Free Winter Wonderland by Elizabeth; Mansfield Page B

conclude we’re wed?”
    â€œYou ain’t speakin’ to one another. ’Tis on’y married folk who disregard one another that way.”
    â€œPerhaps all married people disregard one another,” Barnaby pointed out dryly, “but not all people who disregard one another are married.”
    The logic eluded the innkeeper’s wife. “I ain’t followin’ you, sir,” she said, confused.
    Miranda, who’d been listening, gave a small laugh. “What the gentleman means, Mrs. Hanlon,” she explained, looking up from the fire, “is that disregarding one another is not restricted to married people. It’s the same as saying that all fish swim, but not everyone who swims is a fish.”
    â€œExactly!” Barnaby smiled across at her, pleased to be so well understood. “Or one could say that all artists draw, but not everyone who draws is an artist.”
    â€œOr …” Miranda’s eyes brightened at what began to seem like a game. “All tailors sew, but not everyone who sews is a tailor.”
    Barnaby actually chuckled. “All doctors bleed you, but not everyone who bleeds you is a doctor.”
    â€œThat’s a good one,” Miranda said appreciatively. “Let me think. Ah, yes. All murderers lie, but not everyone who lies is a murderer.”
    Mrs. Hanlon blinked in sudden understanding. “Oh, I see now. All candles burn, but not everythin’ that burns is a candle.”
    â€œYes, that’s it!” Barnaby threw the woman a warm grin.
    â€œGood for you,” Miranda applauded. Warmed in body by the fire and in mood by the game, she wanted the camaraderie to continue. “All young girls flirt,” she offered, “but not all flirts are young girls.”
    It was an unfortunate choice, for it suddenly reminded Barnaby of something he’d momentarily forgotten: who she was. His smile faded and he turned away. “That’s enough,” he said sourly. “The point’s been made.”
    Miranda’s eyebrows rose. The gentleman’s abrupt change of tone was a surprise. What had she said to offend?
    Mrs. Hanlon looked from one to the other curiously. “Are ye sure ye ain’t married?”
    â€œNo, of course not,” Miranda said, her mood destroyed.
    â€œHeaven forbid!” Barnaby muttered.
    Mrs. Hanlon could hardly believe them. “Well, ye surely fooled me. I ain’t never yet seen a pair look more wedded than you.” She glared at them in sudden disapproval. “All I can say is ye’d better be wed, for I ’ave on’y one bedroom upstairs. If ye can’t share it, one of ye’ll ’ave to spend the night down ’ere sleepin’ on a bench.”
    Barnaby winced. “And we all know who that will be,” he said in glum surrender to his fate.
    Thus it was that, two hours later, he found himself uncomfortably laid out upon a narrow bench in a deserted taproom under a shabby comforter, his legs hanging over one carved armrest and his head propped on the other. Above him, snug under the eaves, Miss-Miranda-Pardew-that-was was contentedly ensconced in a featherbed, warm, cozy, and probably having happy dreams of all the men she’d destroyed in the past. Of all the irritations Barnaby had suffered this day, the fact that she was luxuriously, voluptuously asleep right over his head was by far the most irritating.
    He tried in vain to find a position of comfort for his weary bones, but even the blanket folded in four thicknesses under him could not soften the rigidity of the hard oak bench. “It’s perfect,” he muttered to himself as he shifted awkwardly onto his side only to discover that there was no place for his damnably long legs. “Quite perfect. A perfect ending to this absolutely perfect day.” He’d started out this morning with an instinctive conviction that he should never have left home. How right he’d