The Unintended Bride (19 page)

She held the key out to him. "I can trust you with this now?" she teased.

"You can trust me with anything," he replied solemnly, one hand over his heart as he snatched the key with the other and squashed down the last wayward impulse to make her his wife in more than name only amid the ruins of an abbey.

Hero kept pace with Arthur as they hurried back to the inn. Even so, it was dark by the time they arrived. Which meant, unfortunately, that they would have no choice but to spend another night in the wretched place.

Perhaps tonight, after the way he had looked at her as they stood in the ruins, perhaps he would share the bed with her for more than just a night spent chastely by her side? The thought cheered her almost enough that she didn't quite shudder at the thought of the supper that awaited them.

It was unfortunate that there was not another, better-quality inn close enough for them to reach that night. Now that they had found the key, she was eager to move on. Although, of course, if they had determined to go, they would still have had to decide where to go, since the key had not clarified their next direction in any way.

A key. What could it mean?

Well, of course that was a silly question. It meant there was a lock to be opened. But it could as easily belong to a door in London as to one in Italy, Spain, or the darkest Africa. Well, no, that was unlikely. She didn't think they had doors in Africa. Did they?

As they strode into the courtyard, her thoughts halted in shock at the sight that met her eyes.

She tugged on Arthur's arm. "Look. Look who has stopped at this inn, of all places."

He looked where she indicated, and stilled, as shocked as she. Someone they knew — someone who should not have been anywhere near — stood in conversation with the landlord and one of the maids. At the moment he appeared oblivious to their entrance.

What in heaven's name was Gabriel Digby doing at this inn? Had he followed them? If so, he must have been terribly lost. They had arrived yesterday afternoon, and he was most obviously just newly come. The dust of his travel still sat thickly upon him. Even in the lamplight she could see it clearly.

He, turning from his conversation with the landlord, caught sight of them as they neared, and greeted them with a polite nod. "Good evening."

There was, however, no hiding his surprise. "I would not have expected you here. I thought you had an urgent summons from home?"

"I did." Arthur lied without blinking, which gave Hero pause for a moment. She had not realized he could be untruthful with such utter conviction. It was unsettling to realize she must keep his ability to dissemble in mind in the future when she dealt with him.

He continued, appearing as innocent as one who had never uttered an untruth in his life, "But our carriage broke down and we have been forced to rest here until it can be repaired."

Fortunately, Digby did not seem inclined to doubt Arthur's word. Indeed, he seemed quite unfocused himself as he glanced frequently toward the door to the inn.

"I am sorry to hear that," he commiserated somewhat distractedly. "This inn is not the one I would imagine suitable for your wife."

Arthur stiffened beside her.

"We are comfortable enough here," she said with cool grace. And then she took her husband's arm, leaned against him ever so slightly, and gazed up at him with utmost trust. To her surprise, she did not find it difficult; in fact, she found that she quite enjoyed doing so, even though she had just discovered he was a most accomplished liar.

With a slight bow of apology to Arthur, Digby excused himself. "I should not have said such a thing; I can only plead that I am worn to a nub from my rough travel. No doubt you treat your wife just as she wishes to be treated."

They watched him stride into the inn, leaving even the landlord speechless.

Arthur detached Hero's arm gently from his own. "It would be best if you go right up to our room, my dear. I will see what it is that has brought Digby here."

She could feel the thrum of his anxiety even though she was no longer touching him. No doubt he wondered, as she did, if Digby, too, sought the manuscript in order to bring his quest to a successful completion. "I'm certain that it is nothing to be concerned about. He cannot know — "

Arthur's lifted brow warned her of the inquisitive ear of the landlord, and she subsided with a quick "I suppose you are right to speak with him, Arthur."

He nodded. "I must." He turned to go.

She thought of the dreary room with dread, and blurted out as he turned to leave, "I hope you will not be long tonight, however." His eyes once again darkened in that disturbing way she was coming to long to see. But he merely smiled enigmatically and made no comment.

