Chapter 39 The Posting Inn
Leena and Bram stood on the threshold of the inn directly under the glare of the bright lights, the stone steps slippery beneath their boots, icicles collecting on the eaves. Bram’s arms encircled her tightly, his face deathly pale. He was lucid again; Leena thanked all the Saints to ever exist.
“We made it,” Leena whispered, but really what she was saying was: Is this the right choice? “Come, let’s go inside.”
The sudden rush of warm air from within the inn was painful on her raw skin.
Waiting at the front desk was the ghost of a customer who was trying to hail her attention without success. Leena ignored him, ringing the silver bell instead.
The innkeeper’s wife who had been present previously dashed out from the back door of the kitchen to answer.
The robust woman took one look at their disheveled appearance and called for her husband.
He came bustling out of the kitchen behind her, bringing forth smells of hearty stews that set Leena’s stomach growling.
Leena remembered that he had not been present the last time they were here. The innkeeper was a large man, so tall that he ducked his head under the doorframe to pass; the sound of his steps echoed like thunderclaps.
He smiled widely, his beefy hands spread in welcome, but his eyes were shrewd. “How can I be of service?”
“We need a room—”
“My apologies, madam, but we are full tonight.”
Leena stared at him. It had never occurred to her that they could come all this way and still be flung back into the cold. “Please, sir, we were set upon by highwaymen—”
“We’re a respectable establishment.” He cut her off, an obvious glance at her bare ring finger.
Leena understood.
“My husband and I have had everything stolen from us—even my wedding ring—and they’ve wounded him terribly.
” She hoped that the innkeeper’s wife didn’t recognize them in their current state, so different from their first visit.
“Our destination is Weavingshaw. We are guests of Mr. Martin and Lord Hargreaves.”
She knew that it was a gamble using the names of these powerful gentlemen—especially when they were being hunted by those very men—but the innkeeper’s hostility seemed to diminish slightly at the mention of her grand connections.
She tried not to sound desperate as she continued, “Of course, once we reach Weavingshaw, we will be speaking to the Magistrate to seek justice for our stolen belongings and my husband’s attack.
” Leena was glad of the fact that Bram’s coat was made of richly tailored material, effectively hiding the extent of his wound.
“My love,” Bram interrupted, with such overdrawn affection that Leena tried not to show amusement in spite of their dire circumstances.
“I always hide an emergency fund on my person.” With some difficulty, he withdrew from his coat another drawstring bag bulging with coins.
The innkeeper’s gaze fastened on the pouch, devouring its contents.
“I would like the best room with the warmest fire. And make haste; my wife’s shivering. ”
The innkeeper bowed. “Certainly, sir. I see that I am mistaken; it seems we do have a vacancy after all.”
“How fortunate,” Bram drawled.
“Will you be wanting dinner?”
Leena agreed to this heartily, also requesting that a clean shirt for her husband, hot water, fresh gauze, and a glass of strong drink be brought up.
Away from the hearing of the innkeeper, Bram asked, “Strong drink? Are we celebrating our happy nuptials?”
“For your wound,” Leena clarified with dignity.
“Ah, well,” he sighed, taking the stairs slowly. “We have time to change your mind yet.”
Bram kept his posture straight as the innkeeper led them both upstairs; his stagger was less pronounced, his laughter strong at the innkeeper’s awful jokes, but the hand gripping the banister was white-knuckled.
The moment they were left alone in the room, he slumped onto the bed without removing his shoes.
Like a beast that only licked its wounds in private.
Leena looked around the room. It was decent-sized, with a four-poster bed that had clean linen and a fire already blazing in the hearth. A small table stood at the side by the washstand.
Leena longed to collapse next to Bram. Her bones ached and her shoulder throbbed, but she knew that if she closed her eyes now, she’d sleep till morning and risk being possessed again. Not to mention that she needed to tend to Bram’s wound.
“And how is my wife doing?” Bram propped himself up on his elbows, peering at her from beneath his lashes.
She flushed, telling herself that it was the fire that made her feel so warm.
“I had little choice. Even a fool would not believe that we are siblings traveling together, or even that I am your ward.” She attempted to keep her voice brusque, but even she knew how her next words would open a floodgate of provocation.
