Hidden Affections (3 page)

His eyes sparkled. “Not unless you’ll tell me why that rather ordinary hunk of wood you fought so hard to keep from the thieves is so important to you.”

She shook her head, convinced a man of his wealth and reputation would never understand the sentiments her father’s courtship gift to her mother represented.

He cocked a brow. “In that case, I’ll just let my reasons remain secret.”

“Fine. You keep your secret and I’ll keep mine,” she retorted, determined to keep a far more important secret to herself, as well.

Even though the handcuffs had been removed, traveling five miles by horseback with only a thin cambric shirt to protect Harrison from the rapidly falling temperature would have been challenge enough. Riding on a single horse with a brand-new wife he had no intention of keeping, however, made the journey the most difficult test of endurance he had ever encountered in all of his twenty-nine years.

Or so he thought. Convincing this obstinate innkeeper he needed separate accommodations instead of a single room was proving to be an even greater challenge. He had little patience left to waste arguing.

He ignored Annabelle, who stood next to him, shivering from the cold that had taken up permanent residence in his own bones, and spoke directly to the innkeeper with a softer tone of voice. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear, Mr. Lawrence,” he said and dropped the last of his coins into the man’s fleshy palm—money enough to pay for a month’s stay. “I need a room with a hot fire, a hot bath, and a hot meal for myself. I need another room with a hot fire, a hot bath, and a hot meal for this young lady. Two rooms. That’s all I need.”

The balding man dropped the coins into his apron pocket and shrugged. “I’d like to accommodate you, but the common room upstairs that most travelers find quite comfortable has no hearth to provide any heat at all. Even if it did, during last week’s storm, the roof leaked pretty bad, and I haven’t been up to fixing it yet.”

“But surely you can—”

“Like I said before, I’ve only got one room available for you, and it’s on the first floor, right next to the kitchen. I promised Sheriff Taylor I’d have that room ready for you and your new bride, Mr. Graymoor, and I do.” Leaning closer, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “My wife ain’t as young as she used to be, and she can’t climb steps so good anymore either, so it’s probably best if you stay close to the kitchen so she can help see to your needs.”

Annabelle glanced at Harrison and frowned. “It appears you’ll have to add another name or two to that list of people who know about our marriage. Please do something about securing a separate room for me. Anything. Please,” she urged, apparently as anxious as he was to avoid sharing the same room.

He bristled. Although it was a toss-up as to whether he was more aggravated by the fact that the innkeeper knew his name or that Sheriff Taylor had also told the man about Harrison and Annabelle’s marriage, he decided he was most annoyed with this woman for reminding him, yet again, that keeping their marriage secret might not be as easy as he had originally thought.

Sleeping in the common room without any heat was starting to sound rather appealing, but he determined he’d try one last time to convince Lawrence there had to be a way to provide him with a room he did not have to share with his new wife.

Wife
. Harrison shook his head. He had trouble accepting the idea he had a wife at all, so contrary was the very word to his confirmed stance against marriage. But he calmed his agitation with the realization that she would not be his wife for very long.

Just then a rotund woman hobbled her way over to them, drying her hands on her soiled apron as she approached. “You must be the Graymoors. Just look at you, poor dear thing,” she crooned, putting her arm around Annabelle’s shoulders. She turned her toward the large dining area, which was nearly deserted at midmorning, except for three elderly women sitting at a table near the fire blazing in the hearth.

“You’re such a tiny thing it’s a wonder you didn’t freeze to death, riding around in this cold without a proper cape to keep you warm. Come along,” she insisted. “I’ve got a good fire going in your room, and I’ll have hot water for your bath right quick.”

As the woman ushered her away, Annabelle looked back at him over her shoulder, a look of pure panic etched in her features. She mouthed,
Do something
.

Obviously, she was just as unhappy about sharing a room, so Harrison made one final effort to secure separate rooms for them. “I don’t mean to be indelicate, but after the ordeal that my wife has experienced, she needs—”

“What that poor woman needs is a man who will stand by and protect her reputation,” Lawrence said as his gaze hardened. “The sheriff told me how you took advantage of that sweet, lovely woman, so don’t bother denying it. I’d have no objection if you took a seat over there by the fire, as I expect your wife would like a bit of time alone before you join her. I’ll bring you something hot to eat and drink while you’re waiting.” He turned and walked away.

Harrison tightened his jaw. He was sorely tempted to turn around himself, get out of this inn, and ride straight back to Philadelphia, leaving that “sweet, lovely woman” right here. Unfortunately, the horse they had borrowed from Reverend Wood was so old, he doubted the animal would even make it back to its owner without a full day of rest first.

He shifted his weight to take the pressure off the wound in his thigh he had gotten as a result of Annabelle’s attempt to force the lock on the handcuffs—but winced when he flexed his left wrist. In his current state, he doubted he could manage to ride that far even if he had a strong horse. The way the temperature was continuing to drop, he would likely freeze to death along the way.

Resigned yet again to circumstances well beyond his control, he glanced beyond the three women still chatting together to the table sitting directly in front of the fire. Exhaustion, cold, and hunger overruled caution, and he limped his way past the trio, offering only a smile and a quick nod to acknowledge them. Judging by their country style of dress and their conversation, he had no fear they were women traveling to or from Philadelphia, at least not in the same social circle he enjoyed.

He eased down on a bench positioned near the fire and rested his bandaged wrist on his lap, grateful for the opportunity to rest. While he avoided putting any pressure on the wound that encircled his wrist, he slid his knees beneath the planked table to hide the bloodstains on his trousers.

