To her great regret, he untangled himself, then dropped a quick kiss on her shoulder. “You are an amazing woman, Willow.”
It wasn’t quite what she wanted to hear, but she decided it would suffice for the moment, and rose, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “Thank you,” she answered quietly. “Now go away somewhere. I must dress.”
Harry grabbed his shirt and boots. “As my lady wills,” he bowed theatrically. “I will meet you downstairs. Bring your bag. I’ll take mine.”
She nodded, and somewhat wistfully watched him vanish through the door with his clothing clasped to that rather delightful chest.
*~~*~~*
Leaving Willow in that room was one of the hardest things Harry had ever done.
She looked delightfully rumpled, warm, and relaxed, and had their situation been different, he’d have very much enjoyed staying right there with her. Playing with her, making her sob with pleasure, loving her…
He nearly tripped going down the stairs as that thought hit his mind with all the force of a landslide off the very top of a mountain.
Good Lord. He grasped the bannister firmly as the impact of what he’d just imagined rocked him back on his heels.
She’d said she loved him, and now—unexpectedly—his brain had told him that her feelings were returned.
He managed to make it down the stairs without stumbling, but it was a near thing, and he sat down hard on the bottom step to put on his boots.
But before he could do much of anything else, the innkeeper rushed into the hall.
“Oh, Mr Chalmers,” he wrung his hands. “It’s terrible, awful, that’s what it is…”
Harry frowned as Mr Marsh hurried to his side. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“Your coachman, sir.”
“What about him?”
“Set upon, sir. A dastardly attack in the darkest depths of the night…”
Blinking, Harry wondered for a moment if Marsh was a member of some local theatrical group, so dramatic was his statement, accompanied as it was by the wringing of hands.
“I’m not following you…”
“Come, come and see, sir…”
The innkeeper all but dragged him into a small room off the hall. And in there, on a chair, with a wet cloth being held to his head by Mrs Marsh, was their driver.
“Good God, man…” Harry rushed to his side. “Are you all right? What on earth happened?”
“Knocked him clean out, they did,” snarled the angry woman. “I found him on the doorstep when I went to let the cat out this morning.”
“I’m that sorry, sir,” said the injured driver.
“Stop, please. Clearly, this wasn’t your fault. Can you tell me what occurred?” He glanced at Mrs Marsh. “Is he going to be all right?”
She nodded. “Nasty bump, took a bit of skin, but it’s clean enough.” She removed the cloth. “Lucky he’s got a hard head.”
“Thank you, Ma’am,” the coachman said, then turned to Harry. “They took the carriage, sir. It’s gone. I asked Mr Marsh to check when I came around. And…it’s gone.”
Harry’s heart sank at the words and mentally he cursed long and fluently.
“I’m glad you’re not badly hurt,” he said, managing to keep the worst of his thoughts to himself.
“Who’s been hurt?” Willow came down the stairs quickly, holding the bags.
