Page 53 of Ruthless, But for Her

“They are skilled in the art of giving pleasure, and though Margot forbade her girls to have anything to do with us, that did not stop them.” Ashton shrugged. “It was a source of many a disagreement.”

More ale was served and their meal, cleared. It was only when the two of them remained in the hall with Magge and three straggling patrons that either of them mentioned retiring for the evening.

He had spoken more of his childhood with her this eve than he had with anyone, with the exception of Ryker and Sorren. They had come to it in different ways, the three of them, and none of them were the sort to speak of it. That she had drawn it out of him in a single evening was something he would have to think about later.

“I...have many questions. None of which I am brave enough to ask,” she said.

Ashton stood, and Cassia followed.

“You are braver than you think,” he told her. “And when you do ask, I will answer.”

He meant it as he said it but realized belatedly what else he'd offered.

She had not yet asked the only question that mattered—the one about the man who had fallen into the sea and did not come out.

The question he had promised, just now, to answer.

CHAPTER 32

Cassia

She'd never experienced the smell of tallow candles before. It wasn't as offensive as Cassia had been led to believe, but neither did it smell like her bedchamber back home at Grantchester or even the one at the Daisy.

It was just one of many signs that reminded her that she was in a foreign place. Still, the chamber was larger than she'd expected, with a rope bed and a mattress that smelled of fresh straw. A chest stood beneath the window. And the rushes on the floor had been changed recently enough to still smell green.

When Magge had handed Ashton one key instead of two, he merely looked at her quizzically. Before Ashton could say a word, Magge called them on the sham that was their story.

“I know not what passes here, but she's no wool merchant's widow. And you've never brought a woman here. Tell me the truth, or not. I could not care less. But my inn is full—I moved two drovers out to give you our best room—and it's all I can offer. Make it work.”

Cassia had expected Ashton to offer an argument, but instead he simply watched the innkeeper walk away. Then he turned back to Cassia.

“The chamber is large and I'll gladly sleep on a pallet on the floor. Though I could just as gladly rest my head in the stables, if you would prefer it.”

It was because he offered that Cassia decided against that, despite the impropriety… Despite the fact that she was a widow of three days, despite that her breeding forbade her to sleep in the same chamber with a man who wasn't her husband.

A man such as Ashton.

And so they settled in. When Ashton left to see to the horses, she tugged at the sleeves of her shift, wishing she had brought her own linen.

Magge had left a jug of mulled wine on the chest, with two cups beside it. Cassia poured one and carried it to the hearth. It was a proper stone fireplace, wide enough to roast at, with a hood of daubed clay to draw the smoke and a bench pulled close on one side. It was nothing like the great fireplace at home, but much better suited to a small room, like the one they were in.

She sat.

With no book to read, she instead contented herself by watching the flames and listening to the crackle of a fire that had been stoked before they entered the chamber.

Magge understood well, as did Margot, how to keep her patrons content. It was odd, that outside the world she inhabited, women thrived in positions of power.

Growing up in Grantchester, Cassia had been led to believe she had very little authority. And yet, these past days, two of the most confident people she'd met were women.

And then there was Ashton.

A knock at the door startled her from her thoughts. Before unbarring the thick oak that separated her from a dimly lit passage, Cassia made certain it was him on the other side. The bar was heavier than it looked. She lifted it out of its iron brackets with both hands and set it against the wall.

He stepped inside. He'd left his jerkin somewhere. His shirt was unlaced at the throat, the sleeves shoved back past his elbows, and his hair was damp at the temples, as though he'd dipped his head into the well bucket in the yard. The cord at his throat sat against bare skin.

Cassia looked at his forearms longer than she meant to.

“Are you certain I should stay here?”