Chapter 26 #2
“Of course you have,” Benjamin replied. His voice became low and fervent. “You’ve been an imprint on my heart for over a year now, Clara…that kind of affection doesn’t go away.”
With a tremulous breath, she squirmed and fended off a blush. “Ben, I hope you realize I very much wish to kiss you…but since I also fear we might capsize amidst my ardor, you’ll have to wait until we make it to land.” Here, her gaze grew pointed. “Row faster.”
With a bashful smile, Benjamin acquiesced.
Unfortunately, by the time they moored against Union Wharf, the weather was far too severe for any romantic dalliances.
The sky had darkened, and with a shriek, Clara covered her head while thick, heavy droplets of sleet pelted them relentlessly from above.
The precipitation started long before their arrival, so both Benjamin and Clara were drenched as they stumbled along the pier.
“We need a horse!” he shouted over to her.
“An inn, more like!” she volleyed. “We can’t possibly travel like this!” Nearly tripping over her skirts, she reached for Benjamin’s hand, and the two staggered half blind as the chilly wind whipped and whistled from all sides.
Along the wharf, anchored ships rocked precariously atop the waves, and the constant motion made Clara’s stomach turn. Her breath burned like icy fire in her lungs, and squinting at the row of closely knit buildings they stumbled past, she wondered if any of them could provide refuge. “Ben?”
“Just a little farther!” he called back. “There’s an inn right off Water Street!”
Unfortunately, Benjamin’s heavy limp was finally starting to take its toll. Amidst his efforts at getting his legs to cooperate, he tripped and fell harshly to his knees, panting as Clara frantically stooped to assist.
“You need to find shelter!” he shouted over the rain. “I can’t…I-I can’t keep going…”
“I’m not leaving you behind!” she scolded. “Come…surely, we can find a horse or coach!” Leaning down to shoulder his weight, she helped him rise on wobbly legs.
Being only early evening, there was still enough light to guide their way, and yet the bleak sky and blinding sleet made it difficult as they searched.
Benjamin and Clara limped past another row of ghostly buildings, each only coming alive with the flicker of candleflame within their windows.
Most citizens were smart and remained indoors.
Those in the streets were either taking it in stride, or stumbling along the slick path, much as Benjamin and Clara were.
“Look!” the latter exclaimed, nearly giving a sob of relief. Pointing up ahead, she indicated the lumbering stagecoach headed their way.
Eager, she waved a hand while she supported Benjamin’s weight with the other, her arm squeezing him more securely as the horse-drawn carriage crawled to a stop.
“The inn off Water Street, please!” she called to the grave-faced driver.
He appeared put out since that was in the complete opposite direction he was facing, yet he nodded and indicated that they climb inside.
The carriage ride was quick. After paying their driver, Clara and Benjamin practically threw the door to the Mulford Inn off its hinges, dripping wet and shaking as they crossed the threshold.
They both knew they must look a fright: Clara, sodden and pale, and Benjamin, inappropriately dressed without a waistcoat, nor jacket to cover his shame.
The innkeeper, however, seemed wholly indifferent. The old man looked up from his book with a pout, clearly bothered by the intrusion. “Just a moment,” he said with a sigh.
Being indoors made it all the more apparent of how miserable it was outside, and with the warmer air upon her skin, Clara shivered harder. Benjamin hobbled toward the front desk and she followed, watching the innkeeper retrieve a leatherbound book.
“Wanna room?” he asked, sounding bored.
Benjamin cleared his throat. “Uh…yes, please. For me and my wife.”
A jolt rushed through Clara at the declaration, her eyes wide and cheeks warm. Naturally, it made perfect sense to create such a lie, given how scandal would follow an unwed couple, but that didn’t keep the giddiness from flooding her veins.
“Name?” the innkeeper asked, impatient.
“John Smith,” Benjamin lied.
Sloppily scratching out the alias, the innkeeper muttered, “Mr. and Mrs. Smith,” before turning to the key rack. He wiggled his fingers, then plucked a key that read 7 in chalk above the hook.
The old man handed Benjamin the key, and Clara offered her coin purse, seeing how he was still wearing his lent raiment. Benjamin was embarrassed by the gesture but accepted since there was no other choice.
“Your room comes with a meal,” the innkeeper announced, already reaching for his book again. “I can take everything up to you.”
