Stifling a humph, she went inside.
By dinnertime that evening, Gareth was desperate. In more ways than one, but he sternly forced himself to focus on his mission-on the undeniable imperative that he organize safe passage onward.
He knew what he needed-two fast carriages, with two drivers who understood, appreciated, and accepted the likelihood of attack. He refused to put men’s lives at risk without their knowledge and consent. He’d prefer them enthusiastic.
He, Watson, and Bister had trudged the town, calling at the major coaching inns, but most didn’t like to hire carriages in that way-for the whole journey from south to north coast-and they’d yet to find any who seemed keen enough for the business to trust with their story.
But they needed to find carriages and head north soon, or risk being caught by the cultists, who were indeed methodically searching. Luckily, they’d started in the upper end of the town. It would be a few days yet before the searchers reached their neighborhood.
He’d been silent through their meal. He’d felt Emily’s gaze on his face a number of times, but hadn’t met it. Finally, he set down his knife and fork, pushed his plate away, leaned back in his chair-and raised his eyes to hers.
She looked at him for a moment, then asked, “What’s wrong?”
“No carriages.” He explained the problem, and the increasing urgency.
Her gaze grew distant, then she said, “You asked at the major coaching inns. What about some of the smaller ones?”
He frowned, but before he could reply she leaned closer, laying one hand atop his where his rested on the table. He quashed an impulse to turn that hand and close it about her slim fingers.
“No.” Her gaze slid past him, lingered for an instant, then returned to his face. “I was thinking, for instance, of this inn. It doesn’t have carriages for hire-well, nothing bigger than a gig-but it’s family run. And families have cousins, and uncles, and know other connections in the same business.”
She again looked past him. He realized she was looking at the innkeeper further down the room.
“Why not ask our host?” She looked back and met his eyes. “We’ve been here two days, and they’ve been very good-interested in a nice way, not pushy, and Arnia and Dorcas get on well with the innwife. She helped with a tisane for Jimmy’s headache.” Enthusiasm infused her expression. “It won’t hurt to ask.”
Looking into her face, he tried to remember caution. “We’ll have to take them into our confidence-what if, once we do, they think it too dangerous for us to remain here?”
“They won’t turn us out-not if we explain properly.” It was she who squeezed his fingers. “Come on-let’s try.”
He hesitated for a moment more, then returned the pressure of her fingers, reluctantly released her hand, and rose.
They’d dined relatively late, and the other diners-locals for the most part-had already left. Only three men remained, sharing a jug of wine. The innkeeper was amenable to joining Gareth and Emily at a small table in one corner. At Emily’s suggestion, he summoned his wife to join them. She came, curiosity in her eyes.
Gareth commenced by explaining he and most of their party were English, which came as no surprise, yet with Napoleon’s defeat only seven years past there were formalities to observe. Luckily, most Frenchmen, especially those in trade, had reverted to treating the English with their customary, occasionally arrogant, tolerance. Nevertheless, Gareth omitted to mention his part in the earlier war, saying only that he’d been serving in India until recently, and was presently on a mission coinciding with his return to England.
In the sparsest of terms, he outlined their journey, and explained the existence and the intent of the cultists.
Eyes wide, the innwife asked about the cult. Leaning forward, Emily replied. Before Gareth could reassert control, she’d taken over relating their tale.
Her descriptions were more colorful, her answers more direct, and rather more sensational than his. He wasn’t at all comfortable with her tack, let alone her openness, but one glance at the innkeeper’s and innwife’s faces and he shut his lips, and let Emily hold the stage.
And it was a performance. She seemed to know just what to say, and how to respond to the innkeeper’s many questions. It wasn’t just what she said, but how she said it; her attitude seeded theirs.
All he was required to do was sit back, look suitably serious and sober, and offer corroborative nods and words when appealed to.
By the time Emily reached the point of explaining their requirements, the innkeeper and his wife were their devoted supporters. Their party may be English, but the cult was heathen, and violent and vicious. The innkeeper was in no doubt as to where his duty lay.
Gareth had considered Emily’s notion that the innkeeper’s family connections would be sufficient to get them what they needed a long shot, but she’d been right. Spurred by their story-indeed, clearly thrilled to have been trusted and asked-the innkeeper summoned his sons and dispatched them hither and yon.
An hour later, numerous uncles and cousins had gathered, and the noise in the now otherwise empty front room had escalated as people exclaimed and shouted suggestions. Gareth had never seen the like before, but within a surprisingly short time, two fast traveling carriages had been organized, along with two experienced drivers who were very willing to offer their services in defeating the so-alien cult.
He shook hands with the two grizzled war veterans who had volunteered to take the reins and drive them to the north coast with all possible speed. “Thank you.” They’d discussed and settled on their payment. “There’ll be a
