“Your generosity knows no bounds.”
Ignoring her sarcasm, the Englishman gazed at her supper. “Are you going to finish that?”
She shoved her half-eaten pie in his direction. “By all the saints, you’re a bottomless pit. It’s a wonder you’re not fat as old King Henry.”
“Runs in the family.” With a scrape, he pulled it closer.
“As the sow fills, the draff sours.”
“Pardon?”
She watched the pie methodically disappear. “The more you eat, the less you enjoy your food.”
“Another of your mother’s pearls of wisdom?”
“Aye, her words were wise.”
“In this case, her words were wrong.” He washed down the last of her supper with the last of her ale, then stood. “It was quite enjoyable. Now I must dash off a note and post it to Scarborough, to warn him of his brothers’ intentions. And another note to my family. They’ll be wondering where I am.” He rooted in his pocket and pulled out a key. “Would you like to go up? The innkeeper had naught but a single room, but I’m certain we’ll fare well together.”
“You are, are you?”
“Yes,” he said, so tolerantly she gritted her teeth. “Room twenty-six, upstairs and to the left. I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”
Handing her the key, he started out of the taproom, then turned back. Walking right up to her, he clasped her chin and tilted her face up to meet his solemn gaze. “I can trust you to wait?”
She was too startled to protest at his touching her again. “I’m not going anywhere,” she assured him, the key’s hard metal edges biting into her clenched fist.
Not yet, anyway.
NINETEEN
CAITHREN HEADED up the fancy wrought-iron staircase, fuming as she looked for number twenty-six.
It was clear Mr. Chase didn’t like her, yet he expected her to share his chamber tonight. Fifty-seven rooms and only one available? She didn’t believe him for a moment. He planned on keeping his eye on her.
She was glad she’d be rid of him soon. She’d never figure him out. Most especially, she’d never figure out what it was about him that made her want to goad him. Or what is was about him that made her want to touch him.
Surprise made her stop dead on the landing. Did she want to touch him? She’d never particularly wanted to touch a man before. Then again, she’d never met a man with eyes like the Englishman’s.
Fiercely, she brought up a mental image of his mustache.
There. That was better.
When she reached the end of the corridor, she turned in disgust. She must have gone right, not left.
Mr. Chase was standing at the other end, watching her. “Are you lost?” he called.
“Nay.” She hurried toward him. “I only wanted to have a wee look around.”
Raising a brow, he took the key from her hand and fitted it into number twenty-six’s lock.
When the door swung open, she gasped and shot him an accusatory glare. “There’s only one bed.”
“I told you there was only one room. It’s no fault of mine it has only one bed.” He walked in and set his portmanteau on the bed in question. “We’ll manage.”
She stood on the threshold, eyeing the room with trepidation.
“Come in, will you?” He rolled his eyes, an expression that seemed odd on him. “I’m no threat to your virtue.”
“I didn’t think you were.” And it was true. As confusing and infuriating as he was, she felt safe in his presence. It made no sense. She knew it made no sense, which was why she was nervous.
Since she couldn’t just stand there, she entered but left the door open. He removed his surcoat and tossed it over the back of a lovely carved chair, then went around the room lighting candles.
She wandered over and fingered the fabric of the brown coat. Fine stuff, although plain. Stitching neat enough to rival her mother’s. “Mam always despaired of my sewing,” she blurted.
What an inane thing to say. As though he cared. But she’d never been good at controlling her mouth when she was jumpy like this.
He shut the door, blocking out the noises of other people in the corridor and downstairs. “Did she, now?”
“Aye, she claimed I’d never make a proper wife. Never mind that I’m capable of seeing to the health and provisioning of every soul at Leslie.”
He moved an extra candle to the dressing table. “At Leslie, huh?” From his leather bags came two shirts and a pair of breeches, which he left in an untidy heap on the bed, then an ivory comb, a razor, a brush, and a ball of soap. “If you can do all that, I cannot see whereas sewing would make a difference one way or the other.”
“Don’t you need a wife who can sew?” She hadn’t finished saying it before heat rushed to her cheeks. Crivvens, she couldn’t stop blethering.
“I don’t need a wife at all.” He set the implements on the dressing table and examined himself in its fine mirror. “My sister, Kendra, takes care of running my household.”
“How about after she marries?”
His eyes met Cait’s in the silvery surface. “That isn’t likely. Anytime soon, at least. Although she’s seventeen, she’s yet to show interest in any man.”
“Same as me,” she said softly.
His gaze held hers for a moment; there was something peculiar in that clear green gaze. Her stomach fluttered. Perhaps she wasn’t as safe with him as she’d thought.
He stroked his mustache, then sighed and set to work with the brush and soap, making a fine lather. When he started brushing it onto his face, Caithren felt she shouldn’t watch. It seemed too intimate. Instead she walked to the window and drew aside the drapes.
It was pitch black behind the hotel, and she couldn’t see a thing. With a sigh, she let the curtain drop and ran a hand down the wall beside the window. It had wallpaper—thick sheets nailed to the wall, with flock printing. The paper’s pattern felt velvety under her fingers. She’d heard of wallpaper,
