The Problem with Seduction - By Emma Locke Page 0,22
front rooms. Elizabeth balanced Oliver on her hip, unwilling to have her son out of her arms for even a moment.
“That’s a handsome lad you have there,” the innkeeper’s wife said as she drew two of the four chairs away from the table. She waggled her fingers in Oliver’s smiling face as she passed. “Would you like some warm milk and bread for him?”
Elizabeth tried not to sound bitter when she answered, “Yes, thank you.” Her milk had dried up in the month she’d been separated from her son. Another offense she would never forgive Nicholas.
After the woman left, Mrs. Dalton removed her dusty bonnet and went to a washbasin set in the corner. “Are you sure we won’t stay the night, madam?” She sounded hopeful.
Elizabeth did feel conscience-stricken for dragging her staff posthaste across the countryside, but she shook her head. “My father thinks we’ve returned to London. I want to be far from here before he realizes that’s not true.” She had told her nurse they were headed for Ellesmere. She hadn’t yet explained that they weren’t coming back. “Will you stay with me?” she asked, even though it wasn’t a fair question.
Mrs. Dalton had lost her husband in the war. She was a pretty young thing with a shock of brown hair and a rosy complexion. She was too much a child herself for the sadness in her eyes. “Of course. I adore Oliver.”
Elizabeth sat at the table and positioned Oliver on her lap in the crook of her arm, preparing to feed him when the innkeeper’s wife returned. “Would you stay with me if I never came back to England?” She looked up to check the young woman’s reaction.
Mrs. Dalton’s eyes widened slightly. “Do you have a place in mind?”
What if she decided not to come after all? Elizabeth couldn’t risk a witness who knew her destination. “Not as yet,” she began, but she was interrupted by the arrival of the innkeeper and his wife toting mugs of fresh ale and plates of food.
The older woman set a loaf of bread onto the table. “The milk is on the tray, dearie. Now, is there anything else I can fetch?”
“No, thank you,” Elizabeth replied.
“In that case, your horses will be fresh when you’re ready.” With that, the couple backed out of the room.
The aroma of beef stew and crusty bread made Elizabeth’s mouth water. She hadn’t eaten a thing since the previous afternoon, as she’d fled the drawing room before they’d been called into dinner.
Her lips twitched with a touch of sad humor. So much for making amends.
She and Mrs. Dalton took turns dipping the bread into the milk and offering it to Oliver. When he finally sucked in his lower lip and refused to eat any more, Elizabeth proceeded to demolish the stew and the remainder of her half of the loaf. Mrs. Dalton did the same.
“Would you like to take a turn around the yard before we climb back into the carriage?” Elizabeth invited the nursemaid as she rose and shook out her skirts with one hand. The other held Oliver firmly on her hip.
Mrs. Dalton also stood and smoothed her traveling dress. “Yes, please. Let me fetch my bonnet—”
The door burst open.
Nicholas entered.
Elizabeth gasped. Mrs. Dalton squeaked.
The innkeeper’s wife barged into the room behind him with her red-faced husband at her heels. “Sir, I told you not to come in here—”
Nicholas took three steps into the room. His eyes met Elizabeth’s. Then they locked on Oliver. “I’m told a man can do whatever he wants, when it comes to fetching a runaway wife.”
Chapter Six
“I AM NOT YOUR WIFE!” Elizabeth darted her eyes toward her nursemaid for help, but Mrs. Dalton only gaped at Nicholas in horror.
“Elizabeth,” Nicholas said, taking three more strides toward her, “give me my son.”
“He’s not yours!” She half-turned from Nicholas, shielding Oliver with her body. “Leave us alone!”
“Er…” The innkeeper’s head swiveled from her to Nicholas and back. “The rules posted in the common area specifically disallow disputes of a domestic nature.”
“Which room is ours?” Nicholas barked over his shoulder. “We’ll take our dispute there.”
“She don’t have a room—” the innkeeper started, but his wife interrupted, “Number five.”
“No!” Elizabeth cried, but no one was listening. The innkeeper’s wife rifled through the keys at her belt and turned up a long hunk of metal that she handed to Nicholas. “Ten shillings.”
Nicholas’s angry eyes never left Elizabeth. Long fingers probed the pocket in his coat. He flipped a guinea at the woman.