Page 27 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
“Now. Let’s make a short Sabbath job of this. Miss Heardwyn. Tell Lord Shaldon’s man what is yours and have your maid pack your things. Kincaid, make sure everything is properly loaded.”
“My pots. And the ham.” Mabel walked past them, stopped, and turned. “And Horace.”
Paulette’s heart swelled. Cummings was a harsh master, even to dumb beasts. It was parting with Horace that had started her tears.
“Horace is mine.” Cummings cried.
Mr. Gibson raised an eyebrow.
She forced down another giggle threatening to rise as a great weight was lifted. “He’s my horse. MyHorace. It was a great joke when I named him, you see? He was a gift from Bakeley on my eighteenth birthday. He and a gig I, er, no longer have.”
She had overturned it, attempting to get Horace to move a little faster on unsuitable terrain. Mr. Gibson did not need to know that story.
And yet he seemed to read her mind. His face softened and humor glimmered golden in his eyes. “Not the great beast that brought you to Cransdall Hall?”
Her heart floated higher. She nodded and pressed her lips together. She did not want to smile, not in front of Cummings.
He signaled to one of the men. “Get the lady’s horse.”
Before Cummings could grumble, more rattling wheels sounded as two riders in Cransdall livery preceded a post-chaise with its postilion riding one of a pair of greys.
* * *
The bright afternoonsun hit Paulette squarely in the eyes.
“Where are we going, Polly,” Mabel asked. “Did he say?”
She’d been wondering the same thing. “I don’t know.”
They’d turned west when they should have turned north if they’d been headed back to Cransdall, and she’d not had a chance at either of the inns where they’d changed horses to talk to Mr. Gibson. He’d sent the groom to hurry them along at each stop.
Well. That wouldn’t work at the next one. Hewouldspeak with her there.
She saw the clump of pretty buildings nestled in a valley and knew this must be an inn. It looked to be grander than the last two, the stables forming three sides of a square around it.
When the post-chaise drew up in front of the door, one of Shaldon’s grooms appeared at the side, tipping his hat and extending a hand.
The half-timbered building rose to three well-maintained stories. “What is this place?” Paulette asked.
“I don’t know the name, miss, but the mail coach comes through, and the Edinburgh coach, and I heard Mr. Gibson say it’s the only inn in ten miles without bed bugs.”
Her foot landed in a puddle. “Blast it,” she said. She still wore her gown with its fringe of mud. “Watch your step, Mabel.”
She glanced back and saw an inn servant unstrap her valise. A stableman led the chaise off, and the wagon, piled with her trunks and small bits of furniture, followed behind with Horace tied to the back.
Alarm coursed through her. No bed bugs. He meant for them to stay the night here in this great, likely high-priced, establishment. “Where is Mr. Gibson?”
“I don’t know, miss.”
“You don’t know much,” she snapped.
She closed her eyes and took a breath. It was not his fault. He was only a groom.
But when she opened her eyes, he was smiling. He was missing a tooth, and was, she realized, quite a bit older than her first estimation. Another redhead, only this one had the lean lines of a hunting hound.
“It’s what me mum always says, miss, but I’ve told you true. I’m to lead you inside to a private dining room and stay with you like a footman until you’re settled and safe and your tea is brought in.”
“Those are very specific instructions.”
