Page 14 of Lord of Mistrust

“Nay, indeed, sir. Don’t put yourself out.” Her voice sounded tight.

“I’ve dealt with worse than old Hazelthwaite’s hayloft. Besides which, I swore to be your guardian, did I not? So we must remain close.”

She resisted the urge to suggest he sleep outside her door, like a faithful guard dog. Honestly, why did the man insist on clinging to her like a leech?

The boy, Sim, reappeared and hoisted Chloe’s bag over his shoulder.

“One moment.” Sir Robert turned to her. “Would it inconvenience you too much if I bestowed my chest in your room? It would be safer with you than in the hayloft.”

“I can lock it in the cellar if you—”

He silenced the innkeeper with a wave of his hand. “Nay. I’m certain Mistress Emmerson’s room will be secure enough. I wouldn’t place her in it otherwise. I’ll just take out a couple of things I need.” He removed a few items, then nodded at Chloe. “Now, follow Sim, and I’ll see you when ’tis time for our repast. I’m off to find the nearest well and wash off the stink of toil.”

Chloe followed Sim, the heavy oak stairs creaking beneath their feet as they ascended to the inn’s first floor. The building must be of some antiquity—there wasn’t a single right angle in the place. Everything smelled of wood smoke, and the few tapestries gracing the walls had no more than the ghosts of images on them, the cheap dyes having failed over the decades.

Her room was at the end of one wing. The bed—though narrow—looked tempting, and she realized how enervated the heat and excitement had made her. Could she face being sociable over a meal? Nay, she’d rather have something brought upstairs and enjoy some peace and quiet.

Sitting down, she pressed her hands on the mattress. It crackled back at her—straw, not horsehair. But the bedding looked clean and smelled of lye soap. Sighing, she discovered she was not only hungry but thirsty, too. No one had come to see what she wanted, so she must go below after all. As she crossed to the door, her gaze was drawn to Sir Robert’s traveling chest.

What did he keep in this precious box of his? She was about to determine whether or not it was locked when a rap on her door had her starting back guiltily.

“Come!”

The boy, Sim, entered, bearing a covered tray. He bowed and placed it beside the bed.

“Compliments of Sir Robert, Mistress. He thought you might be too tired to face company, so has sent you up some vittles.” Without giving her time to respond, he backed out of the room and shut the door.

Curse Sir Robert Mallory! Just when she’d made up her mind to dislike him, he was piling one thoughtful deed upon another.

She removed the cloth and revealed a stout pitcher with a horn beaker beside it, some salt gammon, pears, fresh bread, and a portion of sweet onion and currant tart. She sniffed at the pitcher. It smelled like small beer, but with a bitter note to it. No matter—she was thirsty enough to drink anything.

Kicking her heels against the side of the bed, she consumed her meal and gazed through her tiny window, between the leafy branches of a nearby ash to the hills beyond. It was a pleasant spot, in truth. Why should she care if she must delay returning home? In fact, any delay would be welcome, as it afforded her time to consider her next move.

Mercy, but she was sleepy! When she tilted her head to drain the last of the beer, the room spun around her.

“This. Is. Peculiar.” She felt as if she were being pressed down onto the bed, her limbs weighted with lead. She closed her eyes, but still felt as if she were moving, spinning giddily out of control.

Something was very wrong. Sliding off the bed, she attempted to crawl to the door, meaning to call for help.

But darkness descended before she reached it.

Chapter Eleven

Robert waited until dusk, though the suspense was gnawing at his nerves. It was a devilishly tricky ruse, knocking someone out with poppy juice. One had to account for their size and weight, consider which of the four humors reigned over their anatomy, and measure the drug with pinpoint accuracy.

Mistress Emmerson would be weary, in any case, from the heat. By his reckoning, she’d be insensible until nightfall, and then sleep a natural sleep until dawn. By which time, he would have recovered his dispatch, and both he—and it—would be on a fast horse on their way to London. The local authorities could deal with Mistress Emmerson. He could imagine the Catholic plotters sending one spy, but he doubted they’d send two, so the rest of his journey should be clear of danger once she was behind bars. If he was this vulnerable to pickpockets, he’d have to get someone to sew his dispatches into his clothing.

He knocked loudly on Mistress Emmerson’s door, then called her name, but there was no response. Glancing quickly around, he let himself into her room with his spare key and locked the door behind him. It was always useful to have duplicate keys to his “favorite rooms” at his regular stops between Southampton and London.

Lighting a candle, he examined the figure lying supine on the floor. Her breathing lifted her bosom gently, and she appeared asleep. He snapped his fingers in front of her nose to make certain, but there was no response. How young, how innocent she looked lying there! Of course, the enemies of Queen Elizabeth were bound to use those spies they thought looked the most guileless, as there was less chance of such people arousing suspicion.

It was a pity he had to suspect everybody—even this enticing creature. But her power lay in the same feminine charms and wiles that had thrown him off guard.

Swallowing a sigh of regret, he lifted her onto the narrow bed, then rubbed his hands together and looked around. It was already late, approaching the hour when the drug would be wearing off. He must move fast, ere she awoke—he’d hate to restrain or hurt her. Despite her alliance with traitors, she was a woman, and the fair sex needed careful handling. He couldn’t help hoping he was wrong to suspect her, as he loathed the idea of handing her over to his superiors for questioning. But if she turned out to have stolen his dispatch, he’d have to face that probability.

Very well. Baggage first, and then the lady herself. But only if necessary—he hadn’t completely forgotten he’d been born a gentleman.

A thorough search of her scrip produced nothing other than a beeswax candle and the revelation that she liked to while away odd moments with a hand spindle, making yarn. Her purse contained a good amount of coin, and he wondered how much of it was honestly come by. Despite her protestations of innocence, he still believed her to be one of Mistress Riviere’s women. The brothel keeper evidently paid her employees well. Either that or the number of golden angels in her purse was payment for her treachery.