The fire quickly did its job of thawing him out. Unfortunately, the warmer he became, the more exhausted he felt and the more his wounds throbbed. But the warmth also helped him to think beyond mere survival, which was a greater blessing.

“Blessing,” he murmured and shook his head. There was not a single blessing to be found in this whole wretched affair, but he was not surprised. He could not recall a single instance in the past twenty-odd years when God had shown that He really cared about him—which made it quite easy to rely on his own wits, instead of the faith he had been raised to claim.

Two hours later Harrison had a full stomach, but he was barely able to follow Mrs. Lawrence and limp into his room for want of sleep—deep, healing sleep that would give him some respite from the constant pain in his wrist and thigh. Once he was inside the room, he was relieved to see that Annabelle was already slumbering, but he gave up any hope that the innkeeper’s wife would quickly take her leave when she closed the door behind them and pressed a finger to her lips.

“I’ve got fresh hot water in the tub for you, and I set some bandages out right next to the towels, just like your wife asked me to do. Just be very, very quiet. And don’t you dare wake your wife. You’ve done quite enough to her already,” she admonished.

The accusatory look in her eyes and the tone of her voice made it perfectly clear that she expected him to refrain from exercising his husbandly rights, even before she hobbled her way to the door, turned, and shook her finger at him. “That poor thing needs her rest,” she added before easing the door closed behind her, completely unaware that he had no intention of sharing the marriage bed with the woman sleeping just a few feet away from him. Or any other woman, for that matter.

As he tiptoed several steps to the tub, which was on the floor on the far side of the small room between the bed and the fire blazing in the hearth, he studied the only woman who would ever carry his name. The matted blond hair that had framed her face now lay in shimmering waves on the pillow. Beneath her closed eyes, which he remembered as being a pale shade of green, dark shadows testified to her total exhaustion. Her cheeks were chafed pink from being exposed to the harsh winter elements for too long and marred the porcelain complexion he recalled as flawless when he had first met her upon boarding the stage in Hanover.

A huge mound of blankets and quilts concealed her lean, diminutive form, but he had already been surprised by the womanly curves he had inadvertently discovered last night when she had turned to him in her sleep and he had held her close to his side to keep them both warm.

“Sad to say, that wasn’t the first mistake I made during this regrettable trip,” he muttered, but blamed the subtle scent of summer roses she had worn for distracting him from using his common sense. He closed his mind before he replayed the entire fiasco that had begun by his paying far too much attention to Camille Jenkins while staying at his country estate.

In all truth, when it came to women, he did not discriminate. Short or tall, raven-haired or blond, single or married, he found them all equally fascinating and enjoyed flirting with them. When pressed, however, he did have to admit to a particular fondness for dark-haired, voluptuous women—women exactly like Camille.

Vowing to confine his interests to single women in the future, he eased out of his vest and shirt. He tossed them both to the floor in disgust. The only person he could rightfully blame for ending up in this mess was himself. If he had not fallen asleep holding Annabelle, placing them both in a very compromising position, he would have heard the sheriff and his band of rescuers ride up. There was nothing he could have done, at least at that point, to keep Camille’s husband from pressing the sheriff to do something to avenge his wife’s honor, but he never expected the sheriff to force him into a marriage he clearly did not want.

Stooping down, he tugged the marriage certificate he had commandeered from Annabelle out of his vest pocket, took the pieces of the handcuffs out of his trousers pocket, and placed everything next to the towels stacked on a small table by the tub. Once he had pulled off his boots, which was no easy task one-handed, he tucked the treasures inside of one of his boots.

“Treasures indeed,” he murmured. They were far too important to his plans for an annulment to leave them lying about in full view, and he had no intention of revealing the reason he had kept the handcuffs, either.

The other women he had known who were as young, petite, and fair as Annabelle had been nearly devoid of any intellect, let alone common sense. Annabelle, however, was surprisingly different. She was clearly very bright, and if she gave it any thought, she should be able to figure out the reason he wanted to keep the handcuffs.

He could not prove he had had a rifle pressed at his back at Reverend Wood’s, but the handcuffs were hard evidence that they had both been coerced into marriage, even if the scar he knew he would carry on his wrist did not suffice.

Since Annabelle had been as opposed to the marriage as he had been, he had no fear she might be attracted by his wealth and tempt him to consummate the union. He had successfully eluded women far more determined to marry him than this one to avoid the heartache and grief that marriage eventually would bring into his life. He was equally confident that his very competent, very expensive lawyer would be able to arrange for a quiet annulment before anyone in Philadelphia heard the faintest bit of gossip that might reach the city.

Satisfied he had regained control of his life, he turned and studied Annabelle for several long minutes. When he was absolutely certain she was in a deep sleep, he attempted to remove his trousers but stopped almost immediately. The blood caked on them had dried so stiffly that he knew he would rip open the hole she had punched into his thigh with one of those knitting needles of hers if he forced off his trousers. Instead, he eased into the tub while still wearing them to let the warm water work through the dried blood first.

He had to sit rather awkwardly and bend his knees to fit into the tub. Once he got as comfortable as he was going to be, he grabbed one of the towels from the table, folded it into a makeshift pillow, leaned back, and closed his eyes. He’d remain just until the warm water did its job on his trousers and eased out every last bit of cold in his bones, as well. Then he’d fully undress and wash himself clean, make a bed on the floor out of some of those quilts, and get a well-deserved night’s sleep.