“Or like what we are, two people who were caught in a storm.” He pushed the jacket back to her. “Come, Gwendolyn. Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.” However, he did comb his hair back with his fingers.
The arguing between the two men outside the inn came to an abrupt halt as they moved into the ring of torchlight. They watched with curiosity as Beckett opened the door and motioned her forward. She stepped into a low-ceilinged room with several long tables. The room smelled of cider and ale. A group of men were playing cards. Whist, she noticed.
All conversation stopped at the sight of her. The two men from outside followed them in.
Beckett put a protective arm around her. He appeared even taller than he was under the room’s low ceiling. “Where is the barkeep?”
One of the men from the card game stood. “What may I do for you?”
“We need food and a room for the night. Our vehicle broke down.”
“Where did that happen?” The barkeep had brown hair and a few days’ growth of beard. The others in the room didn’t appear any more respectable.
“Down the road,” Beckett said easily.
“And your horses?”
“With a farmer. Do you have a room?”
“Aye. Two tuppence. Four if you want food.”
“I’ll take the four.”
Gwendolyn was looking around. In spite of the innkeeper’s appearance, the place appeared clean. There was also the lingering scent of baking bread in the air as if it had just been made that day. Beckett took coins from a pocket in his breeches and pressed them into the man’s hand.
She was certain it was far more than four tuppence by the smile that spread across the innkeeper’s face. “This way, sir.”
Beckett took Gwendolyn by the elbow, and they followed the man out of the main room. He introduced himself as Mr. Stimson.
They went down a narrow hall and walked through a half-open door. It was the kitchen. An old man was half-asleep in front of the fire.
“Charles,” Mr. Stimson said, “wake up.”
The older man frowned as if annoyed to be bothered. Then he sat up. “I am awake.”
“Anything for them to eat?”
Charles eyed Gwendolyn and Beckett. “Eggs. That is what I have.”
Beckett spoke up. “Eggs are fine. And ale?”
“Always have ale,” Mr. Stimson said. “I’m putting them in the back, Charles. They broke down and need a room for the night.”
“And ended up here?” Charles didn’t hide his doubt. “Looks like you were caught in the storm.”
“We were,” Beckett answered in a voice thatseemed to settle the matter. And then he added, “But we are lost. Where are we?”
“The Hare’s Foot,” the innkeeper said.
“And the village name?” Beckett answered.
“Sandston. Where were you heading?”
“Portsmouth.”
“If you want to go there, you’d best take a boat.”
“We thought about it,” Beckett said dryly.
