Chapter 8
After a week, a party of men appeared. Bleu met them on the porch as the leader on a big bay horse dismounted. He approached, his gaze swinging wide as he surveyed the tavern like he owned it. Small, slim, and smug, he made up for it in arrogance.
“I’m the new proprietor of the Rose and Crown though I’m tempted to rename it the Crimson Crossroads.”
The men with him laughed but Bleu found no humor in it. Any goodwill he’d come onto the porch with vanished at the man’s next utterance.
“And who are you?” His close-set eyes held disdain. “A hired hand?”
“My name’s Galant.” Bleu’s hand rested on the leather pistol holster at his waist as Brielle and Titus appeared on the porch behind him. “And you are?” he continued, meeting the man’s flighty gaze.
“Wade Griffiths, nephew and heir of the former owner.” He looked at Titus then Brielle. “Are these my indentures? I was told some survived.”
The gaze the man fastened on Brielle made Bleu want to draw his pistol. “These two were bound to your uncle. The rest are buried.”
“A pity. I’ll need more help then.” He stepped onto the porch and ran a gloved hand down the scarred railing. “I suppose you’re a temporary lodger. When will you be on your way?”
“When I’m sure Miss Farrow and the boy are in good hands.”
Griffiths frowned. “I’ll take possession immediately. My baggage wagon will arrive shortly. These heavily armed men you see with me are hired guards.”
Hired ruffians, rather, who’d signed on immediately at the mention of a tippling-house. Bleu was far less inclined to leave now that he’d met them.
“You there—Miss Farrow—show me about the tavern while the boy sees to our horses.” Griffiths pulled off his leather gloves. “But first a drink. We’re all in need of rum or ale. I trust there’s an abundance of both.”
With that, Griffiths walked around Bleu and entered the tavern.
Brielle followed the younger Griffiths inside, dread descending like a black cloud. The older Griffiths was an unpleasant man but instinct told her his heir was worse. To her surprise, Bleu went into the bar and began serving the men drinks while Titus saw to their horses.
Once he’d whet his thirst he sought her out again while his companions kept to the bar, Bleu still behind the counter. Brielle waited in the passageway, determined to keep her distance from the man who’d demanded she show him his new holdings.
“The Rose and Crown is usually full,” she began, gesturing to the large public room with its long tables and benches. Titus had done an admirable job of setting it to rights. “Being at a crossroads, folks come from all directions though we’ve had no one stay since that dire Sunday.”
“Bad for business. I’ll need to see accounts. Peruse ledgers.” He frowned. “I trust the entire endeavor is profitable year round. I won’t be privy to anything ill-managed.”
“Your uncle kept his business accounts in his office.” She crossed the passageway, glad Bleu had returned the Windsor chairs. “This room was ransacked but has since been righted.”
He walked about, examining the less than full bookshelves flanking the hearth and a cracked window she’d not noticed before. Sitting down at the desk, he reached for a ledger then tossed it aside. “Carry on.”
She’d never felt more like a servant. Dissatisfaction stiffened his features and left her wondering how he’d manage guests being so rude.
He bristled with bad manners as did his hired hands in the bar.
One had even spat tobacco onto the porch.
Even now their raucous talk and laughter grated as Brielle led the way to the kitchen.
“Quite commodious,” he said as he poked his head into the larder then lifted the lid on a pot of stewed chicken and dumplings she’d made. “Can you cook?”
“I can though my duties till now were mostly serving meals and readying rooms. The former cook lies buried in back of the orchard with others killed that day.”
His unnerving gaze pinned her again. “How did you survive?”
She avoided his eyes, reaching for a spoon to stir the bubbling pot. “I was working in the cornfield with Titus Owens.”
“Fortunate. You seem competent enough though that remains to be seen. Owens is a bit young. I need able men, not boys.”
Her thoughts swung to Bleu. Might he stay on a bit longer? She sensed a man of Bleu’s mettle couldn’t abide such bad company. For a trice she rued the passing of the elder Griffiths, sensing the worst sort of servitude stretched ahead of her.
Upstairs they went from room to room as she weathered his criticisms of what she had no control over. The linens, though clean, bore stains. Threadbare rugs needed replacing. Chipped furniture required mending. At least he couldn’t complain about dust and cobwebs for she’d seen to that.
She wouldn’t show him the back stairs secreted behind a door that led to their servant’s quarters and wound down to the kitchen.
That seemed too intimate, a trespass of her hard-won privacy.
He’d undoubtedly discover it in time but not on her watch.
The thought made her shiver. For now he seemed intent on returning to the bar.
Once the crossroads and tavern resumed its bustle, he’d be too busy to pay her attention or so she hoped. Fear could only hold the backcountry captive for so long. Until the next attack, if there was one, crops and livestock needed tending, travelers and lodgers, too.
Her relief was short lived. The very idea of Bleu Galant riding away sank her spirits. Their time together had been as memorable as it had been short. His freedoms were not lost on her. His ability to go wherever and whenever he pleased seemed a heaven-sent privilege.
“Why so downcast, Miss Farrow?” Griffiths’ probing question was more accusation.
She started down the steps, unable to speak past the knot in her throat.
“Answer me.” On the landing he reached for her, his fingers curling around her forearm like talons. “As your new master I’ll not abide any insolence. You’ll mind your temper and your tongue.”
Pulling her arm free, she continued down the stairs. “If I’m downcast it’s because of a brutal raid and the tavern changing hands. There’s little room for mirth.”
He said nothing more but she sensed his ire.
To her relief, he returned to the bar. Bleu was still serving—or was he overseeing?
The front door was open wide and she stood in the doorframe, breathing in the fresh late spring air and hoping Titus would return from the stables.
She still felt wary of being outside since the militia had dispersed with the heir’s arrival.
Now with Wade Griffiths here, the enemy was within.