“We have enough food to last another day. And we need to press on if we hope to reach Oxford by tomorrow.”
“It would be infinitely more pleasant to sleep in a real bed tonight,” he reminded her.
“True, but I don’t want to risk Emperor being recognized. We only need to find a meadow with a stream and a few trees. A pile of leaves makes a comfortable bed.”
“Behold me in raptures,” Beaufort said, his tone dust-dry.
“It will not kill you to sleep under the stars,” she replied, smiling.
Beaufort cast a glance at the sky to the west. “I wouldn’t count on seeing any stars tonight. Those clouds look as if a storm is brewing.”
His words were prophetic, for a while later the wind picked up. Soon the gusts were making the horses nervous. Behind her, Emperor tossed his head and tugged on his lead, and even Maura had difficulty soothing him.
“We ought to return to the inn and wait out the storm,” Beaufort suggested.
“Perhaps the next village will have shelter,” Maura replied, hoping to ride as far as possible before they were forced to stop.
The rain began some ten minutes later, a dull drizzle that seemed bearable at first. But then the storm intensified, lashing them with icy fingers.
When the torrent had soaked through her cloak and drenched Beaufort entirely, Maura realized how foolish she had been to insist that they try to brave the storm. She was cold and shivering already, so she knew Beaufort had to be even more miserable with no cloak or greatcoat to protect him.
To make matters worse, a mail coach rumbled by, forcing them to the far edge of the road. It was all Maura could do to avoid sliding off the verge into a rain-swollen ditch.
Then disaster struck. Frip tripped in a rut and fell to his knees, almost spilling Maura from her saddle, which caused Emperor to rear behind her and yank the lead out of her hand.
Spinning on his haunches, the stallion plunged down the muddy bank, then stumbled as he scrambled up the other side of the flooded ditch.
Her heart in her throat, Maura guided Frip after him, slithering down the slick embankment and back up again. She could barely see through the sheets of rain, but at least Emperor had halted.
Murmuring a prayer, she flung herself off Frip’s back and ran to the stallion. She could tell he was favoring his front left foreleg, and upon inspection, realized that he had thrown a shoe, pulling off part of the hoof wall in the process, perhaps cutting into the quick or bruising the sole of his foot.
When she urged the stallion to take a step forward so she could judge the damage, he visibly limped.
Dismay and guilt welled up inside Maura as Beaufort dismounted behind her.
“That settles it,” he declared. “We are returning to the inn. This foolishness has gone on long enough.”
“Yes,” Maura agreed meekly. “We will need to find a blacksmith to replace his shoe.”
While Beaufort took the reins of their riding mounts, she carefully led Emperor back across the ditch. He was still limping, although not as badly, so that Maura doubted he would be permanently lamed by walking all the way back to the inn. Yet she still worried he might be recognized.
“The rain is washing off his disguise,” she called to Beaufort.
“In this downpour, no one will note his appearance. But you might be remembered in your peddler’s garb. When we arrive, keep your cloak and hood close around you and let me deal with the ostlers and innkeeper.”
They trudged slowly back to the inn and led the horses into the stables, where Beaufort arranged for their mounts to be cared for, including a new shoe for the stallion and a poultice for his injured foot.
When they entered the inn, accompanied by a burst of wind and rain, the innkeeper said regretfully that all the rooms were occupied but one.
“My wife and I will take your remaining room,” Beaufort told him. “And we require a hot meal and a bath as well.”
The innkeeper bowed deeply, evidently recognizing authority when he encountered it. But then Beaufort had the kind of bearing and self-assurance that proclaimed his nobility and commanded respect, Maura knew. He was dressed for the part as well, despite his stubbled jaw and sopping-wet clothing.
She, on the other hand, was hardly attired as his genteel wife. When she hesitated to follow the innkeeper toward the stairs, Beaufort scooped her up in his arms.
Startled, she kept her face buried in his chest but lodged a whispered protest. “I am not your wife.”
“You are temporarily, if you want to protect your reputation.”