Page 42 of Memories Made At Midnight
Fourteen
Inside the stale and stuffy coach
ABOUT FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER
Beatrice would miss the ocean, the waves rushing ashore, the tang in the air, the call of the gulls… Mayhap she would find a house in another seashore town, if not in England, then perhaps France or Italy.
She’d dozed off when Cassius’s urgent whisper dragged her from Morpheus’s arms.
“Beatrice?”
“Hmm?”
She didn’t want to wake up.
The effort to stir and walk inside the inn overwhelmed her. Her head felt stuffed with wool, her tongue as if goats had tromped around inside her mouth after frolicking in muck, and her throat burned with a fierceness that rivaled gargling with hot coals. Her cold had worsened, not improved.
“Hurry, Beatrice.” A hint of impatience, or perchance worry, threaded Cassius’s urgent command.
Beatrice touched her dogs on their heads and whispered, “Stay quiet.”
They would obey.
Nala also made for an excellent guard.
“There’s a back entrance.” Cassius reached in and took her hand to help her down. He spoke low, near her ear. “I explained you were overcome with grief and didn’t wish anyone to see you in such a distraught state.”
Beatrice liked his voice. Not too deep or rough, but a pleasant, melodic baritone.
Focus, you goose.
With concentrated effort, she shook off her whimsical musing.
They hadn’t discussed who they grieved for. An oversight they should remedy sooner rather than later so that their stories correlated if necessary.
She nodded, for he’d already warned her not to speak.
“We’ve had a bit of unexpected luck. My eldest half-brother, Layton, is here.”
She formed a surprised “O” with her mouth.
Cassius gave her a sideways smile, though there was no humor in the upward sweep of his well-molded mouth. “Layton was on his way to Brighton, to see me. He’s a former captain in His Majesty’s Army, and I don’t mind telling you, I’m relieved to have encountered him. He’s armed and has agreed to accompany us the rest of the way to Hefferwickshire.”
Beatrice nodded again, grateful they’d have an ally and curious about this other Westbrook brother.
Placing her hand onto Cassius’s forearm, she couldn’t help but notice the taut muscles rippling and flexing beneath her fingertips. Though she was loath to admit it, she didn’t feel at all well and welcomed his support and strength as he led her to a back entrance, up a flight of sturdy steps, and down a dimly lit corridor—the lower half of the walls covered in wainscotting—until they came to a room at the end of the passage.
“This is your room.” He indicated a door.
A wood square displayed a tidy number six in red paint above her chamber.
He jutted his firm chin to the door on the right.
Number five.
“That’s mine. They have connecting doors. I thought that wisest in case something unforeseen occurs.” He pointed to a door across and down the passageway. “Layton’s chamber is just down the corridor.”
She gave a weary nod.
