The Bride Price

Chapter Eleven

She cried for several minutes, until exhaustion won out and she simply settled back into the warm water. After her bath, she dried off and dressed in a nightgown and robe. She brushed out her damp hair and took an excessive amount of time braiding it.

When her dinner arrived, she hesitated a moment before dishing out a plate for herself and curling into a chair near the fire. She ate precisely half of everything, though the food was not to her liking and she suspected the rivulets of grease running through the gravy might cause her some stomach discomfort during the night.

When the meal was finished, she retrieved a book—a novel from given to her from Katie's vast collection—from her bag and attempted to read. An hour later, with only a single paragraph having been perused and immediately forgotten over a half dozen times, she tossed the book back in with her things and went to bed.

The bed was cold, the sheets nubby and irritating, and her pillow a flat thing that smelled faintly of mildew. She laid awake for some time, she had no idea how long. She listened for William's footsteps, for the click of the latch, the faint creak as the door swung open and then closed again. She heard the other sounds of life throughout the inn, thumps and footsteps from other floors, someone running up a set of stairs, a shout and then the rumble of carriage wheels below her window. They became as steady as the beating of her heart and the hum of the blood rushing through her ears.

The uneaten half of dinner still sat on the table, ready for whenever William decided to return. Emily wondered where he'd gone, if he'd decided on something as innocent as a stroll, or if he was perhaps downstairs at that very moment, imbibing tankards of ale and commiserating with fellow travelers over the miseries of married life.

For a moment—for a fleeting moment—an image appeared in her mind of William being approached by another woman in the taproom below, of being flirted with, of being touched by her, of having wine-scented whispers breathed into his ear...

The sudden rush of rage she felt at that moment was near insurmountable. It was almost enough to drive her from the bed and down the stairs, the hem of her nightdress fluttering about her bare legs as she went in search of the trollop currently draping herself against her husband's side.

And then she remembered that it was not real, only a vision conjured by her rattled mind. She slid farther down beneath the blankets, her fingers still curled around the edge of the sheet as if it were a hank of the imaginary woman's hair.

She slept poorly, troubled by dull but vivid dreams that trod heavily on the blurred line between illusion and reality. She woke several times during the night, but it wasn't until the pale light of dawn illuminated the room that she opened her eyes fully and sat up in the bed.

William was there. He sat on a chair, near the fire, a fire that had obviously been banked some hours before. Emily had no idea when he had returned to the room, but he was currently deeply ensconced in slumber, his coat draped across his chest as a blanket, his stockinged feet resting on the seat of the chair opposite him.

She sat quite still, taking every advantage of this moment given to her to study him, his form and his features, without fear of embarrassment. His face was tilted towards her, his cheek resting on his shoulder in a way that would surely guarantee a pain in his neck when he awoke.

He made no move as she pushed back the covers and slid her legs over the edge of the bed. On bare feet, she walked towards his chair. Her arms were crossed over her chest, against the chill, but she had no wish to turn away from him in search of her dressing gown.

His back was towards the window, towards the light, leaving his face in shadow. But still, the tousled curls around his head caught the slight glow that crept into the room, and she wondered how he could appear so fair, so peaceful, when she knew that he had endured enough difficulties in his life to rival her own tally of misfortunes.