After the Wedding (The Worth Saga #2)(22)

The innkeeper let out a sigh. “It doesn’t, does it? Well, I do suppose the Bible says something about kindness to Samaritans and foreigners.”

Adrian did not point out that he had been born in England, or that in the Bible, it had been the Samaritan who was kind. Nobody ever liked facts in situations like this.

“If you don’t mind eating in the kitchen, I’ll serve you there. Cook’s gone home for the evening, but we have soup and cold chicken and bread that she’s left. It’s open enough that there will be no worries for your reputation, Miss Winters, but it’s late enough that you’ll not be disturbed.”



* * *



It took half an hour to sit down to food. Camilla took her things up to the room the innkeeper provided for her—not large, she supposed, but anything was larger than the space she’d shared with Kitty and Cook for the last eighteen months.

There was a chipped yellow pitcher of water, a sliver of sweet-smelling soap, a basin, and a clean cloth atop a small table. Camilla wanted nothing more than to wash the day off her skin, as if all her heartbreak, fear, and indignation could be scrubbed into nothingness. Maybe she’d awake in her bed back at the rectory to discover it had all been a nightmare.

Instead, she soaked the cloth and set it against her face. The cold shock of water reminded her that she was very awake. Alas.

Her life had turned upside down. No, upside down could not describe what had just happened. Her shoulders trembled still, the way they did when she worked for hours without ceasing. She felt rubbed raw. She couldn’t believe that it had been just this noon that she’d been sent up to change the bishop’s sheets. None of it made sense. They’d been lying, of course. They had to have been lying.

But they’d all seemed so certain that she could not help but doubt her own mind. Maybe they were right. Maybe that legion of devils on her shoulder had pushed her to invent the whole thing with the sheets and the door, because she was the woman they feared, someone so brazen…

So brazen that what? That she’d locked the door from clear across the room and forgotten that she had a key in her pocket?

The entire affair was too painful to contemplate at the moment. She shook her head, abandoning the attempt, and finished her ablutions. Then she went down to dinner.

Mr. Hunter was already there. He had a plate of chicken and potatoes—both cold—and a bowl of soup, still steaming.

Camilla settled for just the soup and a bit of bread. He’d given her money, but who knew how long it would last?

Her first spoonful was heaven. Carrot and celery in a broth made from some indeterminate meat should not have been so good, but oh, God, it was warm and it was food.

“Ohhh.” She could not help but let the syllable loose.

Mr. Hunter raised an eyebrow.

“The soup,” she said. “It practically melts on one’s tongue.”

He blinked. “It’s soup. It’s not melting. It’s already liquid.”

She shut her eyes. Maybe the world would go away. Maybe there would be no ruin, no reputational damage, no husbands if she wished hard enough.

Maybe there would just be soup.

She opened her eyes to see him still watching her.

“I’m sorry.” She had been apologizing to everyone the entire day; she felt as if she could not apologize enough. “But it’s very good soup.”

He prodded the congealing film on top of his cooling bowl with a spoon. “It really isn’t.”

She dipped her own spoon again. Objectively, there was too much broth, too little salt, and almost no meaty bits.

“It’s only edible because we’re both famished,” he told her. “You should eat more than the soup.”

She didn’t say anything. She took a bite of bread instead. It was excellent bread, delicious bread…

Well, technically, it was both dry and chewy all at the same time, as if the loaf had been forgotten in the cellar for a week after being baked. The crumb was almost impossible to tear with her teeth, and the loaf itself was dense as a board.

“Good thing I’m famished,” Camilla said with a little nod of her head. “Or I’d finish the meal far too hungry.”

He shook his head. They ate for a few minutes longer. Every bite she took chipped away at her hunger, bit by bit, and made the food less palatable.

She was still hungry when she gave up on the soup.

He set his spoon on the table and prodded the potato with his fork. It promptly fell into bits, as if it had been boiled into mush. “My brother says I’m too trusting, but…” He shrugged. “I am who I am. It’s not changing. I could sit here and wonder whether I could tell you the truth. I could dance around the issue and keep silent, and you could wonder why I was behaving in a secretive and irrational manner. Or I could tell you everything all at once, hope for the best, and we could work together to get ourselves out of this situation.”

Camilla felt her lips tilt up in a smile. “What an incredibly difficult decision you have before you. You could lock yourself in a cage of your own making. Or you could not. I suppose it’s up to you.”

He stared at her for a moment before his face crinkled into a warm smile. “I like you.”

Well, that made one person. It was one person more than the zero it had felt like an hour before. She took another sip of her soup. “Your voice sounds different.” She wasn’t sure when it had changed, or even how, the shift was so subtle.