Closing the door again, Eliza stepped back and made her way back to the common room. She returned to the table she shared with Pierce. His plate was clean now. “Did you see her? Is she as pretty as Wattles seems to think?”
“She...cooks well enough. “ Eliza lifted her tea and sipped. It had grown cold but it was sweet. Had she added sugar before she’d stepped away? She didn’t remember doing so. “She and an undercook were hard at work.”
“Then what is it?”
“How do you know anything is amiss?”
“I know you better than that, Eliza,” he murmured so no one else would hear him use her Christian name. The admission and the truth of it warmed her through.
“It may be nothing,” she began, “but Mrs. Wattles had the outer door open.”
“Not surprising,” Pierce said. “I imagine it grows rather warm with the oven.”
“Yes.” She studied her tea. “Did you add sugar?”
“Of course. That’s how you take it.”
“Of course.”
He remembered how she took her tea. She couldn’t have said how he took his.
“Through that outer door, I spotted Mr. Wilson.”
Pierce raised his tea cup in the direction of the elderly lady, coughing quietly near the hearth. “Mrs. Penter’s nephew?”
“The same. I couldn’t think what he would be doing in the yard. Perhaps it is the fastest way to reach the inn, and he is coming to visit his aunt.”
He looked pointedly at the elderly woman, who still sat alone. “Or perhaps not. Well done, Eliza.”
She felt that infusion of warmth again. She couldn’t have said why his praise would matter so much to her, but it did. She was saved from a reply when the coachman called for his passengers to return, and the small group bustled back out into the cold.
“Now we wait,” she said.
He sat back, settling in.
She looked up. The sad mistletoe was still above them. Was it her imagination or did it look less droopy? She studied the pattern on her tea cup and the scars on the table. She lifted her tea and ended up knocking the spoon onto the floor with a loud clatter. She retrieved it, bumping her shoulder on the table, almost upsetting it. Pierce righted the table and then grasped her shoulder. “Before you do any further damage, perhaps we might go for a walk.”
“Excellent idea.” She’d thought she would have to dump tea in his lap before he fastened on that idea. She fetched her pelisse and met him outside. He offered his arm, and they walked along the road, newly marked by the coach’s wheels. “How I wish we had a horse,” she mused aloud.
“So we could follow the coach more closely?” Pierce dropped his scarf about her shoulders. It smelled of bergamot and straw.
“We’d scare off any possible attempt. Better to lie in wait for the man.”
“But where?” She tried not to inhale the scent of him on the scarf, tried not to bask in the warmth it still held from his body.
“I’m certain were we to walk the roads, we would find any number of sites conducive to ambush. The real test would be waiting out in the cold and hoping the man showed himself.”
Eliza shivered at the thought. How did the agents for the Barbican do this sort of thing day in and day out? They endured worse conditions than the Nottinghamshire countryside in winter to conduct surveillance on targets. And here she was balking at a little cold air; although, truth be told, the wind had a bite to it this morning. It stung her cheeks and made her ears ring.
The brisk country air made her feel invigorated. It smelled cleaner here than in London. There, she had to become used to the scent of unwashed bodies, coal fires, and refuse in the streets. Here there was the scent of snow on the air, pine trees, and sweet wood smoke curling from chimneys.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Pierce asked.
Was it cowardly to bury her face in his scarf again?
“You’re not blushing, are you?”
That comment brought her head up quickly. “Not at all. I’m not ashamed.”
“Then what do you feel?” His breath curled out and hung in the cold air between them. “Did you like it?”
“You know I did.” She glanced down at her sturdy brown boots, dark against the white snow. Bending, she scooped up a handful, packed it tightly, arranging a piece of ice on the outer rim.
“Good.”
She could hear the smile in his voice, and she loosed her missile on a hapless tree.
“I do have a question.”
He eyed her warily, looking from the tree back to her.
She scooped another ball of snow into her hands and packed it tightly. It would hurt more on impact that way.
“Why?” She squeezed the cold snow.
“I don’t follow.”
“Why did you...do what you did? You didn’t even take any pleasure for yourself.”
“Of course not. It was for you.”
She flung the snowball like a catapult might and smiled to herself when he jumped. “Why?”
“I told you,” he said, eyeing the tree she’d hit twice. “I want another chance.”
“So you’re...you’re wooing me?” She gathered more snow in her hand, but he caught her wrist.
“Yes. In a manner of speaking. I told you. I want you for my wife.”
“And I told you—”
A shot rang out in the distance. Pierce grabbed her arm. “The Sheriff!” she said, shaking him off and breaking into a run.
“Eliza, be careful!” He was right behind her.
She ran in the direction the coach had taken, the same direction as the sound of the shot. They couldn’t possibly reach the coach before the highwayman was away, but she would try.
Slowly, Pierce overtook her. That was the advantage of long legs and the absence of cumbersome skirts. She would have hated him for making allowances for her, so she merely pushed herself harder. She would never match him stride for stride, but she managed to keep up with him for a half-mile or more. Finally, she could not catch her breath, and she had to slow
