No. It was the storm, the unusual circumstances, the romance of being trapped in an inn like something from a novel. Tomorrow, in the cold light of day, it would all seem foolish. Mr. Wrentham would go his way, she would go hers, and that would be that.
Thunder rolled overhead, as if the universe itself was laughing at her certainty.
Later, as she prepared for bed, Catherine could hear him moving about his room. The walls were surprisingly thin—she could make out his footsteps, the creak of his bed as he sat down, even his quiet humming of the tune the violin had played earlier.
"Martha," she whispered, "do you think I'm being foolish?"
Martha, already tucked into the small bed by the fireplace, raised herself on one elbow. "In what way, miss?"
"Talking to him. Through the door."
"Seems safer than talking to him in person, if you ask me."
"That's not what I mean."
"I know what you mean, miss." Martha's voice was gentle. "And no, I don't think you're foolish. I think you're lonely. And I think he is too."
"You can't know that."
"Can't I? A gentleman like that, traveling alone in such weather? He's either running to something or from something, just like you said. Either way, he's alone."
Catherine stared at the connecting door. "It doesn't matter. After tomorrow..."
"A lot can happen before tomorrow, miss."
As if to emphasize Martha's point, another crash of thunder shook the inn, and the rain, which had been steady, became torrential. Catherine could hear it hammering on the roof, could see it running down the windows.
"We might be stuck here longer than one night," she realized.
"The roads will be impassable," Martha agreed. "Mr. Hartwell was saying earlier that the bridge at Thornley might wash out entirely."
Catherine's heart did something complicated in her chest—part dread, part anticipation. More time trapped here meant more time with Mr. Wrentham. More verbal sparring, more conversations through doors, more of this dangerous attraction that seemed to pull at her very bones.
She climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. The bed was surprisingly comfortable, the sheets clean if worn. The fire cast dancing shadows on the walls, and she could still hear the storm raging outside. But beneath it all, she could hear him; the quiet sounds of another person nearby, oddly comforting in the darkness.
"Miss?" Martha's voice was drowsy. "Do you want me to bank the fire?"
"No, leave it. The warmth is nice."
Chapter 3
"Miss! Miss, you must come quickly!"
Catherine jolted awake, her heart racing. The room was dark save for the dying embers in the fireplace, and for a moment she couldn't remember where she was. Then it all came flooding back—the storm, the inn, Mr. Wrentham in the room just beyond that door.
"What is it, Martha?" She sat up, pushing her hair back from her face. "What time is it?"
"Past midnight, miss, but...oh, miss, it's Robert. He's taken terrible poorly!"
Catherine was out of bed in an instant, reaching for her wrapper. "Robert? What's happened?"
Martha's face was pale in the dim light, her cap askew. "He went back out to secure the horses better, the fool man, said they were restless with all the thunder. But the stable roof—some of it came loose in the wind, caught him right across the head and shoulder. He's bleeding something awful, and Mrs. Hartwell, she needs every hand to help. The physician can't come, not in this weather, and she says I am the only one that can help here along with another maid that occupies the inn."
"Of course you must go," Catherine said immediately, though something fluttered in her stomach at the thought of being left essentially alone. "Is he...will he be alright?"
"Mrs. Hartwell thinks so, if we can get the bleeding stopped and keep the fever away. But miss, I'll be gone all night, most likely. It isn't proper, you being here without..."
"Martha." Catherine took her maid's shaking hands. "Robert needs you. I'll be perfectly fine. The door locks, as we've established, and Mr. Wrentham seems to be a gentleman, despite his attempts to steal our room."
