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She also knew Gris wouldn’t be of much help and so she started up the stairs and down the hall, but rather than go to her room, she instead made her way to the back stairwell that led directly to the kitchen.
And then she made a nice tray. Tea. Biscuits. A few hunks of cheese and some bread.
She waited until the upstairs quieted, noting that Gris’s footsteps moved from the front of the house to the back and then, after a pause, up the stairs to his third-floor room. Ken was in one of the bedrooms on the second floor.
Which made what she was about to do far simpler. She drew in a deep breath, rearranging the food on the tray to make it easier to carry, and waited.
As the house quieted again, she picked up the tray and started up the back steps with tray in hand, taking slow, silent steps.
If there was one house she knew how to creep about, it was this one. She had some questions to ask, and a drunk Ken might be just the man to answer them.
CHAPTERNINE
Ken blinkedup at the ceiling, attempting to remember how he’d gotten here. Where was here?
His brain had cleared just enough to note several things. The ceiling was different than his room. The bed he lay in was small. The single candle burning gave off just enough light to illuminate a single wardrobe in the room.
Where was he and how had he gotten here? His head pounded and his stomach churned as he realized even if he knew, he wasn’t likely to get himself home. He ought to just fall asleep and untangle the knot he’d found himself in in the morning.
But somehow, it bothered him. Where was he? Was this what came of debauchery? Of course, he’d drunk himself into a stupor before. But never so badly that he’d woken in a strange bed with no memory of how he’d arrived.
And then he heard his door creak open. His head felt as though it weighed twenty stone as he turned it toward the doorway, pain shooting through his skull as he did.
What he saw stole his breath: Mirabelle.
He blinked several times as a grin played at his lips. He’d been stolen away in a drunken stupor by the very woman who haunted his sleeping and waking hours. How delicious.
But no…that couldn’t be right. If Mirabelle had aided him in this intoxication, surely he’d remember.
“Mira?” he whispered, reaching out a hand.
Even in the dim light, she smiled. “How do you know my nickname?”
He’d heard one of her brothers use it. Which one he couldn’t rightly remember. He watched as she slid a tray onto the top of a small table and he caught sight of the food—bread…tea.
His stomach stopped cramping as he stared. “Is that for me?”
“Oh yes,” she answered, pouring him a cup. “It’ll help.”
He tried to sit up but his limbs were so heavy that he just reached out an arm and grabbed a hunk of bread. “I believe you’re right.”
She let out the sort of soft laugh that made him tingle as he took several bites. The food did an amazing job of calming his stomach and dulling, a little, the ache in his skull.
He managed to pull himself up as she handed him a steaming cup of tea. Despite the heat, he gulped it down and then sighed in delight. “This is wonderful. How did you know?”
She gave another tinkling laugh. “With five brothers, one learns all sorts of useful tidbits.”
“Like how to break up tavern fights?” He took several more gulps, emptying his cup, and then he reached for the cheese, giving it a suspicious sniff as he attempted to decide if it would make his stomach better or worse.
“It’s mild,” she assured. “A nice hard cheese to provide some more sustenance for all the liquor in your belly.”
He took a tentative bite, the cheese delicious on his tongue. “You’re an angel.”
“Angels are not involved in breaking up tavern brawls and neither are ladies,” she said as she sat on the edge of his bed, her hip deliciously close to his.
But the words she’d spoken were not nearly as tantalizing.
“You think you’re less because you break up fights?”
