Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Nethertheless, I do not have time for this.
Chapter 19
But twelve hours later, there has been no sight of Clara and I am less irritated and more worried. I am forced to stop at an inn, for my horse is weary and in need of water and I could do with something to eat myself, and perhaps a few hours’ rest.
I slide down off Figaro, feeling awfully stiff, and tie him up by a trough, before dragging my tired body to the inn, stretching on a groan as I go. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ a woman asks as the door closes behind me.
‘I need a room for the night. Some supper and some ale.’ I toss a few coins down and find a table, taking a needed seat and glancing around, seeing many men slurping from tankers, being raucous. I smile, memories of our past life in the countryside coming back to me, the times when Mama used to come and drag me out by my ear if I failed to make it home for dinner on time. The times when, on the odd occasion, Eliza used to make it to the inn before Mama and warn me she was on her way. The times when a lusty, busty female would bat her lashes at me, and, somehow, we would end up rolling around in the hay or grass. Less pressured times.
I jump when a jug of ale slams on the table, followed by some bread and a bowl of brown slop, which I’m pretty certain will be delicious. ‘Thank you,’ I say, tucking in, my stomach growling to be filled. I am right. It is delicious slop, and I work my way through it fast, mopping up every last drop of stock with the bread and downing the ale. I am suitably full, and more than that, feeling even more exhausted. I stand, planning on getting just a few hours until dawn breaks and I can get on my way again.
I nearly make it to the rickety wooden staircase in the corner when I am stopped by the sight of some familiar lusty lashes being fluttered my way from the female behind the bar. Familiar, not because I know her, but because I know how this will play out. Her smile is suggestive. Her bosom big. Her curves attractive. But, and it is a shocker to me, I am uninterested.
Too consumed by the vision of another female, one who is, according to her foul mood this morning, not speaking to me. I’m still wondering why. Last night was really rather pleasant. Unexpectedly so, and while it pains me to admit that it was wholly wonderful, I must, if only to honour my conscience. I am quite taken by the lovely, reckless, wild Lady Taya. But her title is not the only reason I must abstain. Abstain and pray whispers of our encounter do not make it to the ears of … anyone. My livelihood depends on it, as do my legs. Not to mention our business and reputation. And Papa’s! I cannot be responsible for our downfall. Never. So the fact I am in Lady Taya’s black books, even if I have no idea why, is probably of benefit to us both.
I take the stairs and push my way into the last room on the right, stopping and gazing around at the drab, grubby space. It is a stark contrast to the luxury that I’m afforded these days.
I kick off my boots and drop to the bed. It isn’t long before I am dozing off with vivid memories of last night: Taya Winters, her wild hair, long lashes, and whimpers of pleasure, invading my dreams. It’s a nice change, to be honest, from my usual dreams of a white stallion and mysterious horsewoman.
I wake with a start. It is light, and I jump up in a panic, stuff my feet into my boots and hurry downstairs, getting an unpleasant waft of stale ale as I weave through the tables to the door and burst out into the fresh morning air. There are a few locals out and about, telling me it is not as early as I should have liked to rise. I mount my horse and get going, trotting through the village, and I am about to break into a gallop when something catches my eye.
‘What the devil?’ I whisper, pulling the reins of my horse and slowing him to a stop. The curricle I borrowed from that Gayton man is sitting by the roadside with a broken wheel and no horse. I frown and am about to slip down from Figaro when I remind myself of my mission, and it is not to locate and return the curricle I stole yesterday evening. I must locate my sister first, and then perhaps I will return and deal with the curricle, although how I might get it back to Belmore Square with a broken wheel and missing horse will prove a challenge. It is one thing after another these days.