Return of the Prodigal Gilvry

She put her hands on her hips. ‘Well, well, if it isn’t my dear husband.’ Her eyes sparkled like water running over pebbles in a brook. Anger or amusement. Whichever it was, it made a breath catch in his throat; she looked so lovely with her hair hanging about her shoulders and her cheeks flushed by the warmth from the fire.

He strode for the window and opened it.

The wind gusted in, bringing with it a whirl of snowflakes and a chill to his overheated blood.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ she asked, her voice rising in pitch.

‘Admiring the view,’ he said over his shoulder. And checking for a way out should it be needed. The kitchen roof jutted out a few feet below. An easy climb down to the ground.

He took a deep breath, closed the window and turned back to face her. ‘I’m sorry I had to tell them we were wed. I couldna’ leave you up here alone with that lot staying below.’

Her lips thinned. ‘And I suppose you are sorry you had to kiss me, too.’

Heat travelled up his neck. ‘It was necessary, but, aye, I’m sorry.’

The apology didn’t seem to mollify her one little bit.

He jerked his chin at her saddlebag. ‘Is there something dry in there you can change into?’

She glanced down at the bag and then up at him. ‘Only my nightgown. I wasn’t expecting to put up at an inn without my luggage, which is now with the Pockles who, by the way, will be surprised to find us calling ourselves man and wife.’

The Pockles were another worry. They could not have been more than a half hour or so behind them, so they should have arrived by now. He didn’t see any reason to let her know his concern, though.

He shrugged. ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’

A rap sounded at the door. ‘Who is it?’ he asked, one hand going to his pistol.