Page 8 of Make My Wish Come True
“The innkeeper says there are no rooms to be had,” he said, stooping to put his mouth near her ear. Some men in the bar were singing what sounded like a navy ballad, very off-tune as they appeared quite drunk.
“Oh.” Gwen flinched at a burst of laughter. Someone has spilled a tankard of ale, and there was some pushing and cursing.
A harried woman strode past, plates piled in her hands. She stopped short when she spotted Gwen. “Didn’t say you’d got a wife with you,” she accused the captain.
In an instant the captain slid his arm around Gwen’s shoulders and tugged her closer. “You didn’t ask. Surely you’ve got something suitable for a lady. Anything at all would be greatly appreciated.”
Gwen, startled, said nothing.
“I told you already, the storm caught everyone off guard,” the woman retorted. She was more frazzled than angry, and she looked exhausted. “We’re packed to the rafters.”
A man staggered from the taproom, jostling the landlady and fumbling at his trouser buttons as he went. He seized a pot from beneath a chair, hunched over, and Gwen heard the unmistakable sound of the fellow relieving himself.
The captain gave the landlady a speaking look. “Anything at all?”
She shifted her weight. One of the plates was tilting, and a trickle of gravy ran over her wrist, making her jump. “Let me think a moment,” she snapped, and ducked into the taproom.
Gwen dared peek up at the captain. His gaze was fixed on the landlady, moving through the taproom as she thumped plates down on tables. His arm was still around her, holding her snugly against him. She supposed she ought to mind that, but she really didn’t. Not only was he big enough to deter any man who might bother her, he was warm and solid and he smelled far better than this inn. If she turned her head slightly to the right, she could catch a whiff of sandalwood clinging to his coat, which helped blot out the reek of sour ale and now urine.
The man behind them let out a moan. The stream had slowed to a splatter, then he thumped the pot back down and presumably did up his breeches. He brushed past them, and gave her a second, interested, look. “Evening, lovely,” he slurred.
“Good evening,” said the captain evenly, his arm firm around Gwen. The man glanced at him and nodded before lurching back through the taproom doorway.
“We can’t stay here,” said the captain under his breath.
Gwen agreed wholeheartedly with the sentiment but didn’t see many alternatives. “Do you propose to sleep in the stable?” she whispered. “Is there another inn in town?”
“I doubt it.”
“Then what choice is there?”
He hesitated, and the landlady bustled out of the taproom. She checked at the sight of them, then jerked her head. “This way.”
She left them standing in a cramped corridor near the kitchen. It smelled somewhat better here, although the heat was oppressive. Gwen glanced up at the captain again. “What do you hope for?”
He ducked his head. “Perhaps a sympathetic vicar with some spare rooms? Or an elderly widowed lady happy to make a few shillings for the night.”
She nodded, but with a sense of foreboding. It was clear the captain had more ready funds than she did, and even if he offered to pay for her, she hated to take more charity from him.
However, the uproar in the taproom had not subsided, and the thought of sitting in there all night was not appealing, especially if the captain left for a warm bed in an elderly widow’s spare bedchamber.
The captain pulled out his watch, and Gwen caught a glimpse of the face. It was barely four o’clock, for all that it felt like days since they’d departed Ipswich. Of course, Gwen had risen at five in the morning to catch the mail coach, and yesterday had also been a long day of travel from Salisbury.
The landlady returned. “There’s a few folk about who sometimes take in a lodger or two. I can’t swear any of them have got room, but it’s your best hope this side of Bury St Edmunds. I can send the lad around to inquire once he’s done with his chores.”
“Of course.” The captain shifted, angling closer to the landlady, and Gwen, sensing what he was doing, looked away awkwardly. She heard the murmur of his voice and the clink of coins, and then the landlady was nodding and smiling. Someone shouted, and she ducked back into the kitchen.
“I did my best to chivvy her along, but it may be some time before the boy has any news,” the captain said. “Shall we sit down? You must want a cup of tea.”
Gwen mustered a smile. “Yes.” This time, she resolved, she would pay for his tea and hers.
He hung up their cloaks and led the way into the taproom, shouldering his way through the mass of men around the long trestle table by the fire. He found a vacant seat on a bench in the corner below the windows, and glared at the two men sitting nearby until they grudgingly shifted over. Captain Fitzhugh ushered Gwen into the corner and placed himself between her and the rest of the room. He raised one hand and the landlady nodded in acknowledgement.
Gwen untied her bonnet and took it off. She’d had a bad feeling, which was confirmed as she studied it. The buckram had got wet, and the brim had begun to sag badly.
“It appears to have suffered some harm,” remarked the captain.
“A serious one,” she agreed, turning the poor bonnet around. “Alas. Perhaps Gran has got me a new one for a Christmas gift.”
