She burrowed deeper into the rug. The trouble was, she wanted him to like her.
Though why on earth would he like a girl who’d dragged him into such a mess, who’d spoiled his plans and forced him to make the long, uncomfortable journey back to London, a girl who—she sniffed at herself cautiously—still smelled faintly of mud and vomit and animal dung . . .
The carriage door opened, jerking her from her gloomy reverie, and he stood there, looking handsome and serious, his brow a little wrinkled but the rest of him elegant and immaculate. The contrast between them couldn’t have been more depressing.
“I’ve told the landlady you’re my sister and that you had an accident on the road. Your luggage—because, for reasons known only to yourself, you traveled only with bandboxes—was ruined when you and your carriage went off the road and into a river.”
Lily blinked.
“I was following behind in my own carriage,” he continued. “I am a bad-tempered fellow and female chatter annoys me, so we travel in separate carriages.” He gave her a wry look. “It was the best I could come up with on the spur of the moment.”
He held out his hand. “Luckily this inn, small as it is, has a bedchamber with a sitting room attached. It’s very small, but clean and adequate. How are you feeling? Can you stand?”
“Yes, of course.” She stood on legs that felt as if they’d been stuffed with sawdust and started cautiously down the carriage steps, then squeaked in surprise as he swept her off her feet and held her against his broad, firm chest.
“Oh, but you don’t need—”
“Has to be this way,” he said gruffly. “Don’t want the hoi polloi gawking at your bare legs and feet, do we? Besides, the cobbles are wet and cold and dirty.” He carried her toward the inn, where a plump, motherly-looking woman waited with a concerned expression, holding the door open for them. “The landlady, Mrs. Baines,” he said in her ear. “Oh, and your maid broke her leg in the accident. We had to leave her behind in the care of a local physician.”
Lily barely heard him. She’d never been carried by a man in her life. Not since she was a small child and Cal carried her about on his shoulders. She held her breath, desperately wishing she were slimmer, lighter, daintier.
He strode into the inn and mounted the stairs rapidly, seemingly indifferent to her weight. He wasn’t even breathing heavily. The inn was small, the floors and ceilings crooked with age, and Mr. Galb—Edward—had to bend his head to get through the doors. At the top of the stairs, a door stood ajar. He pushed it open with his boot, carried her in and deposited her gently on a rag rug.
The sitting room was small, furnished with a worn settee, an overstuffed armchair and a small table with two wooden chairs. Though an open door Lily could see an even smaller room containing a large bed with a spotless white counterpane and a plain oaken wardrobe. Everything was worn and a little shabby, but it all looked and smelled very clean.
A sturdy young woman was crouched before the sitting room fireplace, blowing hot coals into life with fresh kindling and a pair of bellows. At their entrance she jumped to her feet and bobbed an awkward curtsey.
Mrs. Baines, who’d followed them up the stairs, said, “My daughter, Betty, sir, she’ll take fine care of your sister.” Turning to the girl she said, “Didst tha fetch them clothes for the young lady?”
“Not yet, Ma, I was getting the fire—”
“Well, run along and fetch ’em, then.” The girl hurried away. Her mother turned back to her guests. “Dinner will be ready in half an hour, sir—enough time for the young lady to take a bath and—Oh, here are the lads now.”
Two hefty young men—her sons by their resemblance to her and Betty—had appeared in the doorway, carrying large cans of gently steaming water. A younger boy followed, half hidden beneath a tin hip bath carried on his back, like a snail. Under one arm he carried a smart leather valise, which Mr. Galbraith took delivery of.
Under their mother’s direction the lads placed the bath in front of the merrily blazing fire and filled it with water, while she fussed around fetching towels and a pot of soft, strong-smelling homemade soap.
Lily stood huddled in the rug, feeling useless and very self-conscious as the young men glanced surreptitiously at her, noting her bare feet and calves.
“Stop gawking at the poor young lady!” their mother snapped. “Ha’n’t she endured enough already without a pair of great useless lummoxes staring at her as if they’d never seen a foot before! Now, get along downstairs wi’ you—there’s work a-plenty for idle hands yet!” Her sons left sheepishly.
Betty arrived a moment later with an armful of clothing, which she took through to the bedchamber and dumped on the bed.
“The girl will assist you at your bath and in all other ways,” Mr. Galbraith told Lily. “Consider her your personal maid for the time being—I’ve arranged it with her mother.”
He glanced at Mrs. Baines, who was in consultation with her daughter, and handed Lily a small hinged tin that he’d taken from his valise. “You might find this more to your taste. Now, take your time and be sure to send for more hot water if you need it. And when you’re ready for dinner to be brought up, let the girl know. We shall dine up here, in private.” He gave her a searching look. “Is there anything else you need?”
Lily shook her head. “Thank you, no. You’re very—you’re all very kind,” she amended for the sake of her audience, recollecting that he was supposed to be her brother and brothers were expected to be kind. Truth to tell, she was feeling a little overwhelmed.
The door closed briskly behind him and Mrs. Baines, and the room was suddenly quiet. Recalling the small hinged tin he’d
