The trip started well enough. Emma had parted company with Melisande, both of them crying, their argument put to rest, at least temporarily. Brandon Rohan had mounted his horse, his ruined face like granite. Now he rode ahead of the carriage beside the craggy old man who was apparently his servant. Even the rear end of Brandon’s horse expressed his disdain, Emma thought sourly. In fact, he was the horse’s ass, something she’d never realized before, and she could count her blessings that his true, obnoxious self had finally been revealed, freeing her from her inconvenient emotions. She could hardly call it an obsession, since she’d gone for days without thinking about him during the last three years, and she rejected the thought that she’d had any tender feelings at all for the miserable creature.

In truth, it had been mere curiosity, a bland interest that had stirred within her and nothing more, and now that she realized there was nothing beneath the usual masculine bravado she was content to dismiss him. Craning her neck, she peered at his strong back for the dozenth time, reminding herself that she didn’t care, and then sank back on the cushioned seat, trying to ignore the tight feeling between her breasts.

The early sun had vanished and the day was now cloudy and overcast. There were signs of the storm everywhere—fallen trees, sodden fields, the road rutted to an uncomfortable degree. It was a good thing it was well before planting, or this year’s crops could have been ruined, she thought. She hadn’t thought about crops or farming since she’d run away from home—it was odd to suddenly remember the devastation that bad weather could wreak.

There was no way she could sleep in the carriage, not with the deplorable condition of the roads, so she simply held on and rocked back and forth, her healing body beginning to ache. Cook had packed a lavish hamper, clearly meant to be shared with her unwilling escort, but the constant motion had turned her own stomach, and she wasn’t about to offer Brandon Rohan a thing. If he grew hungry then he could ask, and it was clear that he would starve before he’d speak pleasantly to her.

But why? It was a mystery, and much as she ought to she could never leave a mystery alone. He could scarcely have discovered anything new about her—she’d told him she’d been a whore and he hadn’t even blinked. If his sudden antipathy made any sense then she could easily let go, but instead her mind kept going back to him, even more often than her gaze, as she tried to puzzle out what had happened, and no matter how often she told herself it didn’t matter, it was none of her concern, she couldn’t leave it alone.

They were making miserable time, and darkness was coming early. Eventually exhaustion took over—she need to be back home in the safety of her rooms so badly that she wanted to weep with the need—and she fell asleep even as her body was tossed and shaken. When she woke with a start some time later, it was pitch black and the carriage had come to a stop.

She had no vain hope that they’d reached the city—even at this dark time of year there were street lamps to illuminate London’s gloom, and the noise was almost constant. A light rain had begun to fall, splashing against the roof and sides of the carriage and she sat up straight, determined to hide her dismay. With any luck they were simply stopping to exchange horses before continuing on with the final lap of their journey. But luck hadn’t been with her recently, and she had the gloomy feeling that wasn’t about to change.

She had just grasped the door handle when it was suddenly flung open, pulling her with it, catapulting her straight into Brandon Rohan’s strong arms, and there was no way she could stop her forward motion, particularly when the steps hadn’t been let down yet. She needn’t have worried—he disengaged from her as if her very touch were poison, setting her on the muddy ground and taking a step back.

“The road’s washed out,” he said, ignoring the cold rain that was pelting down and freezing Emma to the bone. “We have to stop for the night.”

Not the best news she could have heard, but under the circumstances she wasn’t surprised. He was blocking her way again, keeping her from seeking shelter as the rain began to soak through her wool gown and the mud oozed around her feet. He still had his hat on, protecting his face, but she’d left hers, along with her enveloping shawl, in the carriage.

If he expected her to complain he would have a long wait. She was a country girl at heart—a little rain never harmed anything more than a silk gown. “Where are we?” she demanded, her voice almost as cold as her feet.

“Just north of Chelmsford. Noonan found an inn that will take us, so we won’t be forced to spend the night in the carriage.”

Her eyes flew open at that horrible thought. “They have rooms for us?” she inquired delicately. If he told her they would be forced to share a bedroom then she was going to climb back into the coach and not leave it until they reached London.

