“A number of travelers have already taken refuge here,” he said. “And the passengers from the stagecoach are going to need rooms too. The inn will be overflowing tonight. There is, however, a smaller, quieter inn farther into the town, by the market green. It is used primarily on market days, but I have been assured that it is perfectly clean and comfortable. We could leave two rooms vacant here by removing there.”

There was a look in his eyes that was not exactly amusement and not exactly mockery. She could not interpret it though it sent shivers down to her very toes so that she found herself curling them involuntarily inside her half boots. She licked her lips.

“I have told you, Mr. Bedard,” she said, “that I do not have more than a few coins on me, having expected to journey straight through to York without stopping. I will remain here. I will sit in the dining room or in the window here until another stagecoach arrives to take me on my way.” Actually, she thought, she was probably not very far from Harewood Grange. They were in Leicestershire already, were they not?

His eyes smiled at her with that expression that was not quite mockery. “The innkeeper will have your portmanteau sent over as soon as it arrives,” he said. “The coach has a broken axle. The wait for another may be a long one, certainly an overnight one. You might as well wait in comfort.”

“But I cannot afford—” she began again.

He set one finger over her lips, startling her into silence.

“Ah, but I can,” he said. “I can afford the price of one room, at least.”

For a moment of utter stupidity she did not understand him. And then she did. She wondered that her face did not flame with such heat that she would set his finger on fire.

She wondered that her knees did not buckle under her while she collapsed into a deep swoon. She wondered that she did not scream and slap his face with all the force of her outrage.

She did none of those things. Instead she hid behind the worldly mask of Claire Campbell while she felt the full force of temptation. She felt an almost overwhelming yearning to continue her adventure, her stolen dream. He was suggesting that they share a room at the other inn. He must surely intend too that they share a bed. He must intend that they have marital relations there—though marital was quite the wrong word, she supposed.

Today. Tonight. Within the next few hours.

She smiled Claire Campbell’s smile and was aware as she did so that no other answer was necessary.

She was absolved of having to make any real decision or any verbal commitment. But nonetheless she had made a certain decision, otherwise Claire could not have smiled. Just once in her life she needed, she desperately needed, to do something gloriously outrageous and shocking and daring and ... out of character.

She might never have another chance.

“I will go rescue my horse before he settles too comfortably into a stall,” he said, taking a step back from her, looking her over quickly from head to toe, and then turning in the direction of the outer door.

“Yes,” she agreed.

After all, nothing was final. She would not really go through with the whole scheme. When the time came, she would simply excuse herself and explain to him that he had misunderstood, that she was not that kind of woman. She would sleep on the floor or on a chair or somewhere he was not. He was a gentleman. He would not force her. She was merely extending her adventure by agreeing to go with him.

She would not be doing anything irreversibly depraved.

Oh, yes, you will be, a small voice inside her head told her, unbidden. Oh, yes, you will be, my girl. It spoke in the brisk tones of Judith Law at her most sensible.

The Rum and Puncheon was a small market inn. It was empty of guests though the taproom was crowded enough. Mr. and Mrs. Bedard were received with jovial hospitality and given the best room in the inn, a square, clean chamber that soon had a fire crackling in the hearth, a welcome buffer against the rain that was pattering against the windows, and a pitcher of hot water steaming on the washstand behind the screen. They would be served their dinner, they were assured, in the small dining parlor that adjoined their bedchamber. They would be cozy and private there, the innkeeper’s wife informed them, beaming at them as if she fully believed them to be a married couple.

Claire Campbell pushed back the hood of her cloak when they were alone together in their room and stood looking out the window. Rannulf tossed his cloak and hat onto a chair and looked at her. Her hair had lost even more of its pins and was looking considerably disheveled. Her green cloak was dark with damp at the shoulders, slightly muddied at the hem. His intention had been to tumble her into bed as soon as they arrived so that they might slake the first rush of their appetite. But the time did not feel right. He was a lusty man but not one of unbridled passions. Sex, after all, was an art as well as a necessary physical function. The art of sex needed atmosphere.

All evening and all night stretched before them. There was no hurry.

“You will wish to freshen up,” he said. “I will have a pint of ale in the taproom and come back up when dinner is ready. I’ll have a pot of tea sent up to you.”

She turned to him. “That would be kind of you,” she said.

He almost changed his mind. The color was high in her cheeks again, and her eyelids were slightly drooped in invitation. Her hair was rumpled, as though she had just risen from bed. He wanted to put her back there, himself on top of her and between her thighs and deep inside her.

Instead he made her a mocking bow and raised one eyebrow.

“Kind?” he said. “Now kindness is something I am not often accused of, ma’am.”

He spent all of an hour in the taproom, drinking his ale while a group of townsmen included him hospitably in their circle and asked his opinion of the weather and his observations on the state of the roads while puffing on their pipes and drinking deep from their tankards and agreeing sagely with one another that now they were going to pay for all the hot summer weather they had been enjoying for the past several weeks.

He went up to the private dining parlor when the landlady informed him that the food was about to be carried up. Claire was there, standing in the doorway between the two rooms, watching a maid set the table and then bring in the food and set it down.

