Page 12 of Lyon on the Lam (The Lyon’s Den)

“If you were my wife, you wouldn’t have to hide. That you did would raise suspicions.” He wanted nothing more than to keep her safe, but even the thought of declaring her his mistress made his body react in alarming ways. “Do you agree?”

Did she agree? More to the point, did she have a choice?

Tavie gritted her teeth as she followed the innkeeper’s wife up the back stairs. The woman’s straight spine and stony silence indicated her displeasure more than any vicar’s lecture from the pulpit.

The woman opened the door to the nearest room and stepped aside. Her eyes blazed and a white line circled her grim mouth. Tavie stood in the door and surveyed the room.

Despite its undesirable location, it was large and clean.

A fire had been lit, and a mirror on the opposite wall reflected the low flames.

A thick rug covered most of the polished floor.

The snow-white curtains were starched, as were the bedclothes.

A rose-red quilt lay at the foot of the bed.

“Thank you,” Tavie said. “It’s a lovely room. ”

“We run a respectable establishment,” the lady snapped. “I’ll have Cook bring your meals up and leave them at the door. There’s a table opposite the bed.” She indicated an unseen corner of the room.

It was unusual for any traveler to be confined to their room, especially one of Matthew’s wealth.

And, though Tavie knew this was exactly what he’d wanted, she couldn’t help her anger.

“There is no need for her to go to such trouble,” she told her hostess, managing her best syrupy smile.

“We would be happy to eat in the upstairs dining room.”

“We have a proper lady traveling with her husband . They will be in the dining room this evening, and I’ll not subject them to the likes of you.”

Tavie wrapped her fingers around the handle of her bag, glad that her veil hid the angry flush heating her cheeks. “I see.” Given that the proper lady might well recognize her, she was glad to be hiding. But that didn’t mean she needed to let this harridan know.

“The only reason I’m allowing you to stay at all is that I know Mr. Foster doesn’t have a wife of his own. Lonely men are apt to fall prey to unsavory company.”

So Matthew wasn’t to be blamed for being enthralled by a doxy’s spell, but there was no grace for women who were forced into the only life that might be available to them. “Now see here—”

“Mrs. Andrews,” Matthew said as he climbed the steps, “thank you for your hospitality.” He shouldered between them. “But I had hoped you would be kinder to my companion.”

Tavie glowered at the other woman over his shoulder.

“Mr. Foster, I would hope that you respected my husband and I enough to not risk our reputation by bringing a…a… doxy ”—Mrs. Andrews whispered the last word—“to our home.”

“I see.” Matthew’s words were quiet, but Tavie recognized their icy feel. “Thank Mrs. Reeves for the extra work in bringing food up to us. If you’ll ask the maid to leave coal for the fire, I’ll bring up our water to heat. There is no need to trouble you any further.”

Tavie couldn’t see his face, but she could see the color fade from Mrs. Andrews’s cheeks. She felt a flash of pity for the woman. She’d seen Matthew this angry once before. At her. The chill had returned every time she had thought of him.

“We have no desire to keep you from your other guests,” he said as he ushered Tavie inside.

Once he’d closed the door behind them, she whipped her hat from her head and tossed it into the corner. The veil floated to rest like a dark spirit. “I am tired of being defined by other people.”

“Tavie.” Matthew reached for her.

“No.” She evaded his grasp. Her fingers trembled to the point that she couldn’t unfasten her cloak.

She’d chosen black as a means of escape, but now the garment was yet another symbol of her imprisonment.

“I am the disappointing daughter and the mediocre wife. I’m an overly dramatic burden you find unbelievable, and now I’m some flighty doxy who is going to lead you to hell. ”

She squeezed her hand into a fist, tightening it until her nails bit into her palm. She would not cry. Not now. Not over a group of people who saw her as nothing more than a mannequin they could costume in whatever disguise they wove.

“I think hell is a little different than a room in an inn,” he quipped. When she didn’t laugh, he walked to her and undid the clasp on her cloak.

He was wrong. Hell was very much being trapped here with him, close enough to touch but still untouchable. “I’m sorry, Matthew. I’ve done nothing but rail at you.”

“You’ve done a little more than that.” He draped the cloak over the nearest chair. “But it’s been a tiring day. Perhaps you should rest before dinner.”

She bit her lip to keep from screaming at him. It seemed she had done little else but sleep for the past few months. “I haven’t done anything to tire me.”

He smiled down at her. “You do seem more yourself.”

She’d felt a little better each day. “Mrs. Hatch said her tea would help. I suppose it just took a bit longer than she expected.”

