Page 39 of Temptation and the Artist

“We almost went straight past this inn,” Mr. Flowers said. “But decided to ask in passing before riding on. And the staff were so wary of the foreign gents and the lady who ate in her traveling cloak as if she didn’t want her skirts to touch their furniture, that we knew you were here. Offered to sort you all out.”

Aline smiled wryly. “I shall be sure never to wear the wretched cloak inside the inn again.”

“Oh, they all know you were under duress,” Mr. Flowers assured her. “The innkeeper’s wife is as furious as the rest of us and will probably board you for nothing. Talking of boarding…”

“We have two bedrooms,” Basil piped up. “I was supposed to stay with the nasty uncles, and Mama was to sleep with her wrists bound behind her back!”

“Well, we certainly won’t have that,” Aline said stoutly. “You can sleep in my room now.”

“Could I not stay with Mr. Flowers and Mr. Dornan?” Basil asked. “That would be a better end to a manly adventure!”

“True,” Aline said, trying not to feel hurt.

Stephen refilled her wine glass. “We should have brought your maid along with Dennis and William.”

“I can do without her for a night or two.”

There was admiration in Stephen’s eyes. Her independence, her past, her use of a dagger that most ladies would scream at the sight of, none of that appalled him. With a fresh surge of longing, she wondered if he saw beneath those things, to her yearning for peace and security and love.

*

Stephen was appalled. By the injuries she had sustained to free herself, by the awful possibilities of what might have happened. It brought her sheer capability and the dangers she had overcome in her past into sharp focus. He was proud, admiring, fascinated—and terrified.

While Basil slept peacefully in the truckle bed, Stephen and Flowers sat on the window seat of their bedchamber, sharing a last glass of brandy and talking desultorily.

“If only she had waited for us,” Stephen said into the silence, trying to make sense of his thought, “she would not have hurt herself.”

“I don’t think we could have come much faster, without the risk of missing them.” Flowers glanced at him. “Was that your point?”

“No, my point is that she hurt herself.”

“The scars will fade,” Flowers said deliberately, “if that is your concern.”

Stephen shifted restlessly. “Scars fade,” he repeated. “They don’t all go away… Though perhaps they cease to hurt.”

Flowers sipped his brandy. He seemed to know Stephen was not still talking about physical wounds. “She looked at you very oddly when Monteigne revealed you were in Paris.”

“I was not betraying my country,” Stephen said mildly.

“I know that. So does she. But you knew what the Monteignes had done. She did not. Is that not worthy of more explanation than the reasons she did not sit back and wait to be rescued by people she had no idea were coming?”

Stephen stared at him. “Dear God, I’m not criticizing her, Flowers. I fear for her!”

Flowers shrugged. “It comes with the territory.”

“What territory?” Stephen scowled.

“Besottedness,” Flowers replied. “It seems to me you should be deciding whether you want to live with that or without it.”

Stephen closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the windowpane.

“I see,” Flowers said. “Then I have two things to say to you. Firstly, if you ever hurt a hair on her head or betray her in the smallest way, I will break your legs. Secondly, what the hell are you doing here with me?”

Stephen’s eyes flew open, his breath catching on sudden, devastating clarity. With a sound between a laugh and a growl, he sprung to his feet and handed Flowers his glass. “I’ll let you.”

“Let me what?”

“Break my legs if I betray her.”

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