Free The Dark Lady by Máire Claremont Page B

carry you just a little.”
    She nodded from the shadowy interior, then inched forward. Her face came out into the morning light and she blinked repeatedly. Who knew how long it had been since she’d stood in sunlight, despite Mrs. Palmer’s claims of “exercise.”
    Quickly, he lifted her and carried her to the cobbles. From there it was but a few steps into the inn. The building was quiet as they walked in through the door and into the wide, sparsely decorated common room.
    A stout man of about fifty, his gray hair wild and curly, stood by the fire. His white apron was pressed and folded to perfection over a light brown waistcoat. “Good morrow,” he said brightly.
    Ian held Eva’s hand reassuringly in his. “I require a room for myself and my wife.”
    The man’s eyes swung to Eva and his brows twitched for a moment at her odd attire. Confusion shaped his face into a surface of fatty creases until he smiled knowingly. “Certainly.”
    “Of the best you have,” Ian clarified. It was strange to be at home, among the English, who while respectful had not been coerced into subservience. “I want a good, clean room,” he emphasized.
    Eva had slept in enough vermin-infested beds for a lifetime.
    “Of course, sir,” the man said genially.
    “And I’d like a bath,” Eva added.
    “Whatever you require, ma’am.”
    “And food. A great deal of it, I should think.” Ian eyed Eva’s frail frame. She needed to eat. In fact, if she ate for two days straight it would only be a beginning to setting a healthy amount of flesh to her body.
    “Me wife will send up a breakfast. Now just follow along.” He hefted his bulk out into the hall and up a set of narrow, creaking old oak stairs.
    Ian followed, keeping Eva close behind. She was quiet as they meandered down a whitewashed passageway. At the end of the hall, the man opened a black Tudor-style door. “Our best room for you.”
    Ian guided Eva inside. Well, it wasn’t Carridan Hall or even his own estate, Blythely Castle, which he hadn’t seen since just before he’d left for India. Even so, it was quaint and thoroughly English. Muslin curtains lined the one window and the walls had been painted a cheerful buttercream. A four-poster stood at one end, the empty fireplace exactly to the opposite. A round table for two had been placed in the center. “It will do.”
    The man backed out and shut the door.
    The latch thunked shut, leaving them in solitude.
    Eva slipped the deep ruby scarf from her head. In the faint light, the wild blue of her eyes glowed and she lifted a single black brow. “Your wife?”
    Ian approached her slowly, still unsure how she would react to his presence after her fear in the carriage. Lifting a hand, he watched her face for any sign of distress, then slipped the scarf from her hand. He looked down at her, a good foot difference in their heights. “Would you have preferred I called you my prisoner?” he teased.
    A small smile curved her colorless lips. “That does sound overly dramatic.”
    He tossed the scarf in a flutter of wool to the bed. “I’m sure Mrs. Radcliffe has written something to this effect.”
    The smile dimmed from Eva’s face. “I haven’t read a novel in . . .”
    He placed a finger to her lips. “There are many things you haven’t done. There are many things I haven’t done since I took my commission.” To his astonishment, he could feel nothing but the softness of her mouth beneath his touch and a vibration of heat slid along his skin. Her eyes, dark and lonely, called to him for assurance. “We shall learn to do them together.”
    Frozen, she parted her lips ever so slightly beneath his finger, forming a tentative O of astonishment.
    Before he could think, he lowered his mouth to her forehead in the chastest of kisses, as he had once done when she’d fallen, bruising her knees or cutting her palms. It was the barest touch and the most innocent, but he no longer felt innocent.
    As if she needed to feel