“You’re not far from Gravesend,” Charles broke in to offer helpfully. “You may have passed it depending on which direction you took.”
Gravesend. That was where the boatmen and their kidnappers were to meet. Gwendolyn made a note to give Beckett that information.
Charles rose from the chair, stretched, and scratched his belly before walking over to a table to begin slicing bread. Gwendolyn’s mouth watered. Eggs and bread sounded delicious. She also wouldn’t mind an ale.
“This way,” Mr. Stimson said. He lit a stub of a candle off the kitchen fire as he led them out into a hall. He opened a side door. “This is the room.”
Gwendolyn braced herself, not knowing what to expect when she looked in. To her surprise, the room was lovely in its simplicity. The four-poster bed was made of dark wood that looked sharp and inviting against white walls and a white counterpane.
“You take your meals in the main room or in the kitchen. Whichever you want.”
“Thank you,” Beckett said.
The room was not large. The bed filled it with perhaps a foot or two between it and the wall on two sides. There was just enough room for the table at the foot of the bed. Mr. Stimson lit a candle on the table.
“Privy is outside. Wash bowl and water in the kitchen. Give a shout if you need anything.” He gave a curt bow of his head and left them alone.
However, a beat later, there was a knock. It was Charles to let them know their food was ready. They ate in the kitchen.
The meal was delicious. Of course, anything hot was to be greatly appreciated, and she was starving. Saving themselves from wickedness was hard work. The ale helped wash everything down.
“I’ll stand guard while you use the privy,” Beckett offered.
Gwendolyn didn’t even blush over the familiarity.
She and Beckett were alive. They were safe... and that was all that mattered.
It did not take her long to see to her business. Charles had left the kitchen when they’d started eating, but he’d shown her where the pitcher of water and a bucket alongside a bar of soap were located. She was alone. She washed her face and hands and removed her stockings that had been annoying her. She tucked them in the pocket of his jacket and put on her wet shoes. The plait of her braid was coming undone. She didn’t bother to fix it. Her hair dried faster when it was down.
Beckett came in from outside while she was still in the kitchen. Their gazes met. His broke away first, and yet they were here together, and alone.
She stood and moved to the bedroom, givinghim a moment to wash. Giving herself a moment to escape this heavy awareness between them.
What had seemed easy earlier become awkward. She wasn’t certain how to act. She knew what she wanted, and she also knew there would be no turning back, no matter what each of them wished.
Gwendolyn touched the bedpost. Her earlier exhaustion had vanished. Instead, her every sense seemed to hum with anticipation. She shouldn’t feel this way. She shouldn’t be eager.
A step sounded behind her.
She turned. Beck filled the doorway. The tail of his shirt was loose, and he held his boots. Apparently he’d taken them and his wet stockings off in the kitchen. Her gaze dropped to his bare feet. Like the rest of him, they were strong and masculine... the sight of them intimate. He whispered her name. She looked up. His eyes had never seemed bluer or more intense. They stood a mere foot from each other in the small space dominated by a bed.
The drawback was the grim line of his mouth. She knew what he was about to say. He was going to offer the bed to her while he slept out in the main room or in front of the kitchen fire... the way he had in decades past as the scullery boy.
Instead of disappointment, her heart filled with love and understanding. Beckett would always think of her needs first. That was the sort of man he was—a protector... in spite of all life had handed him.
And she must take matters into her own hands,or else he might slip away again, convinced he didn’t need anyone—no, that wasn’t it. He didn’t believe he was worthy of anyone. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
“You may have the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor—” he started. Before he could finish his statement, Gwendolyn took a step forward, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him, holding nothing back. She kissed him fully. Deeply.Hungrily.Begging him to kiss her back. To believe in them.
He’d gone very still. Then, just when she feared she was going to have to do all the work—his arm came around her. His lips met hers with a passion of their own, and he brought her close as if he could wrap his body around hers.
She felt his desire for her.
He could not hide that, any more than she could resist pressing herself against him.
Beckett broke the kiss. He looked down at her. She tightened her hold around his neck.
“I’m not going away,” she said, her voice both husky and defiant. “No matter how many times you swear I must.”
