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She found the basin of water he’d used the previous evening to bathe her face and quickly washed herself. She was dressed, her hair in a severe, dull bun, her spectacles in place, within ten minutes. She came down the inn stairs, only to draw up at the sound of her husband’s voice.
“I suppose it would be monstrous of me to ask her to get out of bed,” Hawk said. “Damn, I don’t wish to waste another day!”
“I can’t see that there is a choice, my lord,” came Grunyon’s voice.
“No, I suppose you’re right.”
He could at least act a bit concerned, Frances thought, her lips tightening. Show some worry for me. She squared her shoulders and descended the stairs.
“I should like a bit of breakfast before we leave, my lord,” she said.
“Frances! What the devil are you doing out of bed?”
“I ... that is, we ... well, I think we should continue, my lord.”
“Philip,” he said.
“Yes, well, Philip.”
“Are you certain?”
She flinched a bit, seeing that he was closely regarding her. She remembered to squint at him.
“Of course.”
They breakfasted in silence. Thirty minutes later, Frances was standing by the open carriage door.
Hawk, who had just mounted Ebony, saw the look of strain on her face, the dread. He started to say something, when he saw her stiffen and climb into the carriage. She wasn’t a bad sort at all, he thought. No weak-willed fragile little lady. She had guts.
Still, Hawk had Grunyon pull off the road at least every two hours during the day.
Frances realized his kindness, but couldn’t bring herself to say anything conciliatory to him.
When they stopped for the night in Jedburgh, she didn’t have the slightest twinge from her head.
More’s the pity, she thought, wondering what the devil she was supposed to do tonight to keep him at bay. She thought of the horse-colic medicine and grinned ruefully.
She was silent as her mouse image all during dinner.
Hawk said at last, “I’m tiring rapidly of haggis.”
Frances forked down an extra large bite.
Hawk studied her bent head a moment, then said, “You’re feeling the thing now?”
Frances jerked up, unable to help herself. And he saw the wariness, the distaste on her face. She squinted at him and he said sharply, wondering even as he spoke if he would be able to bring himself up to performance snuff, “For God’s sake, Frances, ‘tis not a question designed to get me in your bed!”
“Yes,” she said, eyeing her haggis with grave concentration, “I am feeling much better. Thank you for stopping during the day. I am not used to riding in a closed carriage.”
“What are you used to?”
“Riding my own horse, of course, or walking.”
“I have no extra horse and you can’t walk to York.”
“No, I can’t.”
He eyed her with mounting frustration. Why the devil couldn’t she carry on a civil conversation with him? Then he wanted to laugh at himself, remembering clearly his reasons for selecting her over her sisters. She didn’t chatter. She was quiet and homely as a mouse. She wouldn’t bother him or make demands on his time or ask for attention.
