“It might be wise not to complete that thought,” he said, his tone clipped. “I doubt there are any rooms left, and this is a respectable establishment. You had better come and share my room-as my wife.”

She stared at him, clearly feeling just as he felt-that at any moment she would awake from this bizarre dream.

“Sir? Mr. Kemp?” The landlord was at his elbow, indicating the staircase.

Richard broke the spell of gazing at Nora and turned his head. He had chosen not to divulge his title or there would be no end to the obsequious bowing and scraping.

“Have my wife’s bag carried up, too, if you will,” he said. And he cupped her elbow with one hand and turned her in the direction of the stairs.

“Your wife, sir?” The innkeeper sounded surprised.

“She has taken no outward harm from the spill,” Richard told him, “but I wish her to rest for a while nevertheless.”

“Of course, sir, Mrs. Kemp.” The innkeeper’s voice had turned brisk and he was clicking his fingers to draw the attention of a servant.

There was still a great deal of noise and hubbub among those passengers who had not yet got a room. Someone was telling them, as Richard maneuvered Nora around them and up the stairs to his room, that they would be billeted with villagers if they would just have some patience.

She would have been billeted, then, even if she had no money. He might have left her to her fate with a clear conscience.

With a clear conscience? He frowned. Why would his conscience be involved in any of this?

He opened the door of his room and stood aside to allow her to step inside first. The noise from downstairs was still very audible, but somehow the room seemed very silent.

“Richard.”

She turned to him, her face pale. But she had to wait until the servant had brought in her valise and set it down beside his own bag before leaving and shutting the door behind him.

“Richard,” she said again, “I am not your wife.”

“You are not?” He raised his eyebrows and clasped his hands behind him. She was still very slender, but the coltishness of youth had gone from her figure to leave it looking more voluptuous.

“No, of course not,” she said.

“Of course not.” He spoke softly and smiled at her though there was no amusement in the expression.

“I ought not to be here,” she said. “This is not right.”

She glanced uneasily at the door.

“You would rather go back out there alone?” he said, turning to the door as if to open it for her.

“They were saying something about billets in the village,” she said.

“Did you take any hurt from the spill?” he asked her. Perhaps her paleness had a direct physical cause. She looked as if she might faint at any moment.

“I was not in it,” she said. “I was not on the coach. I was to board it here.”

“You live near here, then?” he asked her.

“Five miles away,” she said. “Lived. Past tense. I was companion to an elderly lady.”

“You were sacked?” he asked her.

“I resigned before I could be,” she told him. “It was not pleasant employment. Mrs. Witherspoon is not a pleasant lady.”

“I suppose,” he said, “it must be difficult for you to knuckle under to authority.”

He felt instantly ashamed of himself. That had been a low blow.

She looked steadily at him, some color back in her cheeks.

“I am going to get a billet,” she said, taking a step toward him.

“I doubt you are eligible,” he told her, “since you were not actually on the coach when it crashed.”

She stopped.

“Do you have any money?” he asked her.

“Excuse me, please.” She took another step forward. Her shoulders had straightened, he noticed.

“You had better stay here,” he said, moving in front of the door. “I will not molest you, if that is what you fear. You may choose whatever piece of floor best suits you for a bed. No one will know whether we are man and wife or not-unless you choose to provide the information. If you know it, that is. And if you do not like accepting charity, do note that I have no valet or other servant with me. If you do not like being my wife, you may be my servant.”

“Is there a difference?” she asked, a definite edge to her voice.

He looked as steadily at her as she was looking at him.

“I need to go and assess the damage to my curricle,” he said. “And I am hungry. I will perhaps eat first. Do you wish to come with me?”

“Absolutely not,” she said. “I am going to ask for a billet.”

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged, opened the door, stepped through it, and closed it behind him before descending to the taproom and the dining room beyond it, where all was merry din and enticing aromas. It occurred to him suddenly that he had not eaten yet today.

What would she do? When he went back upstairs, would he find an empty room except for his bag in the middle of the floor? Or would she still be there?

He was feeling considerably shaken.

He took a small table beside a window and ordered ham and eggs with potatoes and toast. He sat deliberately with his back to the stairs. He did not want to see her leave. He did not want to feel responsible for her if she did so.

Good Lord, he was in no way responsible for her. Except that a ten-year-old question that had worried at his consciousness for every one of those years was asking itself again.

If she left now, she might disappear forever. She might not even turn up tomorrow morning to take the stage to wherever she was going. He might never see her again.

There was a surprising degree of panic in the thought.

He despised himself for feeling it.

He had worked Nora out of his system years ago. It had not been easy since she had had a very real and permanent effect upon his life. His present and his future would be forever shaped by what had happened between him and her.

But if she disappeared from his life forever, it would still not be long enough.

He hoped she would be gone.

He hoped he would not see her for the rest of today or tomorrow morning. Or ever again.

“And send some of the same up to my wife with a pot of tea,” he said to the waiter as the latter set his food before him. “If she has already gone out to enjoy the festivities, take the plate back down to the kitchen. One of the servants may eat the food at my expense.”

She had not answered his one question. But he knew as surely as if he had raided her purse that she had no money. Her former employer had probably refused to pay her since she had resigned from her position.

It was none of his concern that she might be penniless. Indeed, he hoped she was. He hoped she would starve.

Except that he would feel responsible. Dash it all, he would feel responsible.

All over again.

And except that the thought was spiteful, and it disturbed him to realize that he could feel such a juvenile hatred of someone he had not even seen in ten years.

He picked up his knife and fork only to discover that his appetite had fled.