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Kendrick impatiently looked about. “Where’s the bloody . . . ah, finally.”
A door swung open, spilling light in an angled ray across the stones of the courtyard. A stoop-shouldered man with a lantern hurried out to greet them. “Sorry, sir. I was in the back of the house when ye rode in.”
“You have rooms available?” Kendrick asked.
The fellow eyed them with curiosity. “Aye. Will ye be needin’ one or two?”
“My brother and I will share one.”
The porter hooked his lantern over a post and went to the horse’s head. Kendrick swung his leg over for a sliding dismount, then turned to reach for Donella.
“Come along, laddie. I’ll help you.”
“I’m fine,” she said, affecting the gruffest tone she could manage.
His massive hands encircled her waist.
“Your muscles must be cramped. Don’t want you falling on your arse, now do we, lad?” he teased.
Donella swallowed an ill-considered retort and leaned into him, letting his strong arms guide her to the ground. She stumbled when her boots hit the cobblestones, but Kendrick held her steady and much too close. Her short wool coat had flared open, and her body pressed directly against him. If she’d thought his back was muscled, his front was more so. In fact . . .
Her mind skittered away from the thought as he spun her around and started her toward the inn. He held on to her arm, which was probably a good thing, since her legs were indeed tight and sore from the ride.
Her knees were a bit wobbly too, although she suspected another reason for that.
“You’ll see to my horse?” Kendrick asked the porter.
“I’ll wake a stable hand. If ye’ll wait by the desk in the hall, I’ll be with ye in a trice.”
Kendrick steered Donella toward the open door, keeping a firm grip when she stumbled again. “Careful, lass,” he murmured. “We don’t need you cracking your skull.”
“It’s the boots. They’re too big.”
Since her convent shoes had not been suitable for riding, Mrs. Murray had unearthed a pair of old boots owned by a former groom. They’d been forced to stuff socks in the toes to make them wearable.
“I’m sorry about this.” Kendrick ushered her into a small but tidy entrance hall. “I know it’s all incredibly uncomfortable for you.”
Donella sank into a chair at an old writing desk with numerous cubbyholes stuffed with papers. The chair was cane-backed and hard, yet it felt like heaven after the horse’s bouncing rump.
She pulled off her knit gloves and wriggled the warmth back into her fingers. “Hah. Uncomfortable is kneeling for two hours on the stone floor of an unheated chapel.”
Kendrick went to build up the small peat fire in the hearth. “And did that happen often?”
When she started to tug the itchy woolen cap from her head, he gave her a warning shake.
Sighing, she pulled the cap back down over her rumpled hair. “Sister Bernard thought it an appropriate punishment for my numerous transgressions.”
He tossed her a sympathetic glance. “Were they really that numerous?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” she replied, trying to make a joke out of it.
Pity from him was the last thing she wanted. True, she’d been rejected once again, but she’d find another way to get where she needed to go, even if she wasn’t yet sure of the destination.
Kendrick propped a shoulder against the stone mantelpiece. For a man who’d fought off a band of attackers, organized an escape, and ridden halfway through the night, he looked remarkably fresh. His boots had nary a scuffmark, and his doeskin breeches clung to his long legs with perfect tailoring.
He looked exactly what he was, a wealthy member of the landed gentry—not a respectable farmer of modest means, travelling with his little brother. While she might fit the part in her cobbled-together outfit, his appearance did not match their cover story.
Kendrick flashed her a roguish smile. “Do tell me more, Miss Haddon. And don’t leave out the good bits.”