“Come, let’s remove your clothes so that I can check your wound again. ”
Bram’s laugh saturated the room. “Shall we start with yours?”
Leena stared back, caught half between shock and laughter herself. “You can barely stand on your own two feet. How is it that any chance you get, you are still speaking of my clothes?”
“They are a constant hindrance to me.” The way Bram looked at her, so different from the way Lord Kilworth had looked at her only that morning, infused Leena with safety, with warmth, with…something more.
She took off her muddy, wet coat and laid it by the fire. “There—are you happy? Can we now please address your wound?”
“So eager for the wedding night.” His voice was low. “I shall, most willingly, oblige.”
Once more, she tried to hide the smile quivering on her lips as she undid his coat, and it was clear that fatigue had overtaken him again. She was worried by how quickly he became tired.
How quickly he drifted in and out of lucidity also worried Leena. She tried not to think about Mrs. Van’s predictions or how little time they had to administer the cure.
With effort, Bram jerked up to a sitting position, one hand still grasping his left side.
Swiftly, Leena helped him shrug out of his wet coat before hanging it over the fire.
As she was doing so, she felt the outlines of the red diary inside his coat pocket, and felt a sudden fierce anger at Theo for leading them to this point.
For without him, they would never have sought the red diary to begin with.
Bram’s fingers stumbled over the buttons of his ruined shirt until Leena took over for him. His skin was still burning through the layers of cloth.
She sucked in a gasp.
The bandages were soaked through. Somewhere on their journey, part of the wound must’ve reopened.
A knock sounded on the door. The innkeeper’s wife stood on the threshold with two silver platters of food and a basket filled with the items Leena had requested.
The woman’s eyes flashed to Bram’s bandages before turning toward the stairs.
Leena realized that she was listening for her husband’s footsteps.
The woman indicated a glass jar filled with a dark substance, dropping her voice to a whisper: “I’ve also packed you a poultice.
Sterilize the wound first, then apply it.
It will draw out any signs of infection. ”
“Thank you,” Leena whispered back. Remembering the bag of coins, she gave generously from the stash.
The woman hid the coins in her sleeve then shut the door firmly, leaving Leena gripping the jar tightly.
She turned to look at Bram. He was bare from the waist up, only the bandages covering him, the firelight flickering across the hard planes and hollows of his chest, his dark head bowed.
Leena’s mind could not help contrasting him to the warlords of the past who had roamed these very northern moors—strong and agile, scarred, battle-worn, unconquerable.
Bramwell Avon was the north, in all its desolation—its hunger, its jagged edges and endless ferocity, a fortress against the changing seasons. Leena fought a pang of sadness at what his body had been made to withstand and was still withstanding.
“I’ve heard many confessions over the years from every manner of confessor,” Bram said quietly.
“Lords, ladies, beggars, cutthroats—I never cared who sat in the chair in front of me. Every one of them had their own purpose for revealing their secrets.” He swallowed as if he tasted something bitter.
“No one—and I mean no one—has ever told a secret for my sake. Not until you.” He kept his head bowed. “Why did you do it?”
“Bram, we—” she started to respond, but caught herself at the last moment. He deserved more than the half lie she’d been preparing to give. “Because we are friends. Because I…”
She couldn’t finish that last thought—she wasn’t even sure what it was—but his eyes seemed to focus on her answer and the unsaid words behind it.
Oh, how I loathe you.
Leena was amazed that she had once thought that, when she now felt the very opposite. That she—
She turned away to gather both her materials and herself before kneeling in front of him. “I must change your bandages.”
She reached around to untie the knotted fabric below his shoulder blade, and she was so absorbed by the task that she didn’t notice how close her face was to his bare chest.
His hand formed a fist on the sheets.
She looked up at him, surprised to find his expression taut. “Have I hurt you?”
“No.” His voice was hoarse.
Then, to Leena’s surprise, he leaned in even closer, dropping his forehead to rest on her shoulder.
She halted, her hand hovering over his chest with the gauze caught between her thumb and forefinger.
She wondered if he could feel the wild beat of the pulse in her neck, pounding against his cheek.
“Continue,” he said after a short while, his voice not losing its roughness.
Her hands now slightly shaking, Leena started unwinding the bandages again, partially impeded by their close proximity. But he did not shift, nor did Leena want him to.