“Rhys de Foix,” he said softly, glancing over his shoulder at the lady behind him. “And my lady wife, Elizabeau.”
Robinson’s gaze moved between them. “She’s a lovely woman,” he said to Rhys. “Such beauty is very rare. And she seems intelligent as well. Is her disposition as lovely?”
Rhys lifted an eyebrow. When he didn’t answer right away, Elizabeau pinched him on the exposed hand that held the ale cup. It smarted and Rhys winced.
“Of course,” he said dryly. “Can you not tell? She is an angel.”
Robinson snorted. Then he laughed out loud. “I like her,” he announced, slurping his ale again. “She has spirit.”
“Is that what it’s called?”
Robinson was grinning, watching Elizabeau’s lovely profile in the firelight. “And she is very protective of you, I can tell. A truly loyal woman is hard to find.”
Elizabeau looked strangely at Robinson before quickly looking away. She had no idea what to say to that statement, wondering if she had indeed come across as the fiercely loyal wife. All she had meant to do was diffuse the approaching battle. Anything else that was conveyed was incidental.
“Where are you two traveling to?” Robinson asked as he crunched into a turnip.
Unaware of Elizabeau’s reaction to the merchant’s faithful wife statement, Rhys replied to the question. “To the Marches.”
Robinson wiped at his chin. “As I said, I am traveling that direction. I should like it if you two would travel with me. I am bored with only my stupid men to keep me company. They are horrific conversation. But with the two of you, we could keep each other entertained on a tedious journey.”
Before Rhys could reply, Robinson turned to his two remaining men standing by the inn door and bellowed at them to bring in two of the trunks for the lady’s review. Rhys watched the men disappear into the howling night, suddenly realizing he was sitting on the fur cloak he had ripped from Robinson’s shoulders. He stood up, picked up the cloak, and held it out to the man.
“I believe this is yours,” he said.
Robinson waved him off, still eating. “Your wife needs it more. In fact, if I were you, I’d take my advice. Order her a hot bath and get her into a warm bed. And then we shall leave at daybreak for the Marches.”
Rhys looked at Elizabeau, standing damp by the fire and trying desperately to warm her frozen hands. He wasn’t sure they had time for a hot bath and a warm bed; he wasn’t sure when de Lohr would be upon them. But it was evident that she needed something to bring her some comfort. He’d been insensitive to her long enough.
He snapped to the nearest serving wench and the girl went running for the barkeep, who hurried over to Rhys across the crowded room. The man didn’t have a room to spare, but he offered up his daughter’s simple chamber in the rear yard attached to the stable. Rhys didn’t argue with him for a better room; he simply paid the man and watched the flurry of activity as he set about bellowing for the big copper tub. When the wheels were in motion, one of the serving women came to escort Elizabeau to her waiting room.
“Go with your wife,” Robinson told Rhys. “When my men bring the garments in, I’ll shall come and find you. We’ll find her something warm and dry to wear.”
Rhys wasn’t about to let Elizabeau out of his sight, but accompanying her to her bath was an entirely different situation. Still, they’d backed themselves into a mistruth of stories and he had no choice but to go with her. A husband would have, after all. He only hoped de Lohr would understand.
Without a word, he rose and followed Elizabeau and the serving wench back through the kitchen and out into the yard. The rain and wind were howling as they crossed the muddy yard and entered a small room adjoining the stable. It wasn’t particularly comfortable or clean, but it was warm and dry. Rhys stood aside, pulling Elizabeau with him, as a burly old man brought in the massive copper tub.
It wasn’t so much a tub as it was a giant cooking pot used for baths and sometimes to feed the livestock. The young serving girl even mentioned they used it to boil down bones. The wench fled back into the stormy night and the burly old man reappeared with buckets of steaming water. The girl returned, too, carrying a linen sheet, some manner of soap and a scrub brush. She had also been thoughtful enough to bring Rhys more wine, which he took from her and moved to the corner of the room near the door. He poured himself a cup as he sat down, watching the burly old man with the long hair full the copper pot to the rim.
The old man finally gathered his buckets and shut the door to the room quietly behind him. The serving wench moved to help Elizabeau from her wet clothes, confused by her mistress’s extreme reluctance. Elizabeau wasn’t about to budge until Rhys turned his back, which he did by discreetly adjusting his chair and facing the window.