Page 84 of Sir Durham’s Disarming Asset

The groom draped the three remaining horses in their lap covers, then he, Zeph, and Rafe climbed into the coach.

But half an hour later, the coachman returned on horseback. He had no carriage behind him and explained that none were to be had in the town.

Rafe decided the best thing to do was for them to unhitch all the horses, leave the coach where it stood, and ride into Drinkwater.

Thankfully, the ride was only a few minutes. Zeph had not ridden a horse in more than a year, and bareback was not the most comfortable means to travel.

In the small village, the local inn did rent beds to travelers.

“Only one room, sire,” the innkeeper told Rafe.

“I’ll take it with a good fire. For my two men, I wish good, warm accommodations in your attic and a hot supper for all of us. Feed and blankets for my horses.”

Rafe and Zeph inspected the small, sparsely furnished room and, with a nod at each other, accepted their lot.

After a chill but refreshing wash of her face and hands, Zeph went to her husband and brushed his worried lines from his face. “No one could have predicted this.”

But she knew he would not speak all he feared. If the Falcon had followed them, and if the snow continued to fall, the spy could find their wrecked carriage and trace them to this inn.

“I have a question for you,” he said, her attempts to smooth away his fears a failure. “Do you know how to shoot?”

“I was never taught, no.”

He sighed. “Well then, I want you to take this carriage pistol anyway.” He pulled a long-nosed handgun from his valise and placed it in her hands. Earlier, she had seen him take it from the compartment in the floor of their carriage. “If he comes, and you need to frighten him…I want you to point it at him and kill him.”

*

At dusk, Rafe left Zeph to get their supper. “I will return as soon as possible. Bar the door.” He indicated the rough-hewn wood that slid into slots against the door and wall.

She worried about accommodations for their coachman and groom. This inn was ramshackle, and she worried about its cleanliness as well.

She paced, but in the tiny confines of the room, she got little relief from her tension. Perhaps in future, I should take up knitting.

That idea had her wrinkling her nose. One day soon she would seek another occupation to fill her days. After her decoding of Vaillancourt’s book was done, she would have free time. But then, too, she would be mistress of Rafe’s household, and that would bring her a great satisfaction. She might have success persuading her husband to let her work on his accounts.

She inhaled, anxious to be gone from here. What keeps him?

Of course, she should not seek him out. He would return soon. He would. And then…

A loud bang occurred. And she startled. Where was that? In the hall?

She pressed an ear to the door. No. A scuffle, wood cracking, a man shouting. All the noise seemed to come from downstairs. In the great room.

Rafe! Rafe?

Where were Rafe’s men? Two of them, he had told her, accompanied them north. She had not seen them, which she supposed was appropriate.

And O’Neill’s men? Did Duggan still follow her every move? If so, where was he?

She strode to the small table, eyeing the pistol Rafe had given her. She winced, then bent her mind to the matter here.

She lifted her chin. The noises downstairs had stopped.

Dare she open the door?

No. No.

“Ma’am!” a voice whispered at her through the door. “Duggan. Open!”