He did not arrive with the dinner — just as awful as she had feared, made worse by the lack of companionship with her husband. She ate only a few bites, mostly in an attempt to entertain herself until he did arrive.

But he did not, even when she had washed in the basin, changed into her nightclothes and, finally, climbed into the unappealing bed and tucked herself into the clammy sheets.

Hero awoke abruptly, her lungs afire. There was something terribly wrong, and all she knew was that she must escape at once. Then she thought of Arthur. With frantic movements, she searched the other side of the bed. Was he there?

But no, he was nowhere to be found. Blearily, she realized he must not have come upstairs yet. What time was it? She could not tell, but at last her common sense told her that the time did not matter. Arthur was not in the room, and she must escape before it was too late.

Desperately, knowing that she must keep low to the ground to avoid being overcome by the suffocating smoke, she crawled to the door and out into the narrow passageway. Which way was downstairs? Right? Left? She could not remember.

From somewhere, she heard the sound of flames crackling. Her sleep-dimmed mind registered the sound — fire! It was close. She could feel the heat, but she could not tell in which direction the fire lay.

With a sob of fright she took a handful of her nightdress and wadded it to cover her nose and mouth. She began to crawl to the right, hoping that was the way that led downstairs to safety. She felt a cooler rush of air and nearly sobbed aloud, knowing by that draft that she had made the right decision.

Like a vision from the darkest of mists, Digby appeared beside her. He, too, was crawling down the hallway. But instead of heading toward safety, as she had, he was heading back the way she came. She gestured frantically that he was going the wrong way.

As he saw her, his expression grew grim. Without a sound, without a second's hesitation, he swept her into his arms, rose to his feet, and ran down the stairs and through the thickest part of the smoke.

As they entered the smoke-filled main room of the inn, he stopped, confused as to which direction held freedom and which would lead back to the fire. She searched for a sign that would help them through to safety.

And then Arthur, tall and serious, loomed through the smoke. Hero cried out to him, and he turned to see her in Digby's arms. Shock, relief, and hurt warred on his expression as Digby ran the last few feet out of the inn, away from the smoke, to safety.

Arthur followed, his expression guarded as he glared at Digby.

She realized, then, how it must seem to him, but she did not care. He was safe. Despite the danger of the moment, she smiled with joy at him. "I could not find you. I feared you were still inside."

He came close, close enough to touch her cheek. To ask, "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head. "Are you?"

"Not now that I have found you," he answered.

After a tense moment in which each man locked gazes with the other, with a wordless surrender, Digby transferred her into her husband's open arms.

She expected him to let her down onto her feet, but he held her tightly as they watched the landlord and his staff carry buckets to put out the fire.

Digby hovered nearby. She had the feeling he was trying to restrain his urge to shoot her solicitous glances, or, worse, offer her comfort and aid.

Thankfully, he managed to keep his chivalrous urges to himself. Instead, he said only to Arthur, "I escaped the fire, but when I did not see either of you two, I thought to see if you were trapped inside. I am relieved to see that you were not trapped along with your wife."

For a moment she thought nothing of the words. After all, she, too, was glad Arthur was safe from the fire. And then, as his arms tensed around her, she realized the stinging slap such words delivered.

The implication that Arthur had been content to stay safely away from his room — She opened her mouth to protest, but Arthur prevented her with his own curt, "I cannot thank you enough for helping my wife to safety. I had been in the stables, making certain the horses were well fed, and I did not arrive until just as you came down."

"It was my pleasure," Digby answered. Though he made no comment upon Arthur's veracity, there was a clear question in his soft reply. "Miss Fenster deserves every consideration I can give her."

Hero managed an inarticulate sound of distress, unsure how to correct his address without further insult to Arthur. She expected fisticuffs at any moment.

