On this particular day they resumed their journey after visiting Tintern, in order to take rooms at an inn above the valley that had been recommended to them the night before. When they arrived there, though, it was to the disturbing discovery that there was only one room still available. It was a large and comfortable chamber, the landlord assured them when he saw Ben’s hesitation, and there was a lovely view down into the valley and across it from its bay window.
“We will travel farther,” Ben said. “My disability makes it difficult for my wife to share a room with me in any comfort.”
But the closest inn, the landlord informed them, was at Chepstow, an uncomfortably long distance ahead when they had already traveled farther than usual today.
The journey was hard on Ben, Samantha knew. Though he never complained, she had learned to read his face and the tensions of his body, even his smile. What on earth had possessed him to believe that he could spend his life traveling and writing books about his journeys? But it was entirely her fault that he was doing so much traveling these days.
“We have come far enough,” she said. “We must take the room, Ben. It will be just for one night.”
“You will not be sorry, sir,” the landlord assured him. “We have the best cook between Chepstow and Ross. You can ask anyone.”
Ben looked as if he was about to argue. He was also looking rather pale and drawn. They had spent longer than they ought, perhaps, walking about the ruins.
“Very well,” he said. “We will stay here.”
The room was pretty and clean, and there was indeed a splendid view from the window, but it was not particularly spacious. There was no armchair or love seat or sofa, as Samantha had hoped there would be. She would have been happy to sleep on any of the three. The large, high bed dominated the room and occupied most of the floor space.
But good heavens, it was just for one night, she thought as they stood just inside the door, looking about them with great awkwardness. She spoke briskly. “I suppose if I lie very close to the edge on this side and you lie very close to the edge on that, there will be enough space between us to accommodate an elephant.”
“If you roll over in the night,” he said, “you had better be sure to roll the right way.”
“And which way would that be?”
She turned to smile at him just as he turned his head to smile at her. And suddenly it seemed as if her words were written in fire on the air between them.
“I would imagine,” he said, recovering himself, “elephants take exception to being awoken in the night.”
“Yes.” She crossed to the window, by far the finest feature of the room.
“Would you rather we went on to Chepstow after all?” he asked. “We still could.”
“No, we could not,” she said. “You are on the verge of collapse. It has been too busy a day. I shall go back down and make sure Tramp is properly accommodated. I shall have Mr. Quinn sent up to you.”
He did not argue.
She spent an hour with the dog, at first sitting on some clean straw beside him, her knees drawn up almost to her chin, her arms wrapped about them, and then walking with him so that he could take care of business before settling for the night.
They had managed to rub along well enough together, she and Sir Benedict—Ben. They could talk and laugh and be silent together. They could enjoy doing a little sightseeing together despite the handicap of his not being able to walk fast or far. But he was a man, and she would have to be inhuman, she supposed, for that fact not to be affecting her, especially as they had, once upon a time, shared a kiss and soared together in imagination beyond the clouds in a hot air balloon, wrapped in furs against the chill of the upper atmosphere.
It was sometimes hard to ignore his maleness when they shared the close confines of a carriage interior during the daytime. Whatever was it going to be like to share a bed all night?
By the time she returned to the room, making a great deal of unnecessary bustle on the landing outside the door and then taking her time turning the handle, Ben was dressed for dinner and was sitting on the side of the bed, reading. He set his book aside and got to his feet. He did it more easily than usual, she noticed, perhaps because the bed was high.
“I shall leave you the use of the room,” he said, “and see you downstairs in the dining room.”
“Very well.”
He was dressed smartly for dinner in black and white. She could have wished he did not look quite so attractive.
She donned a green silk gown and clasped about her neck the pearls her father had given her as a wedding present.
The only private dining parlor at the inn had been already spoken for by the time they arrived. There were just a few other people in the main dining room, however, and none of them were close enough to make conversation awkward. The food was excellent. At least, Samantha thought it probably was. She did not pay it much attention, truth to tell. She was too busy keeping the conversation going. It kept wanting to die, and they could not seem to hit upon a topic that required more than a question from one of them and a monosyllabic answer from the other.
Oh, what a difference having to share a bedchamber made. They had not had this problem on any previous evening. Not to this degree, anyway.
“If there had only been a private dining parlor available,” he said eventually, “there might have been a chair upon which I could have spent the night.”
“If you were going to do that,” she said, “we might as well have continued on our way to Chepstow. I would have slept on the chair.”