Chapter Six #3
Clara swallowed past the lump in her throat as she sat in the proffered chair and the two of them began to tuck into the meal Mrs. Robertson laid before them.
True to the woman’s word, the meal was hearty—a mutton stew brimming with lean cuts of tender meat, root vegetables, and a rich gravy was served alongside a still-steaming loaf of honey wheat.
Brinley caught her eye over his bowl of stew and, remembering their little game earlier, she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning and giggling, lest they offend the innkeeper’s wife and be forced to explain.
After a few delicious bites, Brinley commented, “I can confirm that Mr. Robertson did, indeed, fall in love with his wife for her cooking. How did you do that, Clara?”
He clearly meant it in good fun, but her mind froze when she heard her given name on his lips.
He’d said it before; he’d used it many times, as a matter of fact.
But this was different. There was no derision or mockery; he said it almost appreciatively.
She wanted to hear him say it that way again, and again, and again.
“A—A decent guess, I suppose,” she murmured and turned her eyes down to her own food.
“Are you feeling much improved after your nap?”
Clara nearly jumped out of her chair at the inquiry, and he tilted his head at the motion.
“Is…the room to your liking?” he asked somewhat hesitantly, as if unsure if he should comment on her uneasy state.
Clara straightened her spine. “It is fine, thank you.” Her mind frantically reached for something to say, so long as she could steer the conversation away from anything remotely linked to their room and what it would witness that evening.
“The weather was lovely today, wasn’t it?
” She almost cringed at her own words. It seemed her normally adept conversational skills and social confidence had chosen a deplorable time to desert her.
“Is this what we’ve devolved into? Inane inquiries about the recent weather?” Brinley chuckled gently. “What happened to the woman who made up lives and stories for the people around her? I quite liked that woman.”
Startled by the revelation, Clara’s arm jerked, and she knocked over the cup of small ale set beside her plate. There was barely time for her squeak of dismay to escape her throat before Brinley caught her cup with surprising swiftness.
“I am so, so sorry. I do not know what has gotten into me. I—I am—”
“Clara.”
Her nonsensical rambling died in the air between them when Brinley caught her hand.
She watched raptly as his large hand engulfed hers, his thumb slowly stroking over the bumps of her knuckles, one by one.
It was mesmerizing to see the difference in their sizes made so blatant.
He really could crush her, couldn’t he? And yet, there he was showing her a tenderness she’d never known.
“Calm yourself. Take a breath.”
She did as she was told, though she did not feel much better. The sensation of his skin touching hers caused a ripple of awareness to traipse up and down her spine. She was keenly aware of the innocent, yet intimate, contact. He gave her a crooked smile that made her stomach tie itself in knots.
Then, when her eyes met his, she realized there was something different in his gaze. Though his reflexes were still impressive, his pupils were dilated, and there was a smooth laziness about him that she would probably have noticed earlier were she not so nervous about the night ahead.
If she hadn’t been so locked in the self-absorbed maze of her own head.
Her husband had likely imbibed more than a couple of drinks while she’d been tossing and turning in their chamber. Interestingly, she considered how the last time she’d seen him in such a state, he’d kissed her and made her bones melt.
Her breathing hitched again.
“You need not be so nervous.” Brinley’s words were calm enough, no doubt in an effort to reassure her, but his steadiness only made the inevitability of her fate feel more real.
“You must know I would never harm you.” She averted her eyes and, taking it for fear, he cursed beneath his breath.
“What sort of monster you must believe me to be…” She was glad they were alone in the room because his voice ended slightly louder than necessary.
He sighed and sat back in his chair. “You know…” He paused at length until she thought he might not continue at all.
“You know, I am uneasy about this as well.”
Clara nearly released a loud, incredulous bark of laughter, stopping just shy when she recognized the tension in Brinley’s shoulders. It had taken effort for him to admit such a thing. Why would that be?
“But…” she began carefully, “but surely this is nothing new to you.”
This time, the grin actually reached his eyes. “I’ve never had a wife, nor have I bedded the younger sister of my oldest friend.”
“Oh…” She looked away, suddenly not hungry; her stomach had been filled with a flurry of butterflies. The ensuing silence yawned as wide as the Channel.
“Why don’t you retire, hm?” he finally suggested when she did not resume eating. “No matter how delicious Mrs. Robertson’s cooking is, it seems neither of us quite has the appetite to appreciate it.”
Clara knew she should have protested—especially since she was supposed to have napped for the few hours leading up to supper—but she found her tongue far too large for her mouth.
Since when had speaking become such a difficult thing to do?
And with Brinley, no less! She’d hardly ever been at a loss for words with him.
Then again, his truth rang for her as well.
She’d never had a husband, nor was she familiar with how to act around the man who was expected to deflower her that very night.
Without another thought, Clara shot to her feet. Brinley followed closely after, trailing her stiff steps to the edge of the private sitting area. Each beat of her heart pounded harder with every step they took.
Just before she entered the view of the public room, she took as deep a breath as her lungs would allow and turned to face her new husband. He surprised her by catching her hand and bringing it to his lips.
“Take your time preparing yourself to sleep. I will be along shortly,” he murmured, his voice soft and warm against her knuckles.
The smoldering silver of his eyes stole her words; she could only nod once in the face of his intense gaze.
She might have called his expression predatory had she felt even an inkling of danger, but that primal part of her hummed more in anticipation than terror.
She turned and left, hoping the quickness of her pace did not seem too eager or fearful.
Time from that moment on passed in a blur while Beth arrived once more to help her change into a fresh nightshift that had been packed with lavender sachets.
She felt like a doll bouncing in and out of one outfit to the next, depending on fate’s whim.
Normally, she would have reveled in the opportunities to sample so many of her outfits, but this was different.
The entire day was different…and she strongly suspected every day after would be different as well.
Pulling a light woven shawl in shades of pink and ivory around her shoulders, Clara stood before the room’s single window and watched as the silver moonlight crept across the inn’s courtyard.
Occasionally, a shadowed figure would slip between the inn and the stables; a few times, a rumble of laughter would echo up to her ears, and she would wonder what had caused that moment of joy and if she might siphon some of it for herself.
As she alternated between watching the window, the hearth, and counting the paces it took to cross from one end of the room to the other, there was another shift in her perception of time.
What had once flown by with the speed of the wind now felt like molasses being poured from a crockery jar.
Clara waited for what felt like interminable hours alone in the room.
She might have believed her anxiety was playing tricks on her perception of time had the fire not burned so low.
When her feet had grown tired of pacing, she dropped back onto the mattress, listening to the creaking ropes as she tested its spring all over again.
She huffed an aggravated sigh and dropped her head back to the pillows she’d mashed in her earlier attempts at rest. Then, she lay there in torturous anxiety for what felt like an eternity.
She waited so long that even the noises from the courtyard had died out to all but the occasional murmur of amiable chatter and whicker from the horses in the nearby stable.
When Clara finally realized her fate was not imminent, she sat up and hugged her knees to her chest, part of her still bracing herself for what was to come.
The long minutes and then hours passed, causing her nerves to dissolve and reform into anger and annoyance that the infuriating man would make her wait so long for something he must know she dreaded.
This was their wedding night, after all, regardless of the circumstances of their marriage.
The least he could do was get this over with.
With her anger as fuel, she stomped over to the luggage across the room, rooted around for her dressing gown, yanked it on over her nightshift, and fastened it closed.
She poked her head out into the darkened hallway to find it silent and abandoned.
She crept along the narrow hallway, feeling carefully so she did not tumble down the stairs and break her neck…
though wouldn’t that serve Brinley right if she did?