“Your husband should show more manners,” he said to Elizabeau.
Elizabeau nodded patiently. “Indeed he should.” She turned to Rhys, smiling sweetly, which caught him completely off-guard. “Lower your weapons, darling, and apologize to this man. Yours was an impetuous, rude act.”
He stared at her for a moment. But in a flash, both swords were sheathed. Elizabeau continued to smile at him, wrapping her small, cold hands around his right arm.
“Apologize, Rhys,” she repeated softly.
He almost didn’t know what to say. He was so off-balance by her sweet voice and lovely smile that the words simply wouldn’t come. But when she nodded her head at him encouragingly, he cleared his throat softly and focused on the merchant.
“My apologies, my lord,” he said in a low, deep voice. “My only thoughts at the moment were of my… my wife. She was cold and I would do whatever necessary to warm her.”
The merchant gave in without another word. He waved a hand at his men, who backed away and sheathed their weapons without protest.
“If she’s that cold, then go put her in a warm tub and a warm bed,” he was already walking past them, heading for his former table. “In fact, make love to her all night. That will warm her blood quick enough.”
He laughed at his bawdy suggestion, resuming his seat at the table as the room gradually returned to normal. Those who fled were slowly returning to their seats, righting chairs and tables as they went. Rhys and Elizabeau stood in the middle of the room, watching the activity slowly resume. When Rhys finally looked at Elizabeau, she was staring up at him intently. He gave her a wry twist of the lips.
“Well, my lady, it seems that you managed to negotiate my way out of a battle,” he said quietly. “But next time, you will not jeopardize yourself like that. You could have been gravely injured, or worse.”
“And so I was not,” she shot back softly. “If I can negotiate you out of a battle, I will gladly do so. We’ve come this far. I would hate to see something happen to you after you have fought so hard to preserve my life.”
He cocked an eyebrow, watching two of the soldiers who had been intent on attacking him quit the inn. The other two remained, just inside the door. His gaze returned to her. “Husband, am I?” he muttered. “What possessed you to make a foolish claim like that?”
Her brow furrowed. “Because we are traveling alone together, you and I. What else would you have preferred I said? That you were my lover? My brother? Husband came to mind the quickest, so husband is what I said. It makes the most sense.”
He was forced to agree. He turned back towards their table, now crowded with the merchant, taking her hand in his own in the process. He hissed when his big palm closed over her fingers.
“Christ,” he breathed. “Your fingers are like ice. Come over here by the fire before you freeze to death.”
Elizabeau allowed him to lead her back over to their table by the fire, where the merchant was now eating heartily of their dinner. Rhys propped her right up against the flames, taking the chair opposite the merchant and eyeing the man as he noisily slurped his food. The merchant glanced up, seeing the two of them. He gestured at Elizabeau.
“The fire will do her no good,” he said, mouth full. “You must get her into dry clothes. She’s soaking.”
Rhys glanced over his shoulder at her, noting that the merchant was correct. He was coming to think he was the most unobservant man on the face of the planet; other than her lovely face and her sweet voice, he’d noticed little more about her. He felt like an idiot.
“I fear that most of her clothing is wet,” he said, pouring himself another cup of ale in spite of his earlier vow not to do so. “The fire is the best I can do for her right now.”
The merchant was slopping and burping as he ate. “I have something for her to wear,” he said. “I’ll send one of my men outside to my wagon. It will cost you, though.”
Rhys looked at Elizabeau again; she was looking at the merchant. “How much?” she asked.
The man noisily drank his ale. “Depends,” he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I am returning from a trip to Paris. I have all manner of pre-made surcoats and shifts to sell in Gloucester and the Marches. My goods are the latest rage of fashion, you know. I have some your size if you wish to see them.”
“I do,” Elizabeau agreed readily. “What is your name, my lord? I fear we should become acquainted on more pleasant circumstances.”
“Robinson Marchant,” the man replied without missing a beat, gnawing on his beef.
Elizabeau waited for Rhys to introduce them, but he made no move to do so and she tapped him on the back so he got the hint. Rhys was very careful, and very reluctant, with any information he might give. But he had to say something.