“It is steak-and-kidney pie,” the girl said with a smile and a curtsy before she left the room and closed the door behind her. “The best for ten miles around, I do declare. Enjoy it. Ring when you want me to remove the dishes.”

“We will. Thank you,” Claire said.

Rannulf had been almost afraid to look at her until they were alone together. He had had only glimpses of the muslin dress beneath her cloak. Now he could see that it was a simply styled garment, unexpectedly modest for a woman of her profession. But she had been traveling by stage. She had probably needed to wear something that would not attract too much attention. The dress did nothing to hide the glories of the body beneath it, though. She was not slender even though her long limbs gave that initial impression. She was lusciously curved, her waist small, her hips flaring invitingly. Her breasts, full and firm, were every man’s dream come true.

She had not dressed her hair up. She had brushed it back from her face, and it fell in shining ripples over her shoulders and halfway down her back. It was a glorious, almost shocking shade of red with gold highlights that glinted in the late daylight. Her long, oval face had lost its flush of color and was as pale and delicate as porcelain. Her eyes looked startlingly green. And—yes, by Jove—there was something unexpected about the face, something that drew her down into the realm of mortality. He closed the distance between them and ran a finger lightly over her nose, from one cheek to the other.

“Freckles,” he said. The merest dusting of them.

Some of the color returned to her cheeks. “They were the bane of my childhood,” she said. “And alas, they have never completely disappeared.”

“They are charming,” he said. He had always admired goddesses. He had never bedded one. He liked his women made of flesh and blood. He had almost feared when he first came into the room that Claire Campbell was a goddess.

“I have to cover them with a great deal of paint when I am onstage,” she told him.

“Almost,” he said, his gaze lowering to her mouth, “you have robbed me of my appetite for food.”

“Almost,” she said in that brisk voice he had heard once before. “But not quite. How foolish, Mr.

Bedard, when your dinner awaits you on the table and you are hungry.”

“Ralf,” he said. “You had better call me Ralf.”

“Ralph,” she said. “It is time for dinner.”

And later they would indulge in dessert, he thought as he seated her at the table and took his place opposite her. A sweet delight that they would savor all night long. His blood hummed in anticipation of good sex. He had no doubt that it would be very good indeed. In the meantime she was right—his body needed to be fed.

He talked of London at her request since it appeared that she had never been there. He talked about the social scene during the Season—about the balls and routs and concerts, about Hyde Park and Carlton House and Vauxhall Gardens. She spoke about the theater at his urging, about the parts she had played and those she longed to play, about her fellow actors and about the directors she had worked with. She described it all slowly, with dreamy eyes and a smile on her lips as if it were a profession she thoroughly enjoyed.

They ate well. And yet it surprised Rannulf about an hour after they had begun to look down at the table and see that most of the large quantities of food were gone and that the bottle of wine was empty. He could hardly remember the taste of anything, though he had a feeling of general well-being—and a constant spark of anticipation.

He got to his feet, crossed to the fireplace, and pulled on the bell rope. He had the dishes cleared away and another bottle of wine brought up.

“More?” he asked Claire, tilting the bottle above her glass.

She set one hand over the top of it. “Oh, I really ought not,” she said.

“But you will.” He looked into her eyes.

She smiled. “But I will.” She removed her hand.

He leaned back in his chair after filling their glasses and taking a sip. Now was perhaps the moment. The meager light of day was finally fading beyond the windows. The rain pelting against them and the fire crackling in the hearth added an atmosphere of coziness and intimacy, unusual for summer. But there was something else.

“I want to see you act,” he said.

“What?” Her eyebrows rose and her hand, holding the wineglass, paused halfway to her mouth.

“I want to see you act,” he repeated.

“Here? Now?‘ She set the glass down on the table. ”How absurd. There is no stage, there are no props, no other actors, no script.“

“A talented, experienced actress surely does not need a script for some parts,” he said. “And no stage or props either. There are any number of famous soliloquies that do not require other actors. Perform one for me, Claire. Please?”

He raised his glass and held it up to her in a silent toast.

She stared at him, the flush back in her cheeks. She was embarrassed, he thought in some surprise.

Embarrassed to put on a private performance for a man who was about to become her lover. Perhaps it was difficult to think one’s way into a dramatic role under such circumstances.

“Well, I could do Portia’s famous speech, I suppose,” she said.

“Portia?”

“The Merchant of Venice,” she explained. “Surely you know the ‘Quality of Mercy’ speech?”

“Remind me.”

“Shylock and Antonio were in court,” she said, leaning slightly across the table toward him, “for it to be decided if Shylock had the right to take a pound of flesh from Antonio. There was no doubt that he had such a right—it was stated clearly in the bond they had both agreed to. But then Portia arrived, intent on saving the dearest friend and benefactor of Bassanio, her love. She came disguised as a lawyer’s clerk and spoke up in Antonio’s defense. At first she appealed to Shylock’s better nature in the famous speech about mercy.”

“I remember now,” he said. “Do Portia for me, then.”