“Mrs. Hatch?”

“Albert’s housekeeper. I’d been feeling…

ill.” She wasn’t prepared to go into the details of her frequent trips to the privy and a nausea that had left her hopeful but fearful at the same time.

“And she prepared me a medicinal tea that she claimed would fix everything.” It had been the first nice thing the woman did for her.

Matthew walked to the fireplace and stirred the coals, coaxing a blaze to ward off the growing darkness. Tavie found the candlesticks and brought them to the mantel.

“What was in the tea?” Matthew asked. “Which herbs?”

She knelt and lit the first taper, then used it to light the second. “I couldn’t taste anything but mint and lemon, but it was thick with honey to help my throat. I think that masked the herbs.” She handed him the candle in its holder and then stood.

Matthew stalked away from her and opened the door. A bucket sat in the hall, next to a heavily laden tray. He snatched the bucket so quickly that it rocked on its handle. “I’ll go get water for washing. Can you get the food to the table?”

“I’ll do my best.” She followed him to the threshold. “Let’s hope our hostess didn’t poison it.” His thunderous expression stopped her breath for a moment. “I was only teasing, Matthew. I know you trust them, so of course I will as well.”

“It isn’t that.” He pressed a dry, hard kiss to her forehead. “Hunger is making me irritable. I’ll be back in a moment. Lock the door behind me.”

Tavie watched him go, tingles sparking down her body. It had always been that way when he kissed her.

And the fact that she knew what his lips felt like against hers, that she often ached from the memory of it, would prove Mrs. Andrews right. She was very much a hoyden.

As she lifted the tray from the floor, the door at the end of the hall opened. “Thomas, do hurry back. I’d like to dine before the beef turns to shoe leather.”

Heart pounding, Tavie backed into the room and shoved the door closed with her foot. Had she truly recognized the voice, or was Matthew’s worry contagious?

She stood in the center of the room, gripping the tray and holding her breath until the gentleman descended the stairs. Only then did she arrange the table, which was too small for all the food.

Mrs. Andrews might not approve of her, but it was certain the lady didn’t want Matthew to starve. The smells of fresh bread and butter, roasted chicken with peas and carrots, and boiled potatoes made Tavie’s stomach rumble in anticipation.

A rap came at the door. Tavie was halfway to answering it when she paused. What if she did know the husband and wife at the end of the hall? What if they’d seen her? Or what if Mrs. Andrews had called the local vicar for help in evicting a fallen woman from under her roof?

“It’s me,” Matthew said. “And this bucket is heavy. Open the door.”

She twisted the lock and pulled. He came in smelling of fresh air and cold water, and the ends of his hair were wet. “You bathed outside?”

“It’s not as cold as it seems.” Regardless of his words, he placed the bucket near the fire. “But let it warm up a bit, since you’ve been ill.” He looked between her and the door. “I didn’t mean to leave you frightened.”

“It wasn’t that.” Tavie felt foolish even mentioning her fear, but she thought she needed to warn him of the other couple. “I thought I recognized the voice of the lady down the hall.”

Matthew shook his head. “Not unless you’ve been to Colchester. I met the gentleman downstairs. Faber’s his name. Charles Faber. He and his wife, Beth, are on their wedding trip. They’re sailing from Ipswich tomorrow, headed to Germany.”

“That’s certainly a lot of information in a short time.”

“He’s a very happy groom.” He rolled his eyes, and his smile widened. “Most young men are.”

Albert hadn’t seemed happy about much but the coach-and-four he’d purchased with her dowry.

“His wife sounded just as pleased.” Perhaps the command to hurry back had less to do with dinner and more with missing her husband’s company.

Tavie didn’t have much experience with that either. “I’ll wash quickly so we can eat.”

She dipped the ewer into the bucket for water and carried it behind the screen, where the basin sat.

The water was warm enough not to be shocking, but cool enough to soothe her skin as she cleaned the day’s travel from her face, neck, and arms. Her dress was limp and wrinkled after the day, making her regret not changing while Matthew had been out of the room.

However, he was still in the same clothes from the ship.

She emerged feeling a bit more herself. Matthew was on the floor, finishing a pallet in front of the fire. The thick red quilt served as his mattress, and her cloak was his coverlet.

“Your feet will stick out from beneath the hem,” she teased as she joined him at the table.

“Then I’ll wear my socks.”

It felt wrong, after everything he’d done to get them out of London, especially after he’d given up his bed once already. “I could—”

“You aren’t sleeping on the floor.” He placed a slice of bread on her plate. “Eat before it gets cold. They’re known for their meals here.”