He was looking at her with such anger and contempt from beneath the rain-soaked brim of his hat. Why, Emma thought, bewildered. It made no sense.

“The inn has no other customers—it appears that most people were wise enough not to attempt travelling while the roads were in such a mess.”

His tone of voice suggested she was the one who’d forced the journey, when he’d already been planning to leave that day. She controlled her instinctive retort. “Indeed?” she said, her catchall phrase to put anyone in his place.

But of course Brandon didn’t react. “In fact there are three bedrooms, so even Noonan gets a decent bed rather than sleeping in the stables with the driver, and the landlord has promised a good meal compliments of his wife.”

It took all her strength to keep from shivering. She needed a fire, a strong cup of tea, and now that they were no longer moving she discovered that she was famished. She was about to murmur something vague and move around him when he spoke.

“And in your case we needn’t worry about your reputation being compromised, need we?”

It felt like a slap in the face, and not the light one Melisande had given her. No, it was like a hard fist across the jaw, and the shock of it took her breath away. She jerked her head up to look him straight in the eyes, but she only had a glimpse before the heavy rain blinded her, just long enough to see momentary remorse, as a reproachful voice behind him said, “Laddie!”

It didn’t matter how shocked Brandon might be at his own cruelty. He could roast in hell for all she cared, her entire body suffused in a warming rage. “No, we needn’t,” she said, her voice brittle. “I’m delighted that my years of selling my body makes the situation more comfortable for you.” She didn’t hesitate, shoving him out of her way with the strength her anger had given her, and he fell back easily enough. “I find I’m not particularly hungry,” she tossed back over her shoulder. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Emma. . .” If he sounded regretful she didn’t give a rat’s ass. She ran the last few steps to the door of the tavern, her feet squelching in her muddy shoes, and burst forth into warmth and light and safety. She allowed herself a hopeful glance behind her, just in case there was some way to bolt the door and keep him out in the harsh weather, but there was nothing.

“Welcome to the Hawk and Cock, miss,” said a voice, and she turned back, pushing the rain and her bedraggled hair away from her face. “Bosomworth’s the name.”

He looked every inch a solid country innkeeper: round-bellied, rosy-cheeked, immensely cheerful. She knew how that look could change if Mr. Bosomworth suspected his prospective guest was far from respectable, but Brandon Rohan had already made arrangements, and no one would dare to question someone with his address. Just another thing different between them, she thought. Brandon had that easy self-assurance that Benedick and Melisande had, the kind that came with being born into that class, while she was a ruined woman from the country.

“Thank you, Mr. Bosomworth,” she said, striving to sound brisk. “I’m very tired—would it be possible for you to show me my room? I think I’ll simply retire for the night.” The moment the words were out of her mouth she knew she’d done it wrong—guests make demands, not pleas.

The innkeeper didn’t react. “Certainly, miss. But my wife’s a fine cook—she can make up anything you want, and she’s got a roast chicken just out of the oven. Can I tempt you. . . ?”

She heard Brandon fiddling with the door behind her, and she quickly stepped away. “I’m not hungry,” she said with a twinge of regret. She could smell the chicken now, and it made her mouth water. “Just my room, if you please.”

“Certainly, miss,” he said leading her across the room toward the staircase. “I’ll be right back, Mr. Rohan,” he called over his shoulder.

“I’m in no hurry,” Brandon said, and the sound of his voice was so dearly familiar, so deep and enticing, that she wanted to cry. But there was nothing to say or do, and she followed Mr. Bosomworth’s sturdy backside up the stairs, escaping.

He’d brought a branch of candles with him, lighting the way, and he led her up another flight to the third floor. “Mr. Rohan said I was to put you as far away from him as possible,” he said apologetically as he fought to catch his breath on the top landing. “For respectability’s sake, of course. I had the girl get the fire going, and it should be comfortable enough.” He pushed open the first door, and blessed heat wafted out, enveloping her in its embrace.