From this angle, the title was revealed as A Treatise of the Use of Flogging in Venereal Affairs. Clara’s interest was instantly piqued, but Benjamin grew flustered, his eyes snapping toward the wall. “Uh…thank you. That would be wonderful.”
“I’ll see to it,” the man muttered, never lifting his eyes from the text.
Benjamin touched her arm, and Clara followed toward the staircase behind the desk. Once they were safely out of earshot, he muttered, “I suppose we won’t be getting supper for a while.”
“Definitely not,” Clara agreed.
Guided by candlelit sconces alongside each closed door, they found the seventh room, and Benjamin inserted the key into the lock. “I hope there’s at least a bed warmer,” he said.
“Why? I’m here, aren’t I?” Catching the spark of boyish panic in his eyes, Clara laughed while he fumbled with the key. “You do realize there will only be one bed, yes?”
The lock gave way, and Benjamin stumbled in through the door, rattled as he placed the key onto a wash table by the window.
Across from him was a banked fire, two ladderback chairs, and pressed against the wall was the promised bed with a frayed, but serviceable quilt possessing tremendous character—perhaps a little too much, given the wear and tear.
Outside, the icy rain continued beating steadily and Clara shivered, closing the door and rubbing her arms for warmth. Now that they were stationary, it was getting increasingly difficult to ignore the uncomfortable chill.
Seeing her distress, Benjamin limped over to the hearth and grabbed a fireplace bellows, pumping air onto the embers while a few soaked, bedraggled locks of hair bobbed in his face.
The fabric of his borrowed shirt stuck to his broad shoulders, and his shoes squelched as he knelt, trembling in front of the flickering flames.
Clara softened. Approaching him, she laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, encouraging him to stop.
Bewildered, he looked up at her questioningly. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
Wordless, she brushed the backs of her fingers against his cheek, studying his weary fatigue, the bruising along his face and neck, and overall masculine beauty.
His eyes tilted to hers more directly, and a lump bobbed in her throat.
It was painful to think how those eyes had nearly been closed to her forever.
Benjamin moved to speak, but she tucked her fingers beneath his shirt collar and tugged, the fabric stubbornly catching against his skin.
“Clara? W-what…?”
“I’m taking off your clothes,” she replied sternly. “If I don’t, you’ll catch your death of cold.”
Unnerved, he reluctantly lifted his arms to aid in his disrobement. With this preferred angle, Clara got a better grip, and little by little, she peeled the waterlogged fabric from his skin. Benjamin staggered to his feet, self-conscious as she laid out his garment to dry.
“You don’t have to keep helping,” he said, his voice filled with shame. “Over the past several weeks, you’ve done more than enough to take care of me.”
Unruffled, Clara corrected, “I took care of you because I wanted to. Believe me, Ben, you would know if this were all against my will.” She frowned at the water droplets clinging to his torso, each catching the firelight with a warm, ethereal glow.
“I suppose that’ll have to do until we receive a towel… ”
“If we receive one,” Benjamin corrected.
“Right. If.” Stepping forward, Clara reached for his breeches, but Benjamin’s hand came around her wrist. She jerked at the contact, startled.
When she lifted her eyes to his face, a stinging heat filled her as his other hand cupped her cheek, his thumb skimming the full, parted curve of her lips. “You’re wet too,” he observed.
Clara wished to make a joke, but the vulgar quip died in her throat as his fingertips drifted downward, hesitant and unsure as he traced her quilted jumps. His cheeks grew charmingly pink as he asked, “May I…?”
Wordless, Clara nodded.
Expression focused and determined, Benjamin struggled with her lacing before finding success, a shyness glowing in his eyes as the garment loosened.
Untying her cloak from her neck, Clara let the raiment fall in a drenched, graceless heap.
She reached for Benjamin’s breeches once more, but this time, he didn’t stop her.
While he worked on her jumps, she unfastened the double buttons along his waist. With each newly freed clasp, she could see his eyes darting nervously in between his breeches and the task at hand, sweetly bashful despite having nothing to be embarrassed about.
Once her jumps were hanging open, Clara shrugged the garment from her lithe frame, then returned her focus to his fall front.
Benjamin hesitated, his gaze low while fumbling along her outer petticoats.
Upon finding the ties, he ducked to unfasten the ribbons, the motion drawing his cheek nearly flush against her own.
Unable to resist teasing him, Clara lifted her mouth and whispered in his ear, “See? I knew you were a natural at disrobing women.”