Did the lass actually believe that he’d leave her here?
Alone?
She nodded once, then turned in the direction of the stairs that led to the sleeping quarters.
He moved them in the direction of the stairs, trying to ignore the bawdy shouts around them. “You cannot stay here,” he said.
“And why not?” she asked. She placed her hands on her hips and eyed him defiantly.
“Because had I not interfered, those men would no doubt have taken turns with you.” He paused to see if she understood his meaning. When her blue eyes rounded and her head tilted, he wagered she’d comprehended perfectly. “Staying here would only give them an invitation to do so in your room instead of on the dirty pub floor.”
Her mouth formed a silent “O.”
He turned her back toward the door.
“My belongings,” she whispered as she came to a stop.
“What?”
“The items I brought with me are in a room upstairs. I had intended to stay here,” she said.
“Let us collect your things,” Graeme said. “And then we need to remove ourselves from this place. Those men believe us to be husband and wife, and they might expect us to prove that.”
Again her eyes widened. Then she hurriedly made her way up the stairs.
He followed behind her, enjoying the way her skirt cupped her backside as she climbed upward. Her height intrigued him; her legs must go on forever. He’d best stop the direction of these thoughts. But before he did, he took a moment to imagine what it would be like to press her up against the door and kiss her again.
He reached over and assisted, sliding the key into the lock and turning hard to the left. He’d seen the way that she’d handled herself with the other men. She was smart, but foolish in not knowing her own limitations and what a dangerous situation she’d been in.
The room was a tiny space with only a narrow bed, the mattress no doubt stuffed with moldy hay, and what Graeme could only guess was a washbasin.
“How long were you intending to stay here?” he asked.
“As long as it took,” she said as she gathered her belongings.
“As long as what took?” he asked.
She closed the trunk, then stood there, glancing first at the trunk and then the door. “Do you suppose I could call a footman?”
He plucked her trunk up off the floor. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Right.” She surveyed the room, presumably searching for anything that she might have left. She chewed at her bottom lip, then shoved her spectacles up farther on her nose. “My research.” She turned to face him, a small shoulder bag pressed against her chest. “Precisely where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere safer than this,” he said.
“How do I know I can trust you? That you’re not simply leading me out of here so you can ravish me?” she asked. Then she rounded her shoulders and eyed him across the top of her glasses.
He suppressed a laugh. “You don’t.” He stepped closer to her, his large frame looming over her. “But I would wager I smell better than those blokes downstairs.” He made to put her trunk back on the floor. “If you’d prefer—”
She held a hand up. “No.”
He braced the trunk on his shoulder, then turned for the door. “Follow. And stay close.” Quietly they crept down the stairs, then out the door. The cold night wind had calmed, but the chill still hung heavy in the air.
“What am I supposed to call you?” she asked.
“Husband,” he said.
She caught up to walk beside him. She opened her mouth to say something, but words failed her.