“It’s mine,” Ian answered and paid for the night, the cost a bit more dear than he’d planned. He started back into the taproom, but when he caught sight of Miss Harrell, he paused for a moment.
In the dingy, smoky light, her hair was as bright as a torch and, with her delicate bone structure and innate grace, she could pass for a princess among thieves.
Even as Ian stood there, a tall, thin man in a well-cut coat—and booted heels that weren’t round like Ian’s—approached her. The man said something, and instead of sending him packing, Miss Harrell actually acted flattered by his attentions. She blushed and lowered her gaze in a manner she’d not practiced on Ian.
He was across the room in a snap. “Is there something I can do for you?” he asked the intruder, pleased to note he was several inches taller than the man.
“I was asking this young lady about her tea,” the man fawned congenially. “The scent of it is unique.”
“Aye, it is,” Ian answered, not believing a word. “It’s Keemum.” He looked the man in the eye, daring him to carry the charade further.
The stranger’s gaze slid from Ian to Miss Harrell, and although there was hint of regret, he said, “Thank you.” He had no choice but to turn and leave, not with Ian ready and willing to take his head off.
Ian sat down heavily on the bench against the wall next to Miss Harrell forcing her to move over.
“He only asked about the tea,” she said quietly.
“If I hadn’t walked up when I did, he would have had you upstairs with your skirts over your head.”
He’d spoken recklessly, and immediately regretted how crude he’d sounded, especially when fire lit her eyes at the effrontery. He attempted an apology of sorts, “I’d have said the same thing to my sisters.”
“And would they be as insulted as I am?” She practically snarled the words.
“Yes.” He took a sip of the damned tea, finding it so bitter he wanted to spit it out.
Fortunately, the bar lad arrived with their meals—lamb shanks and peas—and Ian gave the food his attention. It wasn’t fancy fare but it was tasty enough for a hungry man. He was finishing his plate when he realized Miss Harrell had barely taken a bite.
“What is it?” he asked.
She made one of those feminine shrugs that said louder than words that something did not please her even as her lips said, “Nothing.”
Ian set down his fork, embarrassed at how quickly he’d eaten. But he’d been damn hungry. “You don’t like the food.”
“I’m not fond of lamb,” she murmured. A heavy sigh and then she added, “Or this place. It’s different…Do you think the sheets are clean?”
Once he’d left his mother’s home, Ian had never worried about clean sheets again, but now, looking around the taproom, he began to feel dirty. Coarse. Clumsy. Because at one time, he would have noticed those things.
He hated the regrets. Regrets that he’d made rash decisions that had cost his family so much of their pride. Regrets that nothing had worked as he’d planned. Regrets that he was here and not on his way to London.
He took himself in hand. There was no crying about the past, because there was no changing it.
Brutally, he forced himself to say, “If you aren’t going to eat yours, I’ll have it.”
With a shudder, she pushed her plate toward him and he pretended to enjoy the meal with great relish. And why shouldn’t he? At three shillings five, the meal and the tea cost him more than whiskey.
But he didn’t feel good when he was done. If anything, he was more disgruntled than ever, and dead tired. Why else would he be deliberately provoking her into a fight? Or thinking of matters best left untouched?
Fortunately, she had the good sense to keep her vaulted opinions to herself, although much of what she was thinking shone in her expressive green eyes.
Ian pushed the table away. “Come, we’re both tired.”
She didn’t argue but rose and followed him out of the taproom. He led her up the stairs and opened the door to their room. The furnishings were simple—a bed beneath a window, a washstand, a chair—but it appeared a haven.
Miss Harrell glided past him into the room like it was her divine right. “Well, good night,” she said briskly and attempted to shut the door before he’d even entered.
He stopped the door with his hand. “Wait, I sleep here too.”
Her brows flew together. “Oh, no you don’t. You can’t. You must get your own room.”
