Free The Song of the Siren by Philippa Carr Page B

past me and went downstairs. I heard him calling for the innkeeper.
    I stood where I was, listening.
    “You rogue. What do you mean by this? Did I or did I not pay you for the use of your rooms this night and was it not on the understanding that I and my party were not to be disturbed?”
    “My lord ... my lord ... the lady has only this small room. It could be of no use to you. That was why I did not mention it. The lady comes frequently. I could not turn her away, my lord.”
    “Did I not tell you that I have a very sick man up there?”
    “My lord ... the lady understands. She will be very quiet.”
    “I have expressly commanded . . .”
    I went downstairs and swept past them, for they were standing at the foot of the stairs.
    I said: “Your sick friend will be more disturbed by all the noise that you are making than he possibly can by my presence on that floor.”
    Then I went into the dining room.
    I was aware of him looking after me. He turned and went back upstairs.
    The innkeeper’s wife was in the dining room. She was clearly disturbed by all the fuss that was going on and tried to pretend that she was not.
    The sucking pig would be served at once, she told me, and I said I was ready for it. She brought it herself. It was succulent and appetising and there was cold venison pie with a mulled wine to wash it down with. This was followed by apples and pears and biscuits flavoured with tansy and some herbs which I could not recognise.
    It was when I was eating the biscuits that the man entered the dining room.
    He came to my table and said: “I wish to apologise for my behaviour.”
    I inclined my head to imply that an apology was needed.
    “I was so anxious about my friend.”
    “I gathered that,” I answered.
    “He is a very sick man and is so easily disturbed.”
    “I promise I shall not disturb him.”
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    I had an opportunity now to look at his face. It was an interesting one. He was deeply bronzed, and his peruke was dark but I imagined beneath it his hair would be fair; his eyes were light brown, almost golden, and he had strongly marked dark brows.
    It was a strong face-a deep cleft in the chin and full lips-sensuous lips, I decided, which could be cruel; there was a merriment in his eyes which contrasted with the mouth. His was a disturbing personality; or perhaps, as Beau had hinted, I enjoyed the company of the opposite sex in what he had called a normal, healthy way.
    I wished I could stop remembering what Beau had said and cornparing everyone with him. My interest in this man was because there was something about him which reminded me of Beau.
    “May I sit down?” he said.
    “This is the general dining room, I believe. And I am about to go.”
    “You understand my discomfiture when I discovered that others were close by my sick friend.”
    “Others? You mean when you discovered I was.”
    He leaned his elbows on the table and studied me intently. I saw the admiration in his eyes and I had to admit that I was gratified.
    “You are a very beautiful young lady,” he said. “I am surprised that you are allowed to travel alone.”
    “This is hardly to the point,” I said coldly, then feeling it might be unwise to let him think I was alone added: “I am not travelling alone. I have grooms with me.
    They, alas, have had to find accommodation elsewhere. I make this journey frequently, but this is the first time something unfortunate like this has happened.”
    “Please do not think of it as unfortunate. I was angry, I admit. Now I rejoice that I have been given this opportunity to make your acquaintance. May I know your name?”
    I hesitated. I could understand his annoyance and he was clearly a quick-tempered man. He was doing his best to apologise now and I did not want to appear ungracious.
    “It is Carlotta Main. What is yours?”
    I saw that he was surprised. He repeated: “Carlotta Main. You belong to the Eversleigh family.”
    “You know my family?”
    “I know of them. Lord