CHAPTER SEVEN #2
The thought makes me hesitate only a moment before I grab his too-large hand and pull him back in the direction we’ve come from.
Luckily, the lights are spread far enough apart that shadows can hide us.
When I see a home with the lamps still lit within, I push Alad until he understands he should hide behind the bush.
For good measure, I put my finger to my lips. Hopefully, he’ll understand.
Not giving myself time to doubt, I make my way to the front door and knock. When it opens, a fat fellow in a nightcap stands holding a candle.
After examining the fine weave of my dress, he asks, “Yes? May I help you, miss?”
“I hope so.” I offer him my best, most friendly smile. “We—er, my h-husband and I—that is, we were set upon by highwaymen. They stole his clothing and all our possessions except for what I wear.”
He stands taller, his eyes narrowing upon me. “Near Brighton-on-Kemp?”
“About two miles, perhaps? I’m not very good at judging distances.
In any event,” I prattle, trying to keep my voice light, “my husband noted the lights of this village, and so we made our way here, hoping to find a constabulary or some generous soul who might give us aid. Er—not aid so much as clothing for him.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“Unfortunately, I am. Only a pair of trousers and a shirt. A loan, really. When we return to London, we can arrange for the items to be returned. Or, perhaps, I can pay with this.” I withdraw the rose necklace from under my dress.
“Happily, the brigands did not assault my person beyond taking my wedding ring. The necklace was easily concealed.”
I push sincerity into my words, even knowing I lie. Plus, I can’t imagine returning to London. Having left with Alad, I’m now ruined. There’s no place for me there.
A feeling much like nausea rises inside me. Relentlessly, I push it down. My future isn’t important at the moment. Clothing and feeding a mythological creature is.
But the offer of payment, even of something so little, appears to sway the man. “I’d draw and quarter the villains, even so. Put that away, madam. No need to barter what little you’ve left. Stay right here. Big fellow, your husband, or my size?”
He must mean height, for the man is round as a turnip but only a few inches taller than I am. “Tall. Very tall. Very, er, broad.”
“Stay here. I’ll return shortly.” He closes the door without inviting me within. The action is telling. Perhaps he trusts me. Perhaps he doesn’t. Will he seek a constable or a band of villagers to question me more thoroughly?
And if Alad is threatened, what will he do?
I turn around, my arms wrapped around my body to keep in my heat against the chill of the night.
As if in answer to my question, Alad rises tall from behind the bushes, a frown marring his expression.
He holds a dagger, though I don’t know where he found it, and though he keeps his gaze upon me, he gives the impression of surveilling the night itself.
When a scraping sounds behind me, I gesture him back down. I don’t see whether he obeys because the man who owns the house reappears, holding an armful of fabric and a pair of well-worn boots.
“Here you go.” He hands me a collection of farmer’s clothing.
A large woolen shirt and pants that won’t reach past my shedu’s knees are accompanied by a pair of large boots in need of mending.
“That’s all I have, I’m afraid. Paul Robbins passed recently.
His widow said to leave them with the poor box at church, but I suppose you’ll do as well.
Take the vestments in good health, and no need for your trinket. ”
Before I can thank him, he shuts the door in my face. Too late, I see the sign hanging off the corner of the home. “Bill Greeves, Furniture Maker, Undertaker.”
I hold the clothing in which a man died.
My first instinct is to throw the lot of it in the shrubbery, but logic overrides my worst proclivity. I hurry to Alad, who studies me with a curious expression. “Wid.Ow?”
But explaining through mime is beyond my abilities. Instead, I hand over the clothing and turn my back. Presumably, he’ll know how to dress himself.
A kiss against my neck sends a thousand butterflies flittering through my blood. Heat rises even as my bones melt.
When he pulls back, I rotate to find he’s dressed himself. He spreads his arms wide, turning in a circle for my approval.
He looks patently ridiculous. He might as well be wearing doll clothing.
The trousers hug his muscled thighs like sausage skin, though they do reach several inches past his knees, but they barely fit around his hips.
More importantly, the fabric stretches taut over his majestic member, revealing the length and width of his erection.
Happily, when he’s unmoving, the untucked shirt covers most of the offense, swinging loose around his narrow hips.
Still, what must have been roomy on a regular man looks impossible upon him. Plus, the clothing exaggerates the very part he needs to cover.