She walked in ahead of him, looking around, and her throat tightened. It was a small room, beneath sloping eaves, and the narrow metal bed, the threadbare rug on the scrubbed floors, the bright fire blazing in the small fireplace were so familiar. Her own room had been like this one—clean, comfortable despite its Spartan furnishings, before she’d traded it for the deceptively fancy surroundings of a London cathouse. There was even a cozy-looking chair by the fire. “This is perfect,” she said, meaning it. She moved to the fire, holding her chilled, gloveless hands out to the flames. “How far are we from London?”

“London? Why, miss, in the best of weather it’s no more than four hours, but as you can tell the weather is far from good.”

She stared at him in shock. “How is that possible? We left Rippington in the late morning and we were only five hours from the city. Surely it didn’t take a goodly portion of the day to achieve an hour’s worth of progress?”

“Main roads are out, miss. They’re all right for horses, but a big fancy coach like yours would never make it. Your coachman would have had to take back roads to get to London, and those send you either north or south. I’m thinking he took the northern way trying to avoid the worst of it, and that can add a full day onto the journey.”

Shit, she thought, reveling in the word Long Polly had taught her, a word she never used. “Oh, dear,” she said faintly.

Mr. Bosomworth looked sympathetic. “As long as the rain stops you should be past the worst of it. With any luck you’ll be in London before dark tomorrow. But what shall I tell Mr. Rohan if he asks after you?”

He wouldn’t, the rat bastard, she thought. “Oh, he knows I prefer to be by myself. For respectability’s sake,” she added, trying to keep the savagery from her tone. And then she smiled like a demure young female. “And I should warn you, he’s not Mr. Rohan. He’s Lord Brandon Rohan, the son of a marquess and the brother of viscount. He’s very starchy about his title—he’ll insist he doesn’t wish to be called by it but he’s still very affronted if you don’t.”

Bosomworth looked worried, and Emma almost felt a pang of guilt, but the very slight revenge was little enough to ask. “Thank you so much, Miss,” he said. “I’m glad you told me—I wouldn’t want to cause offense.”

“I thought you wouldn’t,” she said. “I will see you in the morning, Mr. Bosomworth.” Her tone was final, and the innkeeper had no choice but to accept it, bowing himself out of the room with repeated promises to provide anything she might desire.

She closed the door behind him. “Like Brandon Rohan’s head on a platter?” she muttered beneath her breath.

There was no lock on the door, but that was of no importance. No one would be trying to get into her room. She was cold, she was wet, and her entire body ached from the rough day’s travel. She would kill for a warm bath, but nothing would make her do or say anything that might bring her near Brandon again. He’d just have to make do with his precious Noonan’s company. The old man had looked at her like she’d crawled from under a rock as well, though she suspected that was simply an old bachelor’s distrust of females, and at least he’d been surprised by Brandon’s casual cruelty. Let the two of them enjoy each other. She just had to survive another day of travel and then she’d never see Brandon or his man again. Melisande and Benedick would simply have to come to her in London.

Sinking down by the warm fire, she pulled up her sodden skirts and attacked her wet, muddy half-boots. They were sturdy enough, made for moving through London’s filthy streets, and they’d survive this rough treatment, but she needed them cleaned and dried for tomorrow’s long day. She pulled them off and set them on the hearth, then slid her wet stockings off her legs and dumped them in a sodden pile next to the shoes.

She leaned back against the chair, shivering. She needed to get out of her wet dress and pull a blanket around her to ward off the chill, but for the moment she couldn’t bring herself to leave the fire. It was too hot against her face, while her back felt cold and pinched, and she leaned her head against the wing of the chair, sighing. Presumably someone would bring up her bag, but if they didn’t she would survive that as well. She’d certainly survived far worse.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she heard a soft knock on her door, and she struggled to her feet. It wouldn’t be Brandon—he’d have a more peremptory knock. And why should he be at her door anyway? For some reason he’d discovered he despised her, which made her blissfully happy. She could despise him in return.

As soon as she figured out how to achieve that happy emotion.

