And he wasn’t looking for emotion in his marriage. He’d told his sister as much just last night.
Heavens, had it been but a day since his family’s visit to Greystone? He felt ages removed from the fellow who had gleefully pulled that prank. It seemed as though he hadn’t slept in a week.
He paused before another inn and sent Davis to investigate. Scuffling sounds and a high-pitched shriek came from the back of the wagon. Colin’s empty stomach complained loudly, and he came to a decision.
They were stopping here. To eat, if nothing else.
They were in luck—of sorts. Davis came running back to report that there was room in the inn. One room, to be precise. With two beds. For eleven people.
Well, it was shelter, and Colin was inclined to think there might be nothing else available between here and Cainewood. He sent Davis to claim it before someone else pulled off the road.
EIGHT
AMY WASHED down a bite of meat pie with ale, allowing the children’s anxious chatter to lull her. Wedged on the bench between a girl of five and a boy of six, she kept her gaze on her plate and avoided Lord Greystone’s eyes across the table.
She had no wish to talk—given her choice, she wouldn’t even be awake. She’d managed to spend the past few hours in oblivion, casting the time away. Dreaming…warm hands touching her, soothing her…comforting. Now that she was conscious, she felt guilty for having such a pleasant dream when her father was dead.
A sudden sharp pain of loss overwhelmed her, and she struggled to force it back inside. She couldn’t think about it now—it was too fresh, and she was too broken.
“Bread, Amy?” Lord Greystone’s rich voice cut through her thoughts.
She slowly brought her gaze to his. “No, thank you.”
“Cheese?”
“I’m really not hungry.” She could see Lord Greystone eyeing her barely eaten pie, so she stuck her spoon in it.
“You have to eat.” The statement was matter-of-fact, but his voice was filled with concern. “You’ll fall ill.”
When she dropped her spoon and lowered her eyes again, Lord Greystone cleared his throat and rose. “I’ll take the children upstairs. You stay for a bit and finish your supper. Will you wait for me here?”
Amy raised her chin and nodded up at him.
“I’ll come back down for you,” he promised, and took himself off, the children trailing in his wake.
She toyed with her food for the next quarter-hour, breaking up her pie, the spoon awkward in her left hand. She attempted a couple of bites, but the meat had turned cold and stuck in her throat, nearly making her gag. Gulping more ale, she pushed her plate away; she hadn’t been hungry in the first place, but Lord Greystone had insisted on setting it in front of her.
When her ale was finished, she stared at the pattern in the oak table and blanked her mind until, out of a corner of her eye, she glimpsed Lord Greystone coming downstairs.
He’d cleaned up, neatly pulled back his hair, donned his surcoat. It was ripped a bit, but he’d brushed it clean of the ash and soot. His grayish shirt showed beneath the unbuttoned front. Dark stubble dotted his cheeks and chin.
Watching as he went through a swinging door into the kitchen, she ran her fingers through her own knotted hair. Earlier, she’d scrubbed the grime from her face and unraveled her disheveled plait, but found nothing with which to brush it out. Their tiny room had no mirror—she was sure she looked a sight.
Not that she cared.
NINE
COLIN BACKED through the kitchen door with two bowls full of sloshing liquid in his hands, some strips of cloth draped over one arm, and a jar of honey wedged between chin and shoulder.
He put everything on the table and straddled the bench beside Amy, motioning his head toward her plate. “Finished eating?”
“Yes, I am.”
“May I have a look at that hand? We really should clean it.”
“I suppose so,” she said, offering her hand.
Colin wondered if he were up to the task of drawing her out of this dreamlike state. He had to figure out something to do with her, but she wouldn’t be much help if she persisted in answering him with three-word sentences.
He glanced at her hand and winced. “Ouch!” he said with a mock shudder.
“It’s not so bad.”
“Bad enough.” He gently placed her hand in one bowl. “We’ll soak it for a few minutes, shall we?”
Her long black lashes swept down as she squinted at the bowl. “What is it?”
He smiled distractedly. “Cream.”
“Cream? You mean, from milk?” She gave a slight shake of her head, making her dark hair shimmer in the flickering light.
“Why cream?” she asked.
“Huh?” He shook himself. “Doesn’t everyone put cream on burns?”
“I think not,” she mused, drawing her eyebrows together. “Butter. In my family, we put butter on burns.”
“We always use cream,” he asserted. “As well as honey. I hear tell butter’s no good.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” she said dubiously.
“Well, how does it feel?”
She paused, considering, then tilted her head. “A little better, I guess.”
“See?” His smile was triumphant.
Amy smiled back; the smile was shy and more than a little bit sad, but a smile nonetheless. Colin congratulated himself.
“That should do it.” She started a little when he took her hand, but he pretended not to notice. While he held it over the bowl, watching the cream run off in tiny rivulets, the air between them crackled with unasked questions. Her hand stopped dripping, and he rinsed it in the bowl of water.
Her eyes closed, and he felt her relax, her hand limp as he swished it around, pulled it out and turned it over.
“Hmm…” He dabbed gingerly at her palm with one
