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Vangie was beyond caring. She needed to lie down. Through the fog numbing her senses, she worked a labored glance over the common room and the blazing fire in the hearth. Spots floating before her eyes, she clutched at Ian’s arm with one hand to steady herself whilst pressing the other to her gyrating stomach. She’d never cast up her accounts before but feared she might this time.
A rotund woman with rosy red cheeks and a smile to match her substantial girth trundled to them. Her wiry gray hair constrained into a semblance of a knot, she dropped an awkward curtsey. “Yer room’s been made ready, m’lord, and I’ll ’ave yer food—” She lunged forward and grasped Vangie’s elbow, steadying her. “Yer ladyship, ye be ready to keel over!”
Vangie swallowed, fuzziness encapsulating her. Lord, how she hated this. “Ian?” Panic riddled her voice.
Without preamble, he scooped her into his arms. “Our room?”
“This way, yer lordship.” The proprietress beckoned him to follow as she waddled to the stairs.
Vangie daren’t close her eyes. Blackness would engulf her. Instead, she pressed her head into Ian’s chest and counted to five with each inhalation and exhalation. Squinting against the sparkling zigzags rotating before her eyes, she concentrated on the proprietress’ ample backside as she labored up the staircase.
Wheezing, the woman opened a door at the far end of the corridor. She shuffled to the bed, and tossing back a quilt said, “I’ll ’ave Peg bring ye water and yer supper.” Her chuffy face crinkled with concern, she asked, “Do her ladyship be needin’ anythin’?”
Ian laid Vangie on the bed. The room swirled, gyrating around and around, as the black, spiraling tunnel tried to suck her into obscurity. He touched her forehead and traced a gentle path over her cheek. She locked her attention on his calm, reassuring gaze.
He glanced at the woman. “Have you any smelling salts?”
Vangie tried to focus on Ian’s voice, but it echoed so far away.
The innkeeper shook her head, her loose chins flapping with her vehemence. “Nay, sir. Not much call fer salts.”
It’s too late—
Vangie awoke slowly. Snuggled beneath layers of blankets, she felt more refreshed than she had in weeks. She sighed contentedly, burying her face in the pillow in an attempt to avoid a persistent ray of sun angling across her face. A few moments passed before Vangie realized she wasn’t alone in the bed.
“Good morning, my lady,” Ian purred close to her ear.
She cracked open her eyelids.
He lay in his pantaloons and shirt atop the bedding, his dark head but inches from hers.
Feeling shy, she softly replied, “Good morning.”
His gaze held hers, and she couldn’t look away, didn’t want to. He said not a word, but something deep in his eyes spoke to her spirit. He angled his head and lightly kissed her.
A firm knock rattled the chamber’s door, shattering the moment.
Ian bounded from the bed. “Breakfast, at last. I’m ravenous.”
Vangie scooted to a sitting position. She wore her threadbare nightgown. How? Ah, her ill-fated episode last evening. Heaven above, Ian must’ve undressed her. The flush sweeping her wasn’t entirely due to embarrassment.
Out of habit, she skimmed her thigh with her fingertips. Her dagger wasn’t there. She quickly scanned the room, searching for the knife. Except for when she bathed, she always wore it.
His back to the closed door, and holding a laden tray, Ian observed her. “Your blade is on the nightstand. Do you typically tie it to your leg?” His attention slid pointedly to her thigh.
Vangie nodded. “Almost always. Many Roma women do.”
She shifted her attention to the pillow beside her. A couple of strands of wavy chestnut hair lay atop it. She smiled. Had he slept here, in this room with her all night? She followed him with her gaze as he carried their breakfast to a small table. A jar filled with wildflowers stood atop its scratched surface. Nonetheless, the chamber possessed a rustic charm. Last night, she’d taken scant notice of it or anything else, for that matter.
Simple gingham curtains hung from the lone window, and braided rag rugs lay on either side of the bed. The table and two chairs occupied one corner of the chamber, a washstand and mirror the other. A nightstand, an oil lamp in its center, was the only other piece of furniture in the room.
Leaning closer, Vangie examined the hand-painted porcelain lampshade. An intricate bouquet of blue and white roses graced the surface. She curved her mouth in appreciation. Self-taught, she adored painting. She was quite good at it too, though the opportunities to indulge the pastime solely for pleasure were few.
“Are you hungry?” Ian placed the tray on the table. He peeked under the serviette and grinned.
“Yes. Very.” She nodded again as she slipped from the bed. Her night rail swished around her bare feet as she approached the table. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday. I’m famished.” As if to confirm her claim, her stomach rumbled loudly.
“So I can hear,” he quipped.