She was almost at the door when she remembered that a woman in her situation would be unlikely to answer the summons herself, and she stopped where she was. “Who is it?”

“Bosomworth, miss. We’ve got a bath for you, orders from his lordship,” came the innkeeper’s booming voice.

She hesitated for a full five seconds. Pride demanded that she send him away, but she’d abandoned pride long ago, and she would frankly kill for a warm bath at that point. “Come in,” she said, quickly returning to her seat by the fire.

The copper tub wasn’t huge, but it would easily encompass her, and she watched as two servants dumped heavy buckets of steaming water into it, bringing it halfway full. “Tim will be back with another bucket and your bag, miss, and afterwards Sally will be bringing you a tray of chicken, cheese and biscuits, orders from his lordship. Would you like wine or ale?”

Now that she’d already compromised her principles for a bath it would be foolish to turn down a meal. “You’re very good, Mr. Bosomworth,” she said, unable to bring herself to drop the honorific. “I would prefer something without alcohol. Perhaps some new cider?”

His forehead creased. “Are you and his lordship members of some new religion? Never heard of two people refusing good ale before.”

His words almost made her smile. “It’s not on moral principles, Mr. Bosomworth. Beer and wine disagree with my digestion.”

He looked doubtful. “If you say so, miss. Funny that Lord Brandon would suffer from the same affliction.”

It was slight, harmless, and he’d never know she’d trashed his reputation. “Oh, in his lordship’s case it’s simply that he has no head for it. One glass and he’s crying like a baby.”

By that time the two servants had returned, laden with even more water and her bag. “We don’t have bells in this place, miss, but I’ll have them come bring you dinner. Will that be acceptable?”

Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, she thought. “That would be lovely.”

“I’ll let Lord Brandon know. He was worried about you.”

She almost told him she changed her mind. Worried about her, was he? She sincerely doubted it. It was most likely a last remnant of his mother’s teachings—Lady Charlotte, as she was known in Melisande’s household, was a stickler for kind behavior, and no matter what sudden bugaboo Brandon had developed towards her, his instincts would be at war over his sudden contempt.

Besides, accepting a bath and a meal was hardly compromising her any further. As he had pointed out, that ship had already sailed.

She slipped into the steaming water with a moan of utter bliss—if she were ever moved enough to cry this would be the sort of thing that would motivate her. The heat was so delicious it made her chilled bones ache with it, and she was astonished the water didn’t turn muddy after she dunked her entire head. For a brief moment she was tempted to stay that way, but the small bath required her to contort into an uncomfortable position so reluctantly she sat up again.

The soap was heavenly, scented with thyme and roses, and she washed every part of her with an unexpected vigor, determined to start her life from then on with a clean slate, physical as well as mental. She could wash Brandon Rohan off her quite easily, just as she’d managed to scour him from her mind.

The Hawk and Cock was a well-run hostelry—no sooner had the water begun to cool than the maid reappeared with a tray of food, just as Emma had pulled her wrapper around her. “Oooh, you have lovely hair,” the girl breathed. “Would your ladyship allow me to brush it?”

She was young and country-bred—she probably thought all women were ladies. “Just miss,” Emma said, hesitating. “Of course.”

One more favor she was going to accept, but at least this time Brandon had nothing to do with it. Mollie Biscuits use to brush her hair when she’d first joined Old Mother Howard’s establishment, and the simple comfort of it did wonders to stop her endless tears that first year. Mollie had continued the task when they were all living in the Dovecote, and it reminded her of peace and affection, two things that were sorely lacking in her life right now.

The food was wonderful, and she ate every scrap on her plate, sipping at the tang of fresh apples in the cider that accompanied it. While she ate they removed the tub, and when she was done Sally, who it turned out was even younger than Emma had thought and was Bosomworth’s oldest daughter, insisted on taking her muddy dress and shoes along with the dinner tray, determined to clean them for her before she left the next morning.

Emma could no longer resist. She was warm, well fed, and drowsy, and she hadn’t even thought of the bastard below more than once or twice. She would sleep well tonight, and tomorrow she would be done with him.