Page 30 of Lord of Mistrust

“Are you wanting Sir Robert, Mistress?”

She recovered her breath. “Aye. I understood he slept in the stable loft?”

Sim grinned. “Not last night, nay. A room was freed up, alongside yours, and he stayed there.”

That was a relief. “And the watchmen? Guards?” She knew not what to call those who had aided Robert in his hunt for the traitors.

“Walsingham’s men?” Sim touched a finger to his freckled nose. “I know all about them. They’ve been called away, as all’s safe here now.”

So where was Robert? Had he gone with them? Had he abandoned her? She felt her cheeks color.

“Did Sir Robert go with them?”

“Nay, Mistress. I suspect he’s still abed. I haven’t seen him, if that’s your meaning.”

He dipped his head politely, then marched off, water sloshing from either side of his pail. Then he helped himself to a besom leaning up against the tack room wall and set to work cleaning the cobbled courtyard.

So, Robert had not gone. She could break her fast and hope he’d soon be down to join her.

Only he wasn’t. She made her meal last as long as possible, but there was still no sign of him. The sun was already high, and the inn fully awake and bustling, ready for the day’s trade—what could be keeping the man?

Worry gnawed at her. Mayhap he was ill? What if he’d caught a chill from his soaking in the river, or was debilitated by loss of blood? Someone should go and see. And given that she was the person who most needed their mind put at rest, it ought to be her.

Tucking her hair carefully under her coif, she smoothed down her skirts, and hastened upstairs to the room closest to her own, and knocked gently on the door. There was no response. She waited a while, then rapped her knuckles hard against the wooden panels. Still nothing, nor any sound of movement when she set her ear against the door.

Fie—this would not do! Catching a glimpse of someone beyond the passageway window, she flung it open and clapped her hands, capturing Sim’s attention. Dropping his besom, he came at a run and was soon beside her, awaiting her pleasure.

She jingled her hanging pocket. “A groat for you if you can get me into this room. I mean, us. I cannot waken Sir Robert.”

Sim was off down the corridor like a hare, returning shortly afterward with a large iron key. “There’s always at least one spare,” he explained, winking at her and holding his hand out for the coin. As soon as she’d dropped it into his palm, he chased off again.

This was not the plan. It was totally improper for her to enter Robert’s bedchamber alone—why had Sim not stayed?

Propriety be damned. The man might be sick. Or one of the traitors had climbed in his window during the night and—God forbid—done away with him. With trembling fingers, she unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The chamber was in darkness—Robert had kept the shutters closed. The room did not feel empty of human presence, and she was relieved to hear the even rhythm of Robert’s breathing as he slumbered. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, the shape beneath the sheets gradually resolved itself into her rescuer, blissfully unaware of her presence. But why had he slept so late when he was usually so vigilant? How could he not have heard her knocking, or her entry into the room? She would have expected him to leap up and put a knife to any intruder’s throat rather than continue sleeping.

What little light there was revealed he was lying on one side with his bandaged arm above the covers. A bolster was propped at his back, presumably to stop him rolling onto the injured limb. She moved closer, needing reassurance. Aye, he was breathing. His firm, full lips were tantalizingly parted each time he drew breath. She would never forget how those lips had kissed her and awakened all manner of yearnings of which she should be heartily ashamed.

The faint light lent an added softness to his face, and his long-lashed eyelids concealed the disturbing brilliance of the blue eyes beneath. His tawny hair lay tousled upon the pillow, and she put out a tentative hand, torn between the desire to caress it and the need to wake him.

Nay, it was too dangerous to touch him—in more ways than one. She lifted the catch that held the shutters in place and pulled them back, allowing the bright sunlight to spill into the room. He groaned in protest, but before Chloe had time to move or speak, there was a sudden knocking at the door.

As she spun around in horror to face it, he leaped from his bed and—dagger in hand—sped to the door. He made no attempt to cover his nakedness—he didn’t even seem aware she was there, trapped guiltily between his bed and the window.

“Who’s there?” he called, his voice still thick from sleep.

“It’s Tilshead, Sir Robert. I have news for you.”

Before Chloe could make a sound to alert him to her presence, Robert had opened the door to peer around it.

“Odd,” he muttered. “’Twas locked last night. The maid must have been in already.”

Tilshead’s gaze dropped to the dagger in Robert’s hand, and he moved back a step.

“Easy, sirrah! God give you good day. I—” The man broke off, and a broad grin spread slowly across his rugged features as he caught sight of the cowering Chloe.

He gave her a polite bow. “Good morrow, Mistress Emmerson.”