The Heiress of Winterwood - By Sarah Ladd Page 0,82
“Until my aunt and uncle depart for London.”
“When will that be?”
She looked down at the ground. “Their plans were to leave after I wed, but now, with the changes, I—”
She didn’t need to finish her sentence. He understood her meaning.
He looked down at Amelia, and something inside him began to soften. He quickly checked himself. Romantic whims only led to weakness and heartache, and he could afford neither at this time. But the blond tendrils blowing in the wind, the pink curve of her lips, and the determination in her expression all contributed to his growing desire to keep her close.
It wasn’t just that she was hard to refuse, though she was. The reality was that someone was willing to do almost anything for money—even kidnap a baby—and that person could easily be in this house. Right now everyone was a suspect: George Barrett, Edward Littleton, even his own brother. With that in mind, how could he possibly leave Amelia here alone?
Blast it all. What other choice did he have?
Amelia awoke to the sounds of shouts outside the carriage. The vehicle jerked and started to slow, but she didn’t open her eyes until the carriage stopped and its wheels settled in the ruts. Amelia sat up, straightened, and rubbed her hand over her face. She reached over to Jane and shook her arm. “Jane, Jane, wake up. We’ve arrived.”
After indulging in a yawn and a catlike stretch, Amelia tightened the traveling blanket around her shoulders and leaned to look out the window. A two-story, U-shaped building stretched to the night sky. Freestanding torches flanked the main entrance, and cheery lights flickered in the numerous windows, spilling their yellow glow onto the freshly fallen snow.
She felt Jane lean over her shoulder. “Is this where we are staying, or are we just changing the horses?”
“It’s too dark to go any farther. Not a bit of moonlight.” Amelia squinted to read the words carved into an aged, rectangular sign. “Eagledale Inn.”
The outlines of horses and men passed in front of her view, painting shadows against sides of the building. Muted music and laughter floated on the night air. The sound seemed to be coming from outside and to the left. She craned her neck to see if she could find the source, but none was visible.
The carriage door unlatched and swung open, and an icy blast swirled through the opening. After hours in the jerky carriage, the wind’s wintry bite invigorated her. A ripple of excitement tickled her stomach. The inn marked the halfway mark on their journey to Liverpool. They were that much closer to Lucy.
Captain Sterling removed his hat to duck inside the coach. He had decided to ride his horse alongside the carriage. When his hand rested on hers, Amelia jumped.
He clasped her fingers. “I’m going to go check on rooms. Don’t move or talk to anyone. The coachmen will stay with you.” Captain Sterling closed the door behind him, and she heard the click of the latch. She watched his form turn to a silhouette against the window light and then disappear through the door.
Amelia leaned back against the seat. Her eyes burned from crying, her muscles ached from several hours of jerky travel, and her body cried out for sleep. She thought of Lucy and Mrs. Dunne. Were they cold? Hungry? Uncomfortable? The very thought made her stomach turn. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the tufted brocade. Now not only was Lucy heaven knows where, but she herself was hours away from home.
Jane and Amelia sat in silence until Captain Sterling opened the carriage door again.
“The inn is pretty full, but I was able to get us two rooms. You ladies will share one on the second floor. One of the coachmen is already taking your things up. Come, I’ll escort you.”
He extended his arm, and Amelia took it. Her legs were unsteady and stiff after hours of sleep and travel, and she almost stumbled on the narrow carriage steps. With her free hand she looped her cape hood over her head and then clung to his arm with both hands. The air carried pungent scents of horses, manure, and straw, causing her nose to wrinkle. The icy snow crunched under her half boots as they walked to the door. For once she was grateful that her feet were practically frozen; otherwise she might protest the pain of the sharp gravel beneath her thin soles.