Page 72 of Reign

Inside, the patrons glanced our way, drawn by the wailing wind that followed us through the open door. Bash slammed it shut, muffling the storm’s howl.

It was quieter than our last visit with the soldiers—only a handful of customers gathered around the trestle table. A lone figure sat by the fire, plucking a merry tune on his lute, while Jane stood at the bar, diligently polishing tankards with a mucky cloth.

Wiping the rain from my face, I scanned the chamber for Margaret—but she was nowhere to be seen.

Bash shrugged off his long coat, sending droplets of rain flying as he shook it out. His sodden tunic clung to his toned stomach, and I knew the gods were testing me, using Bash’s body as a divine challenge of self-restraint.

As I succumbed to lustful thoughts—imagining how each muscle might feel beneath my fingertips—I noticed Bash glancing down at himself, trying to figure out what had aroused my interest. He looked up, catching my eye.

“What?” he asked, chuckling awkwardly.

My mouth went dry, as if I’d swallowed a handful of sand.

“Gentlemen!” Mr. Bednot called out as he appeared behind the bar. “What can I do for you on this wet evening?” He flung open his arms as if greeting old friends.

I never thought I’d be thankful to see that sallow-faced man, but as he diverted Bash’s attention away from me, I found myself relieved by his presence.

Scraping my drenched hair off my flustered face, I followed Bash over to the bar.

“A private chat with one of your ladies,” I said, resting my elbows on the counter. “Preferably Margaret, if she’s available.”

Mr. Bednot raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you call it?” he asked with a sly grin.

I shook my head defensively. “I’m not interested in her for…” I hesitated for a heartbeat. “Carnal pleasures—I just want to talk. I find women’s conversations far more engaging than the frivolous chatter of men,” I said, sounding more like Niamh than Smith.

Mr. Bednot nodded slowly, as if convinced I was too timid to voice my true intentions with Margaret. Though he wasn’t entirely wrong, his assumption was far from the truth.

“Do both of you wish to have a conversation with a lady this evening?” he asked, nodding toward Bash.

“Yes, please,” I replied.

Mr. Bednot rubbed his palms together. “That’ll cost you ten pence and a shilling, each,” he said, licking his lips like he was peckish for pennies.

Bash flinched at the price, while I gave him an encouraging pat on the back, knowing I had no coinage.

“Fitzroy’d better give me one of his jewels for this,” Bash muttered, shaking his head as he dug out the coins owed.

He handed them to Mr. Bednot, who then hurried us through the fraying curtain and into the sordid back rooms.

“Jane will take care of you,” Mr. Bednot said, shoving Bash toward the chamber on the far left. “Margaret’s waiting to attend to your needs in here,” he added, ushering me into the bedchamber I’d visited before.

“All well, love?” Margaret asked as she closed the door behind me.

Uncomfortably, I stood in the middle of the candlelit space, tugging at the sleeves of my long coat and wishing Bash were with me.

Margaret’s motherly face bore big blue eyes and a small mouth, framed by thinning strands of black hair. The lines etched into her forehead made her look older than forty, though working here had likely taken its toll.

I recalled the last time I’d seen her, when Red had broken her nose with one mighty jab. I’d expected crooked bones and bruised skin, yet her face had healed suspiciously quickly.

“Have you come back to claim your reward for saving me the other night?” Margaret asked, gesturing toward the bedstead.

I nodded as I sat on the stained sheets, wondering if it could truly be called a reward—after all, I’d just paid ten pence and a shilling for her time.

Margaret perched beside me and tugged up her yellow kirtle to flash her stocking-covered knee.

“Oh,” I stammered, panic rising in me.

Margaret rolled the worn linen higher, exposing more of her flesh. My focus, however, wasn’t on her pale thighs but on the embroidered gloves she wore. The daisy pattern along the hems reminded me of the design etched into Fletcher’s stolen locket.