heard the slight bitterness in his voice, and her eyes traced the scar that marked the honeyed skin of his cheek. Shame washed over her at her insensitivity and she bit at her lower lip. ‘I did not mean…that is to say I was not referring to—’
His eyes met hers, and all of the words dried upon her tongue.
The awkwardness was broken by the arrival of the food. There was no more talk as the men devoured the stew and potatoes and cabbage and pie as if they had not eaten for a week, nor did the fact that it was scalding hot seem to slow them down any. The smell alone caused Rosalind’s stomach to rumble; indeed the mutton stew was thick and tasty, and the pie hot and flavoursome. But she ate little of them, and merely toyed with the rest. In truth her stomach was too tense for food.
Wolf said nothing to her but she frequently felt his gaze on her throughout the meal, which seemed only to make her stomach flutter all the more, until at last they were done. Leaving Kempster and Campbell to another jug of ale, he rose and took her with him.
Within the small bedchamber Wolf felt a stab of annoyance at the wariness in the woman’s eyes. As if he had no sense of honour as a man, as if he would force himself upon her like some kind of animal. Scarred or not, Wolf had no trouble finding willing women. And as for the forcing, she’d do better to look at her own class for that, he thought bitterly, and all of the memories were back again.
‘Be ready to leave at first light,’ he said, knowing that his voice was unnecessarily harsh. Indeed, all of his treatment of her had been too harsh. He knew that, but his heart was still hard, and more so because of his reaction to her upon the staircase earlier that evening.
She looked at him, and in the candlelight her eyes were as soft and dark as a woodland floor. He saw the flash of relief in them; she that had cared so much that people did not think her his woman. ‘Good night, Mr Wolversley,’ she said, and he had the sensation that she was dismissing him as if he were a servant. The thought irked him more than it should have. He would leave when he was damn well ready, and not at her say so. He stood where he was.
‘Next time, eat your dinner rather than playing with it. People starve while you waste good food.’
‘What I eat is none of your concern, sir.’
‘On the contrary, Miss Meadowfield.’ He walked up right up to her, feeling a savage stab of satisfaction when she stepped back to maintain the distance between them. He saw the fear dart into her eyes, but she held his gaze. ‘Until I hand you over to Evedon, you are mine and you will do as I say.’
She shivered. ‘Evedon will see me hanged. Your threats mean nothing in comparison with that.’
He knew that Evedon would not have her hang. He doubted if the earl even meant to report her, not when he was so concerned with keeping the matter quiet. Evedon would probably be happy with the return of his emeralds, a word in Miss Meadowfield’s father’s ear and the removal of the lady herself from his house. Still, Wolf had no intention of enlightening Miss Meadowfield to those facts.
‘There are worse things in life than death: things that you in your fine clothes, with your fine life, could not even begin to imagine. Sometimes the hangman’s noose can be a blessed relief.’ His voice was quiet. Wolf knew from bitter experience the truth in those words. ‘Good night, Miss Meadowfield,’ he said, and then turned and walked away.
As he closed the door behind him, she had not moved, just stood exactly as he had left her, staring after him. The look in her eyes made him want to call back the cruel words he had just uttered and made him think that he really was a bastard in every sense of the word.
Rosalind waited until she heard the key turn in the lock and the booted footsteps trace their path down the corridor before she allowed herself to sag against the wall, closing her eyes as she did so. Her legs trembled so much that she had been surprised that he did not hear her knees knocking together. She slid down the wall and crouched, wrapping her arms around her shins. And she wondered, really wondered, what on earth she was going to do. She had been so sure of her disappearance in Scotland. And now…Wolf’s words played again in her mind. There are worse things in life than death, things that you in your fine clothes, with your fine life, could not even begin to imagine. Oh, her clothes were fine all right—chosen and paid for by Lady Evedon—but her life was not fine at all; it had not been fine
