“And the folds of his paper as sharp as his stare.”
“Don’t kill an old man with laughter. Oh, my. It is a relief to see Mrs. Trent balances her husband out so well.”
“Thank you.” Miss Crewe beamed. “What a lovely thing to say.”
“I don't see how that's a compliment,” Rowan grumbled, jumping into the first conversational pause he could find.
“Really?” Miss Crewe said, a glint of mischief in her eye. “How odd. It must be that you do not see yourself clearly.”
And she did not see her role clearly. She'd already said ten times more words than him when she was supposed to say exactlynone. “If we are opposites, my dear, it is because I am terribly talkative, and you are usually silent. What a chatterbox you’re being today.”
“Me? Silent?” Her fingertips fluttered to her throat, and he could not help but notice how elegant it was, yet how strong at the same time. How very kissable. “Your nap during the trip has confused you, darling.” The barest hint of a smile quirked the corner of her lips up. All clear to him now. She had conceded nothing to him earlier. She’d merely waited patiently to start her rebellion.
If he could not defeat her, he would ignore her. “I believe we should discuss business, Mr. Barlow.”
“Yes, yes. Of course.” The old man ushered them into the inn. “It is a shame Mrs. Barlow is not here to meet you. I rely on her intuition, you know.”
“I'm sure your judgment is just as trustworthy,” Rowan said, letting the ambiance of the inn hit him all at once, a wave, before he began to analyze the details. A wash of comfort and warmth. Light walls and dark beams on the ceiling. Rooms off to the side of the entry. Dining parlor and coffee room, no doubt. The main staircase was simple yet appeared sturdy. The wood gleamed and the floor, despite the bustle of guests coming and going, was well swept and clean. Quite cheerful.
Quite perfect.
Miss Crewe clapped her hands together. “It is a delight. I must congratulate you, Mr. Barlow, on creating such a remarkably domestic atmosphere.”
“My daughter painted those.” Mr. Barlow wagged a finger at three watercolors on a near wall.
“Such skill.” Miss Crewe took a closer look, sticking her neck out as if she was studying every detail with great intensity. “I like the cat here in the corner. Makes one think of cozying up by a fire.”
Would the woman never stop rambling? Rowan pulled out a chair at a small table in the dining room and sat. He waved at the chair across from him. The table permitted no more than two. Perhaps it was not a very gentlemanly gesture, but then he was not feeling very gentlemanly toward Miss Crewe.
Mr. Barlow sat, and Miss Crewe hovered, a tiny frown between her brows. But not long. She whisked herself behind Rowan’s chair and draped her hand lightly on his shoulder. Her fingers settling there felt like fresh-fallen snow, cooling. But too long, and the touch of ice could burn the skin.
It would look odd to shake her off, though. So he settled into the embrace, and she squeezed his shoulder, a terribly wifely gesture that… reassured him?
“You do not like me to stand after a long ride, do you dear,” she said. “But you know how I prefer to move about after too long a confinement.” Another squeeze of his shoulder.
Masterful, that. Covering up his ungentlemanly actions with an explanation that created the appearance of intimacy between them, that suggested how well they knew one another, and how well he took care of her. Clever chit.
“Would either of you like tea?” Mr. Barlow asked.
“No, thank you,” Rowan said.
Just as Miss Crewe exclaimed, “Oh, yes, that would be delightful.”
Through gritted teeth, he tried to wrest control. “We do not have much time.”
Her hand swept across his shoulder to brush against his neck, where she gave a gentle tug to the short hairs there. A little too hard. Likely, it looked affectionate. The pin pricks of pain across his neck said otherwise. “There’s always time for tea. You would not deny me… would you?”
No choice. No control. “Never,” he managed to say without a belabored sigh.
Mr. Barlow left to speak with a waiter, and Rowan whipped around. “What are you doing?”
“What you are paying me for.”
“I'm not paying you a damn thing.”
“Yes, you are. You’re paying me with entrance to your inn. I would feel guilty if I did notearnthat payment.”
“Earn your payment through silence. As we agreed.”
