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feet and let in the tavern’s servant. The man bore a tray covered with dishes, each in turn covered with upturned pewter bowls. Two bottles of wine emerged from a sack the servant had slung around his body.
    â€œHere. Take what is left for yourself.” He handed over some coin, more than enough to cover the meal. The servant had already tucked some away before he left the apartment.
    As long as he was up, he went to the bedchamber door. There were sounds on the other side. “Come and eat something.” He spoke quietly enough that if he were wrong and she still slept, she would not hear.
    The door opened and Marielle emerged, carrying her shawl. Without it the damage to her dress showed. It appeared she had used the morning’s washing water to blot out the worst of the blood. That side of her dress clung close to her body from the resulting damp. The dress was one of those old-fashioned ones with a low waist and lacing up the front. He guessed that when new it had been lovely, but now its fawn color had turned to something akin to the hue of very dry dirt on a country road and its wilted white lace trimmings had taken on a gray tinge.
    â€œI do not have time to eat.” Even so she walked over and lifted the pewter covers and sniffed.
    â€œI insist. You were faint. If you eat proper meals, you will heal faster.”
    â€œIt is wrong of you to make me your prisoner.”
    â€œNot a prisoner. A guest. I got skewered while saving your life and I am not about to risk having it all be for nothing because you will not use good sense and rest a day or so.”
    â€œYou only want to ask more annoying questions.”
    â€œGentlemen do not impose on ill or wounded women with questions. I would have to keep you here a week before you were fit enough for me to interrogate you further. I do not think of it as imprisoning you, but if you insist on doing so—”
    â€œA week would be most inappropriate. Impossible. I could not allow it.”
    â€œThe thing about being a prisoner is that there is no choice. However, as I said, you will remain here and rest only as long as the physician ordered. After that, you will be free to go.”
    She smiled to herself, as if she saw through a bald lie. Then she gave one of those shrugs. “Sit. I will serve, since you have no proper help here.”
    He sat and went to work opening the wine. She stood and spooned out the chicken stew and potatoes, then took the bread, broke it neatly, and set some at his place.
    She settled on the chair at the end of the table. With him seated on the side, she was close enough to touch. He probably should have set the places across from each other. He had not really thought about that. She did not seem to mind or notice how close they sat to each other.
    â€œPlease pretend I do not smell of an alley and blood, and my hair is not a rat’s nest in need of a brush. It embarrasses me to be in such a state while dining with a gentleman.”
    â€œWe are neither of us in good condition today. However, your hair looks slept in, not a rat’s nest, and all I am smelling is this stew.” He ate some of it, to reassure her.
    â€œHow gallant of you to say so. I think my friend Lady Cassandra is wrong about you.”
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œShe says you are not one to flatter even when it is wise to do so. That you are not”—she puzzled over the right words—“in sympathy with polite society.”
    More likely she said he was
not fit
for polite society. “She has noticed that I cannot abide all the chatter over insignificant things. The scandals. The fashions. Why anyone gives a damn about it all is beyond me. Always was.” He wondered if Lady Cassandra, now Lady Ambury, had offered the information about his lack of social skills as part of that insignificant chatter. Perhaps Marielle had been probing for it instead.
    The latter notion pleased him. That made him curse inwardly.