Page 86 of A Shore Thing

She turned.

“Tell Jenny now,” she called, and both boys shot up from the benches. Mrs. Glanvil sighed. “Not you, Peter. You take the luggage. You do have luggage?” She turned back to them.

Muriel looked down at the bundle in her arms, a small dressing box and her wadded shift. Water dripped from the brim of her hat. She’d been pleased to find it—caught in the hedge by her bicycle—but it had done precious little to protect her from the rain. She could feel her braid leaking down her back.

When she looked up, she saw that Mrs. Glanvil’s lips had bent into a concerned frown.

“We’re traveling light,” said Griffith smoothly, and gave the innkeeper his widest, most devastating smile.

“On bicycles, I hear.” Mrs. Glanvil looked slightly dazzled—by the smile, Muriel suspected, not their means of transportation.

“You heard right,” said Griffith, and Mrs. Glanvil blushed.

“You and the missus are bold ones.”

Muriel coughed. “We’re not—” She stopped herself. Mr. Hendy had come upon them as they’d stood locked in an amorous embrace. What was there to say? We’re not anything so respectable as married?

“We’re not…very bold.” She coughed again. “A bath sounds lovely.”

“Let’s get you signed in,” said Mrs. Glanvil to Griffith. “Then I’ll show you up to your room.”

Room. Singular. For the married couple.

Muriel’s throat worked as she swallowed.

Griffith cut a glance at her, brows lifted questioningly. He’d try to get them out of it if she made a sign.

She gave a small shake of her head, and something kindled behind his eyes.

“We’ll take your best,” he said to Mrs. Glanvil.

The tub was some time filling, and so after Griffith returned from his transacting, they dripped awhile longer on the flagstones, Griffith standing Mr. Hendy several pints, although he limited himself to a single brandy, offering her the same, and clinking their glasses.

When they finally retired to their room, Muriel gaped. The tub was enormous, a great copper oval, capped with mountains of suds. Rose-scented steam curled toward the ceiling. A scrawny girl with carrot-colored braids was coming and going with linens and dinner trays, looking humid and surprisingly good-humored.

“That’s all, then,” she said, hands on her hips. “Dinner’s there. Tub’s there. Bed’s there. Basket’s there.” Darting them each a swift glance, bright with curiosity, she whirled. “Evenin’.”

The door clicked shut behind her, and they were alone. Muriel’s eyes bounced between the tub and the bed. The bed was as big for a bed as the tub was big for a tub. Both seemed out of proportion to the room itself.

“You should take off your clothes.”

Muriel’s eyes bounced to Griffith. He was lounging against the wall, wearing the heavy-lidded expression of an inveterate seducer. She felt a flutter, and then a nip of annoyance, that he should find all of this so navigable.

“I’ve figured it out,” she informed him. “You’re not charismatic. It’s just that some people are charmed by overconfidence.”

“Are you?” He tossed back his wet hair and grinned.

Yes. When it came to him, she couldn’t help herself.

She lifted her chin. “Not in the least.”

His gaze traveled over her. “The laundry can’t wait. Mrs. Glanvil’s orders.” He let his knapsack thump down on the threadbare rug. “I told her we’re setting off early.”

Laundry. Of course. She flushed, then frowned. Now he toyed with her. Her nerves were wound too tight for this type of teasing. She enjoyed their banter, but she had to know where they stood, how far he wanted this to go.

“To be clear, then.” Her brows knitted. “You aren’t trying to seduce me?”

“Hell.” He peeled off his jacket. “I hope I haven’t given you that impression.” The basket was just to the right of the door. In went the jacket. The vest. His necktie. He pulled his braces over his shoulders.