Digby's attention diverted to her at her cry. To her amazement, his eyes widened and he interjected apologetically, "I should have said Mrs. Watterly. I am sorry for my error." He seemed to consider his transgression with her name more serious than his insult to Arthur.

"Think nothing of it," Hero said quickly before Arthur could say a word. "We are hardly used to it ourselves, are we?" She turned her face toward his, surprised at how close he really was as he held her tight. She understood, suddenly, what Arthur had meant when he claimed words could be used by modern men as effectively as any ancient man had wielded a sword or club.

Again, his gray eyes were unfathomable. "We are not." He turned his gaze toward Digby. "But I think soon we will not remember that we were ever apart."

"I am delighted to hear it," Digby said. The untruth was almost humorous, so blatantly did his reluctant tone belie his words.

Rain began to patter down upon them, helping with the work of smothering the fire but making the yard a muddy mess. "We should climb into our carriage and wait out the rain," Hero suggested. Arthur agreed and Digby followed. She wondered at the wisdom of the three of them in an enclosed space, but she did not want to leave Digby in the rain. He had rescued her, after all.

The three of them made their way to the carriage, which had been dragged out of harm's way, and huddled within, watching as the fire was put out by the inn workers, without a great deal of fuss and bother.

"What are you going to do about this? How could this happen! My belongings are all inside." A portly gentleman dressed only in a nightshirt accosted the innkeeper, demanding answers. Several others, in various states of undress, gathered close, murmuring agreement.

"Happens often enough," was the only comment the innkeeper made. Which explained why the inn workers were not more excited at their fire-quelling work. "Someone sleeping with a pipe or a cigar."

"This inn should be shut down," Digby said indignantly to no one in particular. As they were too far for him to hear the comment, the innkeeper did not turn a glance upon them. "Not only are the rooms filthy, the food inedible, and the staff unkempt, they do not mind nearly burning the place down, taking a few of their paying customers with it."

"If you feel so strongly, I have to wonder why you would stop here at all," Arthur challenged.

"A recommendation." Digby met his gaze directly. "And your reason for bringing your wife to such a place?"

Alarmed at the way the two men seemed once again to be squaring off, Hero turned and pointed toward the innkeeper, who was now nose to nose with the portly gentleman. "He almost seems pleased that it took only an hour to put out the fire," she murmured to Arthur, taking his arm and catching his eye to plead for temperance. After all, Digby had carried her down the stairs and into the safety of Arthur's arms.

For a moment he didn't answer, and then the tension in his arm lessened and he sighed. "Let me go and see if our luggage can be salvaged," he said without a glance at Digby.

"I am surprised at his mood," Digby said, as Arthur braved the rain to speak to the landlord. "After all, he has the most important treasure kept safe from the fire."

"He does?" Hero asked the question warily. Did Digby know of the key they had found at the ruins?

"Of course." He seemed surprised that she would question him. "Unless he doesn't treasure you for a wife as he should." There was much too much animosity in his tone — and too much warmth in his gaze — for her comfort.

"Of course he does, Mr. Digby," she answered sharply. "That is why he is glum. He does not like me to go without — and our luggage may very well be unsalvageable."

"Perhaps he should consider his choice of inns more carefully next time," Digby replied, apparently unwilling to give Arthur any understanding at all.

Hero sighed. Something was bound to happen between them — unless she could find a way to turn two men who both wanted to head the Round Table Society into friends and allies. It seemed an impossible task. Without a backward glance at Gabriel Digby, she left the carriage and went after her husband.

Hero caught up to him, only to hear the dismal news that their room, and the room beneath it, had been the only ones completely gutted. She shivered, looking at the remains of the room, the smoking mattress that was being pushed out the window as she stood watching. It was sobering to realize how close she had come to dying in the fire.

Arthur saw the shiver and put his cloak around her.

She leaned into him, grateful for his support. He held her tightly. She comforted herself against Digby's accusations. Arthur had been coming to rescue her, she knew it. He would not have left her to burn, even if she weren't the most convenient wife in the world.