Читать книгу Convenient Christmas Brides: The Captain’s Christmas Journey / The Viscount’s Yuletide Betrothal / One Night Under the Mistletoe - Louise Allen - Страница 21

Chapter Twelve

I daren’t laugh, Verity thought. She wanted to in the worst way. She had not a single doubt that Captain Everard would treat her with the greatest respect, no matter what others imagined would be happening behind that door, but she couldn’t help smiling, which only encouraged the innkeeper.

‘See there, Captain? Mrs Everard is smiling!’

Soon everyone was at least grinning, except for the captain, who had a stricken look on his face, as if wondering how what had begun as a simple plan had turned into this.

The innkeeper didn’t know when to stop, apparently. ‘Cheer up, Captain Everard,’ he said. ‘I imagine it has been a long time since you have been ashore, to say the least.’

‘You cannot imagine how long it has been,’ the captain said. ‘I scarcely can.’

Verity had to give the captain his due. He took a deep breath and crooked out his arm. ‘Come, my dear.’

‘Shall I send my wife upstairs directly with a dinner menu?’ the keep asked.

‘Please do,’ the Captain replied. ‘We would like to eat at six.’

The innkeeper bowed. Verity let Joe lead her out of the lobby, but not before she heard one of the wags from the public room make some not-so-silent comment about Captain Ever-hard. The captain sighed and tightened his grip on her arm.

I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, she thought, even as she wanted to sink into the floor.

He was utterly silent on the stairs and down the hall to the sole remaining empty room in the inn. She had to give him credit for a steady hand with the key in the lock. A glance at his face showed her a man with high colour on his face and grim, tight lips.

He opened the door, ushered her inside and stood there, looking as uncertain as the most callow youth to be found anywhere civilised society existed.

‘Captain Everard, you probably thought it would be a simple matter to escort me to Norfolk, didn’t you?’ Verity said as she removed her bonnet, fluffed her hair and looked around.

The Noah’s Ark was true to the sign creaking in the wind outside: no more than two at a time would fit in this room. The bed occupied most of the space, with a begrudging amount of room left over for a small table, two chairs and a fireplace. She opened the door on a tiny closet. A washbasin and stand filled the rest of the room. There wasn’t even room for a three-legged dog to turn around and lie down.

And there stood Captain Everard, looking positively stricken. Now what? Verity thought. As she stood there, bonnet in hand, all she wanted to do was laugh.

She sat down carefully on the bed, then leaped up when it squeaked. It more than squeaked; it seemed to shriek, as though every wooden peg was protesting years of abuse ranging from overweight occupants to amorous lovers.

She didn’t want to look at Captain Everard, but the room was too small to ignore a fairly tall, sturdy fellow wincing at the sound and probably wondering how far it would carry. She couldn’t help herself; she started to laugh.

She sat down in what she hoped was a quieter chair, leaned forward to let her forehead touch the table and gave herself over to mirth. She laughed as quietly as she could, too old at nearly thirty to care what anyone thought.

She suddenly heard a massive squeak from the bed and turned around to see Captain Everard lying there, his legs hanging over the edge, laughing along with her. He finally pressed his hand to his stomach and declared, ‘Oh, stop! One of us has to stop or neither of us will.’

It took a moment. Every time she thought of the humour of the situation, Verity laughed a little longer. At last her good humour dwindled down to a hiccup, which set off the Captain again, for some reason. When he was finally silent, Verity looked at him lying there relaxed and felt her heart grow oddly tender.

She knew next to nothing about Captain Everard’s life, except that it had to be an exceptionally difficult one, with constant war and deprivation. Impulsively she reached out and touched his leg, which she instantly regretted. What a forward thing to do.

He only opened his eyes and smiled. ‘This is nice,’ was all he said.

‘We should tell amazing lies more often, I suppose you will say,’ she teased.

‘I’m no liar and neither are you.’ He started to sit up, then rethought the matter. ‘I suppose I am fair amazed how people assume this or that. Everyone assumes we are married. Tell me, Miss Newsome, do we look married?’

His question set her off again and she laughed. ‘We rather do,’ she said when she could speak. ‘Look at you, flopped there!’

‘No, no, I mean before now,’ he said. ‘I suppose we are of roughly the same age and there we were on the mail coach, sleeping like puppies in a pile.’

‘I suppose,’ she agreed, deciding to stop fretting over their situation. They would be in Norfolk tomorrow and he would have finished his obligation to his late second lieutenant.

She noticed a slip of paper under the door and picked it up. ‘Here we have the dinner bill of fare,’ she told the Captain, whose eyes were closed now.

Heavens, whoever put this here must have heard a lot of laughter, she thought, which made her smile instead of worry what anyone thought. We are only one night in Chittering.

‘Read it aloud,’ he said, without opening his eyes. ‘If anything contains beets, that is an automatic nay from me.’

‘They’re good for you,’ she said, which earned her one open eye and a sour expression. She read the bill of fare. They debated a moment over shepherd’s pie or roast beef and decided on the pie, with barley-broth soup first and custard last.

His eyes closed. In a moment he was snoring softly, which touched Verity’s heart; he evidently felt comfortable. His arms were stretched out, his hands open. She saw no tension in him.

Feeling shy but hungry, Verity covered him with a light blanket and went downstairs with the menu. She reminded herself that she had always been forthright and no-nonsense and nothing had changed. Still, she had to steel herself to approach the innkeeper and hand him the menu.

‘We would like these items,’ she said.

‘At six o’clock?’ he asked, smiling at her, which told her all she wanted to know about who had put the menu under the door and heard their laughter.

‘Yes, please,’ she replied, ready to be formal, but governed by an imp of her own. ‘You’re probably wondering what was so funny.’

‘Not at all, Mrs Everard,’ he told her and she saw something wistful in his eyes now. ‘War is war. Sometimes you need to laugh.’

His artless comment brought tears to her eyes, but they weren’t tears of sorrow, for a change. She felt a kinship she had not anticipated and good will, which reminded her forcefully of the season, which sorrow had dismissed as too much to manage this Christmas.

Happy Christmas to me, she thought, and Happy Christmas to Captain Everard.