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He had not intended to ask for such a luxury, but neither was Garrick accustomed to traveling with someone like Emma. Of course she would attract attention in the inn’s bustling great room.

“Of course, my lord,” Magge said. Normally, she would have laden the words with innuendo, unable to restrain herself, but something about Emma must have given her pause.

“Lady Emma and her maid will dine in private,” he said.

“Dine?” The maid appeared from behind him, her cheeks red. “Oh, Emma, please don’t make me sit. I’ll miss the evening meal, every meal for the rest of my life, if you’ll allow me to lie down for a spell. My lady, I—”

“Of course, Edith.”

Her voice was soft, but her tone was strong enough to be the Queen of England’s.

“Mistress, a tray for my lady would be most welcome.”

Magge looked from him to Lady Emma. He nodded.

“Then ye’ll not be needing the private room?”

Emma looked at him. She would attract too much attention in the great room. Could he be so churlish as to suggest she eat alone?

Aye, since the alternative was to dine in there with her, away from everyone’s watching eyes.

“My lady will take a meal there. Or she might prefer a tray as well?”

Her eyes widened, making the blue flash as brightly as blood against freshly fallen snow.

“My lady,” she said mockingly, “prefers to dine in the hall.”

“No.”

Both Edith and Magge watched their exchange, which was unfortunate but unavoidable.

“I’ve been charged with your safety, my lady. And I don’t believe—”

“I’ll have the cellar prepared,” Magge said as she ambled away, not waiting for an answer. “For two.”

Perhaps his father was right. “The fairer sex held more power than mere men could ever dream of,” he’d often said. He could rule two great households in two countries, but not an aged innkeeper and a petite Englishwoman.

“Very well,” he said. “As for a chaperone—”

“My lady doesn’t require one,” the maid said. All eyes turned to Edith, whose words tumbled from her all at once. “What I mean to say is that she often finds herself in situations . . . that is . . . she doesn’t much care for . . . oh, never mind.”

As if by way of apology, she glanced at Emma, whose smirk was anything but angry.

“Poor Edith. Go up to our room; I will be fine.” Emma turned to him. “Shall we, then?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow in an obvious challenge.

Garrick glanced at his men, who’d already seated themselves in the great room. He led Emma toward the back of the inn. The door to the storage room was already open. He’d used this room on more than one occasion, having frequented The Wild Boar since he was young. It was normally used as a private meeting space. The smell of thyme wafted from the staircase, preferable to the musty stench of most below-ground rooms.

Magge had already placed a board across two cut-out barrels, and a pair of three-legged stools sat off to the side, awaiting their use. As she lay a linen tablecloth on top, Garrick’s eyes began to adjust to the dim light. The cellar had been sufficiently transformed, but it was still darker than abovestairs despite the tallow candles that had been lit throughout the room. It was only when Magge winked at Garrick before making her way back up that he felt the full impact of their arrangement. This kind of intimacy was exactly what he’d intended to avoid.

So much for avoiding the lady. Tomorrow he would be better prepared.

Emma had begun to shrug off her hooded cape, and his arm moved forward automatically to take it from her. He placed it, along with his own, atop a set of wooden crates.

A noise from above drew their attention. It was not Magge who was coming down the stairs, but a serving girl who placed a tray laden with food and drink on the board. Before Garrick could even offer his thanks, she was gone.

“Shall we?” Emma moved first, sitting prettily on one of the stools after fanning her riding gown out beneath her.

He sat on his own stool, watching her face, so full of expression.