Page 75 of Outrageous

“Oh, and Mr. Norton?”

The innkeeper turned slowly back around.

“About the magistrate?”

“Ah, yes, Sir Bevil.”

“My wife mentioned you’d planned to send your son?”

Norton nodded rapidly. “Yes, sir, first thing tomorrow, provided the weather clears some.” As if managed by a theatrical crew, a crack of thunder shook the sturdy little building and Norton grimaced. “The thing is, sir, there’s no telling if Anthony will even be able to get through. I went out myself earlier and saw the Nidd was lappin’ at the Cutley Bridge. That were a good six hours ago. I reckon it’ll be washed out by now.”

Godric had vague recollections of coming over said bridge in the farmer’s wagon. It had been not long after they’d left the dense section of woods.

He glanced up at the other man, whose expression was one of sheer terror. Just what the bloody hell was bothering Norton and Crosby?

“That wood to the south—Guisecliff?”

“Aye.”

Godric knew about the name from the papers—the stories that had mentioned Flynn and his gang.

Something occurred to him. “You don’t sound like a Yorkshireman, Mr. Norton.” And Mrs. Crosby didn’t sound like a Yorkshire-woman.

Norton shook his head, his expression increasingly miserable—and something else: Was that guilt?

“I’ve only owned the inn four years now. I’m from Dorking.”

“Ah, what’s a Surrey man doing in Yorkshire?” And why do you look so very, very guilty?

The door to the coffee room opened and Godric wasn’t surprised to see Mrs. Crosby. Her expression, momentarily unguarded, was one of concern as her eyes flicked between Godric and Norton. “That leak in the cold room has gotten bigger, Mr. Norton.”

Godric had believed the big man was frightened before; now his expression was one of sheer terror.

“I’d best see to that.”

“Do send that map to me,” Godric called after his scuttling form.

Mrs. Crosby leaned in the doorway, her arms crossed. “What map would that be . . . sir?”

“Mr. Norton said he would loan me his road book.”

She nodded slowly, her eyes drifting over his person appraisingly. “I’ll get it from him and send it up with your clothing in the morning—if that is soon enough? Or I could bring it up to your room tonight.”

Godric smiled as he imagined Eva’s response to seeing Mrs. Crosby again tonight. “Tomorrow will be soon enough.” He thought she wanted to say something else, but she just nodded.

“Can I get you anything else before I retire for the evening?”

“No, thank you, I have everything I need.”

Something flickered in her eyes, but he couldn’t decipher it before she bowed her head. “I’ll bid you a good night.”

Once the door closed he glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel: it was just before eleven. He grimaced; likely Eva was still awake and fuming.

So he plucked a book from the small selection without reading the spine, poured a little more brandy, and settled in, hoping to make himself sleepy by reading.

But The Orphan of the Rhine, for all its high, almost hysterical, drama could not hold his attention. Instead, he put the book in his lap and stared at the dwindling flames, the insistent pattering of the rain making him accept that they would likely be here at least one more day. And night.

It was better that Eva believed him to be up to dastardly deeds with Mrs. Crosby rather than know the true contents of his mind, which was filled with lustful thoughts of his delicious, maddening, amusing, enraging, intoxicating wife-to-be.