Heat sweeps up from my neck to my forehead as I try to ignore the unignorable.
Alad frowns, no doubt reading my flurry of emotions. “Eh?”
“Eh,” I approve. I assume the word means something like yes. I hand him the boots.
That they pinch is evident in his expression, but he doesn’t complain. Instead, his face sets as if ignoring pain is part of what he’s trained to do.
My imagination, of course. Why would a magickal creature need to avoid pain?
“You’re very handsome.”
He cocks his head.
“And somewhat adorable, like a rambunctious puppy.” Though why I think so, I’m not sure. There’s just something soft, gentle, and sweet peeping out from beneath his warrior exterior.
I hold out my hand for his. In my regular world, I wouldn’t ever solicit the touch of a male, especially without a layer of gloving between our palms. But having flown off with a mythological creature, I think it’s safe to say the rules of Society no longer apply.
I wonder what he looks like beneath all that hair?
On the heels of that inappropriate thought, Alad takes my fingers and brings them to his lips. In the courtliest manner imaginable, he whispers soft words to me. I don’t need to understand their meaning to understand his gratitude for dressing him. And maybe an advance for finding him food.
Right. Food.
“And once your belly is full, we’ll see about the rest. You surely deserve someone more virtuous, wealthier, and of a better class.
” Probably comelier as well, though the excitement rising within me from being able to speak my mind so freely makes the uncomfortable thought less worrisome than it should be.
Perhaps I should seek a foreign husband. If we don’t comprehend each other, we might chance upon a happy marriage.
Smiling at my thoughts, I lead Alad back to the main street and down the side alley.
The tavern is lively, but the occupants appear to be on genial terms. The barkeep sends us a curious and measured glance as we move through the doorway.
With a nod of his chin, he gestures towards an unoccupied table at the back.
Alad follows on my heels, his gaze sweeping the room, and when he seats me, he positions himself to face the room.
The action appears instinctive. Along with the way he held his dagger earlier, there’s no doubt he’s had military training.
Or, perhaps it’s only his warrior’s body that makes me think so.
“Are you expecting danger?” I whisper with a smile.
He grunts, perhaps understanding, perhaps not. But before my smile has a chance to settle, Alad is out of the chair. When I turn my head, I find him fisting the barkeep’s shirt and growling down into his face. The poor man holds up his hands, fear widening his eyes.
“It’s all right, Alad.” All I can reach is his elbow, so I stroke it in the most calming manner I can.
He grunts again and drops his hold, but instead of moving back into his seat, he folds his arms across his chest, widens his stance, and glares at the older man.
Bobbing to the side of Alad’s legs, I say, “He’s protective.
And foreign.” I give the man an extra-wide smile in the hopes of settling his ruffled nerves.
“Would it be possible to have supper sent over, even at this hour? Even hard cheese would be welcome.” My own stomach growls, reminding me that I’ve missed a meal.
“And something to drink, so long as you would be willing to take this in exchange for the meals?”
I fish the chain out of my dress and hold up my rose pendant as I repeat my story about being held up at gunpoint. The barkeep darts a quick glance at the gold before licking his lips, but he focuses on Alad.
“Should do for some cheese, bread, and ale.”
But before I can unhook the latch, Alad’s hand shoots out to grip my fingers, stopping me. More words pass his lips, a question in them.
“We need to pay,” I explain, even though I have no real hope he’ll understand me.
“Coin, you see?” The barkeep searches in his pocket and holds up a guinea.
“Ah.” Alad nods and begins digging into one of the leather pouches he now wears under the cruel weave of his shirt; he fiddles a bit before he withdraws a gold coin.
The center has a hole in it, but the coin itself is nearly half-again as big as a normal sovereign. He extends his palm to the barkeep.
The man bites upon it, testing the purity of the metal before slipping it into his shirt pocket.
“But that’s too much,” I argue. “With the size of that coin, we could purchase a year’s stay in these quarters.” Because the coin is gold. Noticeably gold. And shiny, as if it’s never been used.
“I’ll even throw in some vestments that fit him,” the barkeep agrees. “Supper will be right along, with some wine for the lady?”
Before I can answer, he trots off, pleased with his part of the bargain I didn’t make. “Well, that’s a lot of money paid for very little. Do you have other coins, or have you wasted our survival on a pair of plates and, possibly, a bed above stairs for the rest of the night?”