Free The Road to Gretna by Carola Dunn

the many travellers who had fed at the hospitable board.
    As she entered, Lord Kilmore rose from a wooden settle by the empty grate and said, “Miss Bryant, the good doctor agrees with me that a little gentle exercise before dining is beneficial to the digestion. We have been hoping you would come down in time to take a turn with us, if you care to?”
    “That will be delightful.” She was glad after all that she had brought no indoor slippers and so was still wearing her half-boots. Her gown was hardly suitable, but with Henrietta’s shawl thrown over her shoulders it would do. “A historical tour of Grantham, I trust?”
    “But naturally, ma’am.” The twinkle in his dark eyes acknowledged her teasing.
    “A historical tour?” Angus sounded dubious. “We have no time for more than a brief stroll.”
    “I shan’t make you study every stone in the church,” Jason promised mockingly, “though it has some interesting features.”
    “Lord Kilmore knows the most fascinating anecdotes,” Penny hastened to say. Taking Angus’s arm, she urged him out of the room.
    “Will not Miss White wish to come?” he asked, holding back.
    “Miss White vows she has scarce enough time to change her gown before the dinner hour. And we will not have enough time for a little gentle exercise if we don’t go right now."
    They stepped out of the inn under the lime tree, from which came the drowsy humming of bees, and turned down the hill. Ahead towered the great spire of St. Wulfram’s.
    “What interesting features has the church?” Angus enquired without enthusiasm.
    “The architectural beauties are many, but perhaps the most unusual sight is the sixteenth-century library of chained books.”
    “In medieval times the bibles in churches were chained, were they not?” Penny put in.
    “Yes, they were very valuable as they had to be copied by hand. I know two or three noble bibliophiles who might be tempted by St. Wulfram’s collection even today, for all the books are at least two hundred years old. We’ll not have time to study them this evening, alas. He indicated a narrow back street. “Let us stroll as far as the market-place.”
    “How old is the Angel Inn?” she asked as they reached the imposing building. “It looks ancient.”
    “The gatehouse is from the fifteenth century, but the hostelry was founded much earlier. There is a room known as the King’s Chamber where King John held court in 1213, and in 1480 or thereabouts Richard III signed the Duke of Buckingham’s death warrant.”
    “You see,” Penny said, turning to Angus. “I told you he knows everything of interest.”
    Angus responded with a sceptical grunt. He brightened, however, on learning that another nearby inn, the George, had been Sir Isaac Newton’s home; and the sixteenth-century stone water conduit inspired him to deliver a lecture on sanitation and public health. Penny listened conscientiously. As a doctor’s wife she ought to be conversant with the subject. It was a pity that she found the doings of long-dead kings so much more engrossing.
    When they returned in the dusk to the Beehive, two small boys were standing underneath the lime tree gazing up into its branches.
    “Betcha a taw it does,” said one as they passed.
    Glancing up, Penny reached out to tug Jason’s sleeve. “My lord,” she said demurely, “pray look up into the tree.”
    There was Lily, batting playfully at an angry bee.
    “I don’t believe it,” moaned his lordship. “This is the second ...third...fourth time today.”
    “Fourth?” queried Penny.
    “Have you forgot the garden pond at Huntingdon? I have not, but then you were not present when I had to buy a towel from the innkeeper to wrap the little horror in. I swear this time it can take care of itself.”
    “Miss White will be sorely dis—” Angus was interrupted by a yowl that would have done credit to a full-grown tom-cat. Lily hurtled down from the tree and clawed her way up his trousers. An