“I accept,” he said with alacrity. Ignoring the disappointment in her face, he reached for her valise. “It is this way. Shall we?”
Chapter Two
Delilah Chambers tightened her hand on the hilt of her dagger.
Keenly aware of the stranger’s presence at her side, she fought to regulate her breathing. She was fidgety. Her muscles twitched, still poised for the fight, as though unaware that the danger had passed. At least for now.
Ala’ana. She cursed silently to herself. Damnation. The last place she cared to be was trapped overnight at an inn full of hostile men. If only her blasted carriage hadn’t thrown a wheel. She and her man, Hashem, had ridden three hours in the storm to reach this miserable place. She’d hoped to at least reach Coventry, a largish town where they could seek decent accommodation without drawing undue attention. But the road proved impassible.
They had no choice now but to wait until morning to continue their journey to Lambert Hall. The Tudor-style manor had once been her home, but the estate now belonged to Edgar, her stepson, a man who detested her. He’d never forgiven Leela for marrying his father.
She would happily steer clear of both Edgar and Lambert Hall if it were not for Tori. Edgar’s younger sister had implored Leela to attend the house party at the family estate in Warwickshire. Tenderness suffused Leela at the thought of seeing her stepdaughter again after these two years apart.
She and the motherless nine-year-old girl bonded the moment Leela’s late husband, Douglas, had brought his seventeen-year-old bride home to Lambert Hall. Tori’s mother, Douglas’s first wife, died giving birth to the girl. Nineteen-year-old Edgar hadn’t welcomed a stepmother two years his junior. From the start, they bickered like rival siblings—minus any familial affection. The moment Edgar inherited his father’s title and lands, he made it clear that Leela was no longer welcome at Lambert Hall.
“Ah, here we are.” Coming to a stop, Townsend pushed the door open and stood aside to allow her to enter first. “After you.”
Passing directly in front of him, Leela became aware of the man’s physicality for the first time. Now that the immediate peril had passed, she noticed how powerfully built he was. Not brawny exactly, but rather solid, and he stood several inches taller than her. Leela was not a petite woman and often stood eye to eye with men. Not so with this man. His outsize presence crowded her.
Her gaze traveled over his weathered buckskins. They were close-fitting, showcasing muscular thighs that required no padding to properly fill them out. The buckskins tucked into muddy, scuffed boots.
The private parlor was less dreary than she’d anticipated, and relatively clean considering their surroundings. The room was sparsely furnished with a lumpy-looking sofa in faded velvet, a scarred chest of drawers and a table with four ladder-back chairs. The scent of the wood burning in the hearth masked a slightly musty odor. Torrents of rain slammed against the window. The space was a welcome reprieve from the taproom.
Leela went straight to the fire. Trepidation crackled throughout her body like tiny icy fireworks going off. Now that the harrowing encounter in the taproom was over, she began to shiver. Her thin dress was soaked through. It felt like the rain’s chill had permeated every cell in her body.
Townsend set down her worn bag. “I shall go and see about ordering us some supper.” The warm deep tones of his voice soothed her nerves like a balm. “There is a latch on the door. Perhaps you would care to use it until my return.”
She secured the door behind him before stripping out of her sodden clothes. To her relief, a porcelain basin atop the chest of drawers contained clean water. Goose bumps rose on her skin as she quickly cleaned and dried her body before changing into a respectable English muslin dress, white with pale stripes, and modest with its long sleeves. But with nothing dry to wear underneath, the cold still seemed embedded in her bones. She pulled the embroidered shawl she’d purchased from Abu Talal’s shop in the Al-Bireh souk from her valise and wrapped it around her shoulders.
Restless energy coursing through her body, Leela returned to the fire and pulled her wet hair loose. Kneeling before the hearth’s nourishing heat, she reluctantly set down her dagger. Keeping her weapon within easy reach, she worked her hands through the untamed mass of waves. As a girl, she’d often cursed her uncooperative hair, which only grew more outlandish in humid conditions. But during her travels, she’d stopped giving it much thought. Now she simply subdued the willful strands into a braid and forgot about them.
Something moved quietly behind her. The air in the room changed. She was no longer alone. Leela’s heartbeat slammed against her breastbone. Snatching up her dagger, she shot to her feet, the shawl slipping from her shoulders. She pivoted to find Townsend staring at her with appreciative eyes.
Surprise lit his handsome face when he registered the weapon in her hand. “You have me at dagger point yet again?” He held out his palms. “I thought we were in agreement that you would not puncture any holes in me.”
“How did you get in?” She jerked her janbiya higher so that it aligned with his chest, where it could do the most damage.
The darkening of his face suggested he noted her intent. “Through the door.”
Liar. She brushed a loose curl away from her face. “I latched it.”
“I simply pushed the door open,” he said stiffly. “It’s possible the latch is defective.”
“You should have announced your presence.” She lowered her dagger and edged away from him.
Forcing a deep breath to calm her restiveness, Leela set her dagger aside. She reached behind her head with both arms to arrange her loose hair into some semblance of order. “Also, it is rude to stare.”
“I apologize.” He possessed a voice so deep that his words seemed to reverberate through her. “It is just that I have never seen hair quite like yours.”
Irritation sidled in alongside her taut nerves. Fate favored most Englishwomen of Leela’s acquaintance with smooth docile locks or gentle curls. She didn’t care what this stranger thought, but his comments still rankled. Her face growing hot, she opted against braiding her hair and quickly pulled it back into a loose tail at the nape of her neck.
“I did not invite you to share my supper in order to be subjected to your insults,” she said sharply. “I have heard quite enough of them for one evening.”
“How have I insulted you? It was not my intention.”
“I would rather not speak of it any further.” She wasn’t going to waste her energy on a stranger she’d never see again after tonight.
“I am afraid that is unacceptable.” Tension rolled off of him. “If I have caused offense, I should like to know why.”
“It is of no importance.”
“It is to me. I want to know what I am apologizing for.”
“A true gentleman would not mention how . . . impossible . . . my hair is.”
“Impossible? If by impossible you mean magnificent, then I would agree.” A slight flush came over his pronounced cheekbones. It drew her eye to the sharp turn of his jaw. His beard had begun to grow in, the bristle far darker than his ruffled wheat-colored hair. “I did not intend to gawk at you but, if I am to be completely honest, I could not help myself because you are . . . ah, your hair is . . . so beautiful.”