It felt like…heartbreak.
He drew a deep breath and shook his head. “No. I’m not angry.” He opened the door, flinching as the cold night air sank sharp claws into his skin. “Come, Lucy. We can’t stay here any longer.”
* * * *
Ciaran took her to Cheapside, to a small, obscure inn called the Swan and Anchor.
It was a good choice for two people who wished to disappear. No one, least of all her uncle, would think to look for them here.
It was very late by the time they arrived, and Lucy was shivering, either from the cold or the shocking events of the evening. All she wanted was a bed to curl up in, and she was grateful when Ciaran made quick work of securing the rooms.
Orroom, as it turned out. As in, one room. It appeared they were sharing.
“I’m sorry. I know it’s awkward,” Ciaran muttered, looking everywhere but at her. “I think we’re safe enough, but I’d just as soon not leave you alone.”
He looked so tortured Lucy found herself rushing across the bedchamber to reassure him. She touched his hand. “It’s fine, Ciaran. We’ll manage.”
Ciaran glanced at her hand on his and cleared his throat. “I’ll sleep there.” He nodded toward a chair in the corner of the room.
Lucy stared at it for a moment, then turned back to Ciaran, taking him in from head to toe. It was a very small chair, and Ciaran was a very large man. “I don’t think you’ll fit.”
Ciaran tensed under her gaze, and eased his hand away from hers. “It’s just for one night, Lucy.”
Lucy suspected it would prove to be an excruciatingly long one for him, but she didn’t get a chance to say so before he turned to the door. “I’ll just let you…” He waved a vague hand in her direction.
It took her a moment before she understood he was gesturing at her ball gown. “Change into my bedclothes?”
“Yes.” Ciaran swallowed. “That.”
Was heblushing? “Ciaran—”
He was gone before she could finish, scurrying out the door like a naughty schoolboy fleeing a caning.
Lucy stood in the middle of the room for a while after he left, staring blankly at the closed door. Why was he so nervous? Given the circumstances, shouldn’t she be the skittish one?
Perhaps she was too exhausted to be skittish. So exhausted she wouldn’t have bothered to change out of her clothes at all if she hadn’t been wearing a ball gown. The puffed lace sleeves were itchy, the bodice too tight, and she didn’t fancy being suffocated under layers of heavy satin once she fell asleep. It took her some time to wrestle her way out of the thing, but at last she was tucked into the bed, the coverlet pulled up to her neck in deference to her maidenly sensibilities.
Or to Ciaran’s gentlemanly ones. He seemed to be far more agitated about her shift than she was.
Lucy closed her eyes, but they instantly popped open again.
Blast it. After all the drama of the evening she’d at last managed to find a bed, and now, of course, she was wide awake.
So, she lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering where Ciaran had gone.
Wondering, and wondering, and wondering…
The bedchamber was pitch dark before he returned. Lucy lay quietly, listening as he fumbled around the room. She heard a thud, and then another—Ciaran’s boots dropping to the floor. The soft creak of the chair, and then…
Nothing.
Once a gentleman had removed his boots, weren’t his breeches next? Was Ciaran sleeping in his breeches, then? What of his shirt? She hadn’t heard even the faintest rustle of cloth that might hint at items of clothing being discarded.
He must be mostly dressed still, then. It couldn’t be pleasant, sleeping in such tight breeches. Not that his breeches were any business of hers, of course. It was simply a matter of being concerned for his comfort.
“Are you quite comfortable, Ciaran?” Lucy winced at how loud her voice sounded in the quiet room.
There was a moment of frozen silence before Ciaran muttered, “Comfortable enough.”
