The Marriage Ring by Cathy Maxwell Page B

Lynsted picked up his crumpled paper. He sat back against the seat, raised the paper, and once again began to read.
    She reached down to the floor. She found her sheath and slipped the knife back into it before sitting up. She ran a hand through her hair, pushing the pins that had loosened back in place.
    They rode in silence for a moment and then Mr. Lynsted murmured, “One other item to my list—the woman I marry won’t pull a knife on me.”
    “More’s the pity,” she replied, trying to ape his earlier disinterest, and failing.
    She’d been exposed. Made vulnerable…and he knew it.

Chapter Seven
    T hey stayed in their separate corners of the coach as best they could after that.
    When Mr. Lynsted finished reading his paper, Grace worked up the courage to ask if she could read it. He handed it to her without a word before returning to his ledger sheets.
    The weather took a turn for the worst. Gray storm clouds covered the sun, threatening rain at any moment.
    They had driven long and hard with only one quick stop along the side of the road for a stretch of the legs. Grace was very relieved when at last the coach turned off the main road.
    “We must have reached the inn Dawson knows,” Mr. Lynsted informed her, breaking their hours of silence. “He said it was suitable for the night.”
    Grace nodded, still not ready to talk to him. He’d kept his distance but she’d discovered she was too aware of him for her comfort.
    After several turns down one road and another, the coach finally came to a halt. Grace stifled a yawn and put on her hat before she pulled on her gloves.
    Mr. Lynsted did not wait for the driver to open his door but opened it himself and climbed out. Grace slid across the seat, ready to exit but his body blocked her way. He leaned back in to say to her, “It’s crowded out. The yard is full of horses and vehicles. Wait in the coach while I send Herbert in to see if there are rooms available for us.”
    Grace didn’t want to wait. She yearned for fresh air and yet with him blocking the door, what choice did she have?
    She pulled back the curtain covering the window on her side of the coach that she’d closed to keep cold air out and was surprised to see exactly how busy the inn yard was. There were horses, sporty phaetons, and coaches everywhere, along with servants and gentlemen.
    Leaning across the seat toward Mr. Lynsted, she asked, “What is going on here?”
    He didn’t answer her directly but stopped a passing gentleman. Grace couldn’t hear what they were saying and had to wait until Mr. Lynsted informed her, “There was a boxing match about ten miles down the road. The winner is to fight Cribb. I suppose because this inn is near the post road, many thought they’d chance coming here for an early start home on the morrow.” He pulled his head out and she heard him ask a passing gentleman who had won the match.
    The name Cribb didn’t mean a thing to her, but she was suddenly very weary and the walls of this coach were closing in around her. She wanted her supper and her bed and found it very easy to target her irritation at Mr. Lynsted.
    She slid across the seat to the door. Mr. Lynsted was still blocking it with his body. For a second she debated giving him a goose in the hip to see if he would move, and decided against it. She’d wandered a long way from her mother’s teachings on the manners and decorum of a young lady, but there were still some things she would not do.
    So, she did what her mother would have advised her to do, she cleared her throat. Several times.
    Mr. Lynsted either didn’t hear her or refused to take the hint. He stood right where he was, discussing the fight with strangers and asking for more details. Apparently, a Scot named McGowan had defeated the favorite. The men had much to say about this unexpected win and proceeded to give it the same detailed consideration and discussion that Wellington probably offered over Napoleon.
    Grace was going to scream