"Well, then!" He rolled from the bed, stumbling over the nightstand and rocking its tiny lamp like a broken metronome. "Oh for the…" He steadied it with both hands and sighed. "I'm going to head downstairs, to see Mrs. Gaveston about extra bedding."
"We can share!" she protested, hating the thought of him passing a night frozen in front of the hearth.
"No, we cannot." His head shook furiously and he backed away, palms out.
"Have I offended you somehow?" she asked, worrying over a tremor in his fingers.
"No. But I am concerned. Do you have any notion how dangerous this is? I'm a complete stranger. You've exposed yourself to all sorts of peril."
Now, of all moments, seemed a strange time to voice his protest, when they'd been together a whole day. She frowned. "Everyone always thinks I need taking care of. Grandfather used to say it was good that Mama married my father, because she ought not be on her own. And he never allowed me to go anywhere by myself, not if it was further than a ride along the bridle path. I know he asked Mister Lochner to arrange something for just that reason, but I don't need a husband to mind me. Or anybody." She fiddled with eyelet along the coverlet. "I've spent my whole life at lessons and equations, and sitting in perfectly rational attitudes for half the day. I'm young, but I am not stupid; I know to value my freedom and guard it fiercely."
"I do not think that you're stupid, Amelia," he said in a gentle whisper that made her want to close her eyes again, and then he stepped away. "I'm just going down to see Mrs. Gaveston; I'll be back directly."
Amelia nodded and tried holding her eyes open, and took lots of deep breaths between her yawns. But in minutes, her exhaustion and the mattress' down stuffing did their worst, and she drifted out into the highlands with a Baron McTavish rather different-looking than she'd dreamed him before.
* * *
Patrick asked a gritty-eyed, shawl wrapped Mrs. Gaveston if he might read in the breakfast room, a long space built off of the inn's front lobby. Receiving a grunt of uncertain meaning, he moved for the door and continued in when she made no move to discourage him.
A fire was made up in the grate, the room's only illumination, revealing a maroon-clothed dining table and chairs for a small army, where the inn's guests would dine together in the morning. Beyond a flicker of coals the room was deep with shadow, and it perfectly suited his mood. He took a chair at the table's head and rested his elbows, giving serious thought to the predicament he was now in. He had agreed to marry a strange young girl for two thousand pounds. Now, she wasn't so strange, and Patrick felt in danger of marrying her for nothing more than the whimsy of what she might say next, and her smile. He groaned, and rested his face in his palms. Was Amelia right? Was their meeting a sign?