Chapter Six #2
“He is a personal courier for a very important lord and spends a great deal of time ferrying messages to and from one estate to the next,” Clara posited.
“He is charged with carrying a time-sensitive missive, but he simply could wait no longer to eat or drink. His master would have his head if he knew of the delay, but he tells himself that he’ll do no one any good if he collapses on the road. ”
Brinley shook his head. “How could you tell all that?”
Clara lifted a shoulder and said, “It is merely a guess, of course. But look at the way he is eating and the state of his clothing.” She turned her head and caught sight of the innkeeper as he bustled through the room to assist his wife.
“Mr. Robertson fell in love with Mrs. Robertson for her cooking.”
“How could you possibly come to that conclusion when we have yet to eat a bite of the woman’s food?” He chuckled lightly.
“It is merely a game; there is no need to throw stones at everything I say,” she commented with narrowed eyes.
Sufficiently chastised, her husband inclined his head for her to continue.
“He is the third generation to own and work this inn and tavern. She was a local girl he’d known his entire life.
He’d always found her lovely, but the first time he tasted her freshly baked bread and mutton stew, he knew he was well and truly gone for her.
Over the years, his waist grew as stout as his heart whenever he was around his lady love. ”
“And Mrs. Robinson detests the taste of any meat, so she remains thin as a fencepost while cooking all her beloved husband’s favorite dishes.”
Clara giggled in surprise when Brinley played along. “Very good! Try again.” She gestured to the room for him to select another subject.
She should have known his eyes would be drawn to the young lovers in the corner.
“The man over there has loved that woman from the moment he met her,” Brinley began so softly that Clara could hardly hear him over the din in the room.
“He never quite believed he was good enough for her, so he adored her from afar. He pined for her smiles, he dreamt of her lips, he burned to know if her skin was as soft as it looked.”
Clara’s heartbeat stuttered in her breast; her lips parted as she hung on his every word.
“Finally, unable to bear it no more, he professed his longstanding love for her. Much to his disbelief, she admitted that she’d felt the same way.
Neither of their families approved of the match, so they were forced to make secret plans to elope to Gretna Green.
They escaped without issue, and they’ve been living together in wedded bliss for three weeks now.
They are finally returning to London to face the fallout of their love, but they believe they can withstand anything so long as they are together. ”
Clara was struck speechless by the time he was done speaking—both because his imagination had been so in line with hers, and because she’d never considered him capable of such romantic musings.
She was saved from having to comment by the arrival of Mrs. Robertson bearing their drinks and food.
“Here ye are,” said the innkeeper’s wife, effectively blocking their view of the Gretna Green lovers. “Let me know if there be anythin’ else ye need.”
*
Following a relatively quiet meal, Mr. Robertson showed Brinley and Clara up to their chamber.
The jovial man whistled a little tune as he led the way.
Clara took the opportunity to glance up at her husband, but he made no indication of any emotion other than placid agreement.
He’d not protested when Mr. Robertson spoke of a singular room, so it would seem as if their separate bedchambers would wait until they reached Edinburgh.
They trailed the innkeeper up a narrow flight of stairs in the back of the main room, each step creaking beneath his ample weight.
There, furthest away from the noise, was a large bedchamber with a tidy timber and thatch ceiling.
Sweet-smelling herbs had been strewn amongst the clean thrushes.
One of each of their trunks had already been deposited by their staff and lay open for their use.
A washbasin rested against the nearest wall, and a small table with two chairs was set near the hearth.
Clara’s gaze froze when it landed upon the wide bed covered in a worn but clean homemade quilt in shades of blue and green that echoed Mr. Robertson’s tartan.
It seemed an innocent enough piece of furniture, simple in construction with a thickly stuffed mattress.
To a new bride, however, it was a nerve-wracking sight.
Clara barely heard Brinley thank Mr. Robertson with a few coins before he left, leaving them alone.
She jumped when Brinley came up and set his hat on the table.
