Tristan laughed and let her go, leaving her to greet Prudence and then have a very awkward handshake with Mr. Moon, their expedition accountant who was not supposed to be here but had followed Prudence.
Not that Justine would blame him. Prudence was a kind of American goddess, embodying all the things Englishwomen wouldn’t dare do: smiling at strangers, for one. Prudence was tall and moved easily in her skin with a confidence that even Justine envied.
Justine took Prudence’s hand and squeezed it. “Darlings, it’s lovely to see your gorgeous faces. Well, except yours, Tristan. It’s abominable as usual.”
Tristan was considered one of the best-looking men in London. He shared his golden hair and doll-like blue eyes with Ophelia and their mother, as well as an easygoing disposition that was often construed as sweet. But Justine knew what an arsehole he was and had no inclination to stop telling him so.
“However,” Justine continued, “a bath is crucial. Where might the bathing facilities be located?”
“Won’t you need to unpack first?” Eleanor asked.
“No need,” Justine chirped, gesturing to the carpetbags she’d set aside. “We have our changes of clothes at the ready.”
“I can show you the way,” Prudence said, picking up one of the carpetbags. “Follow me.”
A bath, then a dinner of sausages and potatoes and sauerkraut, and they were in their beds, a small portable iron brazier glowing to keep them warm. Justine shared a room with Ophelia, each in their small beds, and while her friend fell asleep immediately, Justine felt like it was the middle of the afternoon. She was ready for tea and gossip, or even a training run. It had beenagessince she’d been allowed to move properly.
She lit the small oil lamp next to her bed and tried to read. But even her mind was restless. Eleanor had given her a book about Mary, Queen of Scots, which normally would have been interesting, but Justine could not concentrate. Not when her body screamed for permission to move.
A young lady shouldn’t go wandering about a hotel in the middle of the night—it wasn’t done because it wasn’t safe. But she woulddieif she had to lay still any longer. With a jealous glance at Ophelia’s sleeping form, her angelic face arranged like the porcelain dolls her mother gifted her every year, Justine got out of bed. She put on her heavy woolen stockings, her dowdiestdress—meant for climbing mountains in—and an extra shawl that she tied about her shoulders and waist. She pulled on the warm, wool-lined slippers and crept out of the room.
. . . Where she discovered it was very cold. Very cold indeed! The iron braziers heated the rooms individually, but the passageways were freezing. Justine would need to find a fireplace quickly. And perhaps a dose of local flavors that could help her fall asleep.
Was she a nightmare for chaperones? Yes. Was she Bad News, as Tristan Bridewell had said so many years ago? Possibly. Would she lose her mind if she didn’t wander the Alpine inn right this minute? Absolutely.
Carrying her oil lamp with her down the passage and then down the stairs, she followed the heat. It was easy to feel the draughts as they circulated through the building. As she got to the bottom floor where the innkeeper had greeted them, she could feel the warmth emanating from the dining room, where the door was now closed. She followed it, opening the door without thinking what would be behind it.
It had been where they ate dinner that night, where breakfast would be served in the morning; it was just a dining room.
But when she opened the door, all she could see was a man’s shoulders, powerfully built, achingly obvious, outlined by firelight. The man whipped his head around, holding a shirt to his chest.
“Oh my,” Justine breathed, her heart thundering at her discovery. She was unable to move or to quit staring.
Recovering from his shock, the man relaxed and pulled the shirt on, vaguely tucking it in before pulling up the leather braces that had been hanging at his sides. “Guten Abend, Fräulein.”
“I . . .” Justine trailed off. “I don’t speak German.”
The man nodded, looked aside for a moment and then began again, this time in English. “Good evening, miss. Do you need something?” His accent was clipped, and in the firelight, his lined forehead became even more pronounced as he frowned. “Not right. I mean to say, may I help you?”
“Your English is very good,” she said, hoping a compliment would somehow make amends for her bursting in on him.
“Thank you,” he said. “May I help you?”
Justine frowned for a second, then realized why he was insisting on helping her. It was the middle of the night and she was prowling around like a burglar. “Do you work here?”
“Ja,” he said with a chuckle. “And you do not.”
“No,” she said. Then she realized he wasn’t wearing socks or shoes, and she was suddenly embarrassed. Justine Brewer, ofBad News Brewerfame, wasembarrassed.
“Then what are you doing out of your bed?” He leaned forward, and the light hit him so she could see his features more plainly. And it was awful. He was even better looking than Tristan had ever been. This man had unkempt and unruly blond curls—far longer than what any Englishman would wear. He had light eyes and a jaw that could cut glass. Of all the damnable things. Now she would end up hating him. Handsome men were often atrocious, in her experience.
But he hadn’t seemed to imbue his words with innuendo. He wasn’t mentioning her bed with the idea that he might be getting in it. He was merely asking. How . . . unexpected.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Justine said, uncertain as to how to feel suddenly.
He blinked and nodded, as if that were a substitution for words. “Do you not read?”
What? Was he asking if she was literate? “Of course I read,” she snapped. But then she realized where she was—aremote town in the mountains. There were likely many people here who did not read. And it was an activity one did to help a person fall asleep. Oh, she was being an arse.Don’t be an arse, don’t be an arse,she chanted to herself.
