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CHAPTERNINE
Clara had just slid into a corner table in the common room with Wyatt and Clarissa. The only private dining room this establishment offered had already been taken.
The inn hummed with locals and travelers here for the funeral. Clara didn’t mind the noise. Truthfully, the extra activity was a welcome distraction from her thoughts.
Wyatt raised his hand, calling over a barmaid.
The door opened again, a gust of fall air sweeping through the common room making her shiver as she turned, pulling her shawl tighter about her shoulders.
A group of men entered, pushing and yelling at one another, their behavior not the happy hum of the inn but the sort of banter that made every other guest go quiet with unease. Their voices were too sharp, their movements too erratic, and she turned back to Wyatt. She’d not meet the eye of any of those men, especially as she sat at the end of the table, with Priscilla tucked in the corner.
There was a large open table next to them and she winced as she realized the men were making their way toward that very spot.
“Should we leave?” Priscilla asked quietly.
“I think so,” Wyatt answered. “But not yet. Let them settle first.”
Clara gave a tight nod, keeping her gaze down.
“That’s quite the scar you’ve got,” one of them slurred at Wyatt. Clara’s gaze snapped up. She was so used to Wyatt’s face she’d nearly forgot about the jagged line that split his cheek.
But Wyatt turned to the man as he took his hat in his hand. “Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment,” the other man jeered, swaying a bit on his feet.
Wyatt didn’t bother to respond and they took a seat at a nearby table.
But the men didn’t quiet, one of them slapping their table loudly and demanding ale.
That was when Wyatt rose, giving her and Priscilla a quick nod to indicate that they ought to do the same. Clara didn’t hesitate. She pushed her chair back before Wyatt could even come around to help her.
But that was a mistake. The moment she stood, a hand shot out, grabbing her by the wrist. “Aren’t you just as pretty as a spring flower.” The man holding her gave a leering smile as he stood too.
“Unhand me,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I—” But whatever he’d been about to say was cut off as Mr. Fitzroy stepped between her and the man. Over his shoulder, Clara watched as he grabbed the other man by the collar, giving him a fierce shake. “Let go of her this instant,” he growled out.
“Or what?” another of them challenged from his seat at the table.
But she felt the other man’s hand slip from her wrist and she yanked her arm back, placing both her palms on Mr. Fitzroy’s back.
He raised one of his massive fists as he growled out, “Why don’t you come over here and find out.”
Silence met his words and it seemed as though every person held his breath waiting for the answer.
“We don’t want no trouble,” the man who’d held Clara’s arm now asserted with his palms facing Ralph.
“Then I’d suggest you all leave,” he spit out through clenched teeth.
Two more men rose from their chairs, and for a moment, Clara thought there might actually be a fight. But Wyatt stepped up next to Mr. Fitzroy, and a third and then a fourth man joined them, lining up to square off with the troublemakers.
The air hung heavy with tension, as no one moved for the span of at least three seconds before the drunks finally turned and headed out the door.
Clara felt herself wilt against Mr. Fitzroy’s very broad back.
Her eyes fluttered closed as she breathed in his fresh masculine scent, clean and woodsy with touches of sandalwood and hints of deeper musk. This man was once again her real-life hero.
She pressed her cheek between his shoulder blades, wanting to stay there for a good long while.