There was nothing inherently threatening about the gesture; it just seemed that her nerves had been reduced to those of a trembling wild hare.
“Would you care to lie down for a rest since you were unable to sleep in the carriage?” he offered in a soft, even voice.
The question was polite and entirely appropriate, so why did she become instantly awkward and flustered? She stammered vowels rather than actual words.
To his credit, Brinley seemed to wish to mitigate her embarrassment by downcasting his face so she could not witness the full force of his amusement.
He clarified his statement, saying, “I am planning to supervise the bedding of the horses and the remaining luggage before partaking in a drink in the public room—something a mite stronger than the ale. If you would like, I can have your maid sent up to help you settle in for a rest before supper. I am sure you must be tired; it has been a long day.”
So, he meant to leave her alone.
He would not join her for her “rest.”
“Yes,” Clara finally squeaked out. “Yes, a rest sounds lovely.”
With a nod, her husband quit the room, and Clara felt as if she could breathe again.
Feeling every one of the miles they’d traveled that day, she sat heavily on the bed. She gave a little bounce to test its softness and the sturdiness of the frame’s ropes, finding everything more than passable, especially after a day spent in a carriage.
How was she ever going to survive this night with Brinley?
To him, perhaps she was just another woman, or an unpleasant obligation.
To her…he was Brinley. She did not know if or how she was going to be able to separate this reality from the man who was going to claim her virginity.
Part of her instinctively knew he would try to make it as pleasant as possible for her—the sole real kiss they’d shared had been evidence of great skill and a passion that simmered beneath his gruff demeanor—but that did not do much to lessen her trembling.
She was still contemplating as much when Beth arrived to help her from her wrinkled wedding/traveling dress and into a clean shift for her nap.
As much as it was a great relief to be free of her confining garments, when she was left alone, Clara stared up at the ceiling and found her mind too restless to nap.
Brinley had said he would partake in a drink in the public room.
Would he return to her after that? What if he found her sleeping?
Would he remove his clothes and slide into bed with her?
Would he press the hard length of his body to hers; would she be able to feel his heat through her thin shift?
What would it be like to have him so close?
Would he kiss her again so she could taste the smokey spirits on his tongue? Where would he touch her first?
Her thoughts, equal parts disconcerting and thrilling as they were, kept her from any hope of napping. She tossed and turned for two hours, making a mess of the neat bedspread until her maid returned. By then, Clara was almost grateful for the interruption.
“Would you care to take dinner here in private, or belowstairs?” Beth asked, admirably ignoring Clara’s haggard state. “I can fetch a tray for you if you’d like.”
Feeling as if she would go mad if she were left alone with her speculations any longer, she readily agreed to join Brinley belowstairs—almost anything felt better than being isolated with her musings.
She selected a simple cerulean dress and decided to forego any adornments other than a matching ribbon to tie back her dark curls.
She looked forward to being more settled and hoped it would not be too long before she felt that way in Edinburgh.
She wasn’t averse to traveling, but she’d already experienced so much upheaval that she craved the opportunity to discover normalcy.
As soon as Clara descended the stairs, Mrs. Robertson whisked her away to the private dining room without question.
There, she found Brinley already seated at a table set for two.
He rose when he saw her and slid out the second chair for her use.
She couldn’t help but notice how he managed to still appear so composed, so handsome, even though he still wore the clothes that he’d donned for their wedding ceremony.
She had always (sometimes grudgingly) found him an objectively handsome man, but now it was different.
He was her husband. It was silently encouraged that she noticed as much, but that was so foreign to her.
It was akin to having a veil ripped away from her face and being suddenly blinded by the sun, unsure if the glare was beautiful in its intensity or intimidating in its newness.
That was what it was like to look at Brinley through this new lens—to define him as her husband rather than Dori’s friend…her verbal sparring partner…and now the man who apparently kept her awake with the mere imaginings of what it might be to lie with him as his wife.