Mid-afternoon, with clouds obscuring the sun, they made another quick stop to rest the horses and refresh themselves. Much as Harriet enjoyed the warmth of the fire blazing in the taproom’s hearth and a bowl of the delicious caldo verde that was quickly becoming her favorite soup, she was eager to get going despite the distinct drop in temperature.
Fully intending to get herself into the saddle without Nick’s help, she led her horse to the inn yard’s mounting block. She rubbed a chilled arm with her free hand. Was that her breath she could see in the air? She maneuvered her horse so she could reach her coat tied behind the saddle. Her horse was so tall, she couldn’t quite reach the knot on the far side from this angle. She stretched but still couldn’t see what she was doing. Probably making a mess of the knot. You idiot, she thought, and took the first step up onto the block so she could see better.
A soft whicker let her know Nick had walked his horse over to her. “Allow me,” he said quietly. With the advantage afforded by his height, he made short work of the knot, shook out her coat, and held it open for her to slip into.
She put her arms through the sleeves, instantly feeling warmer, both from the coat and Nick’s nearness. With her standing on the first step of the block, they were almost at eye level, so close she could see the indigo rings surrounding his summer sky-blue irises.
He brought the lapels of her coat together, close under her chin. The action reminded her of when he’d rescued her from the sea and draped a blanket around her shoulders. Exuberant from their scrape with death she’d brazenly kissed him then, on the cheek. He’d been as cold and wet as she at the time. She felt an urge to kiss him again now. On his mouth. After their kiss while moored in the bay in Spain, she knew what it would feel like, how warm and welcoming his lips would be. His crew wasn’t standing around them now.
“Make sure you do up the top button,” he said, his voice a barely audible rumble. “Don’t want you to get chilled.”
She nodded. He didn’t move away or let go. She felt herself swaying toward him and put a hand on his chest, inside his greatcoat, above his waistcoat, below his neckcloth. Only a single layer of muslin separated her bare palm from his bare chest. His queue of jet-black hair had fallen forward over his shoulder. Silken strands brushed the back of her hand.
He was so close, his mouth right there. A sparkle in his eyes indicated he knew what she was thinking. He leaned forward, tilted his head a little to the left.
The jingle of a harness and Jonesy’s murmuring to his horse reminded her they were not alone. She straightened and quickly buttoned her coat. After a flash of irritation, she couldn’t help a fleeting grin when she saw Nick roll his eyes at the interruption.
Nick stepped back, looking on with approval as she got herself settled in her saddle. She retrieved her wool cap from her pocket, settled it low over her ears, and moments later the three of them were off.
Traffic thinned as they got farther from the heart of Porto and surrounding settlements. They passed elegant traveling coaches, mean freight wagons, curricles, fellow travelers on horseback, and numerous pedestrians. No one seemed to notice or care that Harriet was not what she appeared. None of the serving wenches had attempted to flirt with her as they did Nick, though none of them had paid attention to Jonesy, either.
The first mate was a handsome man in his own right but seemed a pale version of Nick, with medium-brown hair, long and tied back in a queue, brown eyes, and tanned skin set off by his small gold hoop earring. Away from Nick, she was sure he’d get his share of flirtatious advances. Just not from Harriet.
When traffic allowed, Nick rode beside her instead of in front, with Jonesy just behind. Nick pointed out some of the interesting landmarks they passed—centuries’ old cathedrals, cork oaks with bright orange bark, craggy hills rising in the distance. Around one bend came an ox, his handler walking beside, pulling a cart laden with a towering stack of hay.
She and Nick looked at each other. “Wonder if it’s got a needle,” they said in unison, and grinned.
Twilight was fading into darkness when they reached A Estalagem da Uva e da Videira, an inn with a sign painted with vines and clusters of grapes above a bed. Nick pointed out the shadowy hulk of the winery in the distance, barely visible high on a bluff, still a couple of hours ride away.
According to the hostler at the last inn they’d stopped at, the sprawling collection of buildings that made up Casa de Perseguição had been around since the twelfth century, and over the years had been everything from a monastery to a military fortress. Even if they were certain of a welcome, the twisting road up the terraced hillside to the bluff would be treacherous in the dark. Tendrils of mist had settled into the terraces like clouds tucking in for a night’s sleep.
Harriet was starving, her fingers almost senseless with cold, and her bottom numb from so many hours in the saddle. Her muscles groaned in protest when she dismounted, and she gladly handed the reins over to the hostlers that came to take their horses. She blew on her fingers to get sensation back as she tried to unobtrusively flex and stretch.
She gazed at the faraway building on the bluff obscured by the fading light. Tomorrow she could be in possession of the treasure. Her stomach fluttered in anticipation.
Nick spoke with the groom to make arrangements for the horses, and soon he, Harriet, and Jonesy stepped into the blessed warmth and lamplight of the inn.
The innkeeper greeted them, tossing a towel over his shoulder and wiping his hands on a stained apron that indicated he was also the cook. While Nick discussed their needs with their host—the only word Harriet recognized in the spate of exchanged Portuguese was inglês—she eyed the fire blazing in the hearth across the room. Blocking her path to warming herself were several tables, some occupied with diners alone or in small groups, one table with a pair of grizzled old men playing chess, and one with four men playing cards.
The innkeeper disappeared into the kitchen, and Nick turned back to her and Jonesy. “They’ve been unusually busy this evening. He’s not sure how many rooms he has left for the night. Says we might need to double up. They’ll feed us while the staff sorts it out.”
“I could eat,” Jonesy said with a grin. “And a bed of straw in the stall with my horse would be warm. I’ve slept in worse places.”
Harriet raised her brows. She certainly didn’t want to double up with any other travelers. She’d had to do that enough at coaching inns in England and could happily go the rest of her life without doing it again, though she wasn’t sure a bed of straw in the stables would be all that warm or comfortable, either. But, well, she was on an adventure, in search of treasure that would affect the course of her life. She would just ignore the outraged sputtering Madam Zavrina would have made at the idea of sleeping in the stables. Nick and Jonesy hung up their coats and hats on hooks by the door. Harriet was still chilled and kept hers on.
The card game broke up. Two of the players strode out the door, letting in a gust of cold air, and the third moved to the other table to chat with the chess players. She shivered and followed Nick into the dining room, not caring where they sat to eat so long as it was near the fire. Cross-legged on the stone hearth would be fine at this point.
Nick stopped so abruptly she bumped into him and bounced off his rigid back.
She would have fallen but Jonesy caught her under her arms and lifted her upright. Nick was frozen. Not a muscle twitched, his face a mask of granite.
She took a step to one side, Jonesy to the other, and peered around Nick.
A lone man sat at the table before them, shuffling a deck of cards with practiced ease as he smiled broadly at the newcomers. “Hello, Nicky.” He fanned the cards out on the table and swept them up again. “Took you long enough to get here.”
Chapter 15
Harriet’s breath caught.
