Page 50 of The Companion’s Secret

Abruptly, she freed her hands from his and rose. “There’s a bit of myself in all of my characters, I suppose,” she said, brushing the crumbs from her skirt.

“Surely only the virtuous ones.”

She flinched at the sardonic edge to his voice. For just a moment, she had forgotten.

He had risen when she did, but he let her walk away without offering his assistance, for which she felt grateful. She suddenly understood his desire to be alone.

All the walking seemed to have done her some good; she could move now with very little difficulty. Always before, though, exercise had also helped to clear her head. Perhaps she had expected too much this time. She had never let her thoughts get into such a muddle before.

She felt confused. Lost.

Somewhere along this winding road from Dublin to London and back again—on which journey she was meant to have spared her innocent cousin, written the book that would transform English opinions of Ireland, and saved her brothers’ necks—she had slipped and wrenched something a bit more vital than her ankle. Her head might know that Gabriel was wicked and reckless and in every way unsuited to be a hero. But her spirit craved his quick wit and agile mind, just as her body craved his touch. Last night had resolved nothing in that regard; if anything, the ache was worse.

And now her heart ached right along with it.

Had she made a mistake this morning, offering to read The Wild Irish Rose to him?

Or had the mistake been made longer ago, the day she had given in to her aunt’s demand and her cousin’s plea to sit with them during that first visit from Lord Ash?

When she reached the coach, she glanced back once more at the ruin. At Gabriel, still standing near the ramshackle pile of stones, little more than a speck in the distance.

He was right. Sometimes it was unwise to inspect a thing too minutely.

Chapter 16

The innkeeper studied the register in front of him, frowned, and shook his head. “Haven’t got but the one room left, sir. Ye mun share. Sure, then, your…sister, did ye say…? would be willin’ to—”

“Cousin,” Gabriel corrected. “So you understand, of course, that we do not wish to—”

One brow shot upward. “Aye, sir. I do, that. But I cannot make a room where there isn’t one.” He appeared to give the matter some thought. “I s’pose you might make your bed in the stable loft with the coachmen and such, if you’ve a mind to.”

“Fine,” Gabriel readily agreed. Under no circumstances could last night’s interlude be repeated. A second night in her bed would be courting disaster, and not just because it would increase the risk, no matter how much care he took, that she might one day soon find herself carrying a dead man’s child.

“Not a word of this to her. My coach will be here any moment.”

Unable to bear being cooped up in the carriage any longer, he’d hired a horse after dinner and ridden ahead. It had not been a comfortable journey, but his desire to sit with her, to listen to her, convinced him he had made the only sensible decision. He was not supposed to be enjoying her tale.

Thankfully, this crowded, bustling inn would provide little opportunity for further entertainment, for intimate conversation of any sort.

Gabriel laid a hand on the counter, and the innkeeper looked up. “A private dining parlor is out of the question, I assume?” he asked.

“Th’ room has a small parlor adjoinin’. I s’pose I could arrange to serve supper to you and your lady—”

“Cousin—”

“—there. If you wish.”

“Yes, thank you. In an hour.” He turned toward the door to watch for his coachman, then added over his shoulder, “Oh, and nothing with peas.”

The unfamiliar request stymied the innkeeper. “How’s that, sir?”

“For supper. Please do not serve any dishes with peas. The lady—”

“Your cousin, you mean?”

Gabriel shot him a look that had persuaded many a gambling man to fold. “The lady does not enjoy them.”

“Aye, sir. So that’s one bed”—the innkeeper opened the register to make a note—“one private parlor, and no peas.”