In the meantime, he slept alone in the cold stable on the uncomfortable cot. The evening of the second night with no sign of the Sheriff, a storm blew in, and at dinner, Pierce could hear the wind battering the walls of the inn and see the swirl of snow through the windows. Most of the locals had stayed at home, not wanting to brave the weather, and it was only Eliza, Langrick, and himself at dinner. Mrs. Penter and Mr. Goodman had taken dinner in their rooms.
When Eliza retired to her room and Langrick braved the storm to return to his home, Pierce stayed in his seat, turning his mug of Wattles famous ale this way and that. He had no desire to return to the stable. Fiend seize the perpetually full inn. Pierce was weary of spending every night shivering. Better to stay at the inn for as long as Wattles would allow it. Not because he was closer to Eliza here. Not because he could imagine her tucked snugly into her small bed, her pink toes curled under her. Not that he wished, more than anything, he was tucked around her.
Wattles had been wiping the table beside his for about five minutes. Now the innkeeper was watching him. Pierce drank from his ale.
“I fear I’m keeping you from your bed. I’ll retire.”
“No rush,” Wattles said good-naturedly. He righted a beeswax candle and retied the green velvet ribbon. “You look as though you have a weight on your shoulders.” He gave the table one last swipe with the rag then sat opposite Pierce. Pierce clutched the mug, but unless he was willing to subject himself to the cold, he would have to tolerate the man’s presence. It wasn’t such a hardship. He hadn’t spoken to anyone, other than to find out information relating to the Sheriff, in days.
“Oh, this and that,” Pierce said non-committally.
“Is Miss Qwillen this or that?”
Pierce’s chin jerked up, but Wattles merely spread his hands and smiled. “When you are an innkeeper as long as I’ve been, you become an observer of sorts. That’s the way to anticipate guests’ needs. I can see you and the lady are friendly.” He waggled his brows. “More than friendly, perhaps.”
“I assure you nothing untoward—”
Wattles waved a hand. “I’m not suggesting or accusing, I’m just saying you look like a man whose heart has been broken. Does she love another?”
Pierce thought about protesting that he had no idea what the innkeeper spoke of, but why not tell the man? It wasn’t as though Pierce had anything to lose. “Actually,” he said, staring at his ale, “I think she loves me.”
Wattles clapped him on the shoulder, and Pierce almost fell off his bench. “That’s good news!” Wattles exclaimed.
“One would think so, but when I asked her to marry me, she said no.”
“Ah.”
Ah? What did ah mean? “Is that all you’re going to say?”
Wattles lifted the towel again, gave it a friendly twist. “The problem seems obvious enough to me.”
“Oh, does it? Then please enlighten me.”
Wattles pointed the rag at him. “You’re the problem. You’ve done something to put her off.”
“I haven’t! I’ve done all I could to woo her.”
Wattles gave him a dubious look. “Not everything, I wager. What is it she wants?”
Pierce slumped. He shouldn’t slump. It was bad posture, but it was better than the alternative, which was sliding under the table and hiding. “She wants me to love her,” he muttered. He rather hoped Wattles hadn’t heard him.
The man nodded and said, “Ah” again. If he said it a third time, Pierce would strangle him. The innkeeper must have seen Pierce’s annoyance, because he sat forward.
“The solution seems simple enough to me. Tell her you love her.”
Pierce swallowed the remainder of his ale, the brew bitter as it went down. “Don’t you think I would if I could?”
Wattles crossed his arms over his expansive girth, the towel dangling at his side. “What’s holding you back?”
“I don’t know that I do love her, obviously,” Pierce said. “I don’t want to prevaricate.”
Wattles shook the towel. “You London types are all the same. You think too much. It’s obvious you love the girl. Tell her and marry her.”
“How?” Pierce demanded. “How is it obvious?”
“Look at you.” Wattles slapped the rag on the table.
Pierce flinched and looked down at himself. His coat and cravat were still neat and straight. He wasn’t foxed, and he didn’t think his hair was tousled.
Wattles caressed his towel and chuckled. “I mean, your face is so long, you might be a hound. You’re sitting here all alone, dreading going to your bed.”
“That might be because I have no bed—”
“You’re the very picture of a heartsick man.” Wattles ignored his mention of the lack of a bed. “All alone under the mistletoe.” He glanced at the decaying foliage hanging above them.
It occurred to Pierce that Wattles was married. “Do you love your wife?” he asked.
“Of course. Loved her when we married six and twenty years ago, and I love her now.” The towel received another caress. “How could a man not fall in love with a woman as pretty as my Mrs. Wattles?”
“How did you know you loved her?”
“Ah.”
Pierce was about to reach across the table and grab Wattles’s neck, but the innkeeper continued, “That’s an easy one. But you’re not asking because you care about my romance with Mrs. Wattles. You want to know the signs for yourself.”
“I suppose.”
“Very well, then ask yourself this. Do you think about her all the time?”
Pierce thought about her quite a lot.
“Are you willing to sacrifice for her? By that I mean, is her happiness more important than yours?”
He thought of the nights he’d seduced her, forgoing his own pleasure for hers. On the other hand, she was against him going to Switzerland. Could he give that up for her? He looked around the empty room and saw the rest of his life. Yes,
