Jake sniffed, but seemed to sense that he'd pushed to the limits of his caretakers' indulgence. "I want some jam."
"Please," his father demanded.
Jake snuffled again and produced the required courtesy in a barely audible whisper.
Gabrielle spread jam lavishly on the bread and glanced at Nathaniel's grim features. She jerked her head toward the window at the back of the room, and he nodded and accompanied her away from the table and its disconsolate occupant.
"He's dead tired, Nathaniel," Gabrielle said quietly. "He can't help being like this. Can't we stay overnight here? We could leave at dawn."
Nathaniel scowled, staring through the window down at the inn's stableyard. Since landing at noon, they'd bought an ill-sprung gig and undernourished nag from a local farmer who'd been only too happy to exchange these pathetic commodities for an excessive sum of silver. Any questions he might have asked were stillborn when Gabrielle flashed her laissez passer with aristocratic hauteur. The gig had carried them uncomfortably for twenty miles with Jake whimpering in Gabrielle's lap and Nathaniel cursing the scrawny nag along the mud-ridged lanes.
Early evening had brought them into the village of Quineville and Le Lion d'Or, where Nathaniel intended they should dine and exchange the gig for a postchaise that would double the speed of their journey to Paris.
He turned from the window and directed his scowling gaze at the child drooping over his plate at the table. "He can sleep in the chaise, surely."
"He needs a proper bed for a few hours," Gabrielle said, softly insistent. "He's still dreadfully weak after the crossing."
"The longer we hang around on the roads, the greater the danger." Nathaniel slammed one fist in the palm of his other hand and turned back to the window.
"I don't want this milk," Jake wailed. "It tastes horrid."
"For Christ's sake!" his father muttered.
"It's French milk, love," Gabrielle said, going over to the child, struggling to smile through her own weariness. "It will' taste different. The cows eat different grass."
"I hate French milk!" Jake burst into noisy sobs. "I want to go home. I want Nurse an' Primmy."
Gabrielle scooped him off the stool and held him, casting Nathaniel a speaking glance over the curly head.
Nathaniel ran his hands through his hair, disturbing the neat swatches of silver at his temples. "Very well. But we leave at dawn. I'll go and bespeak a bedchamber for you and Jake."
"No, you'd better let me do that. Since I'm here, you might as well spare yourself and take advantage of my native fluency." Her eyebrows rose in a semblance of her old mocking challenge.
Nathaniel failed to respond to this attempt at raillery. "Go and do it, then." He took Jake from her and waved her brusquely to the door.
Gabrielle shrugged and returned to somber reality. "See if you can persuade him to drink some milk. He needs something to line his stomach." The door closed behind her.
"Don't want any milk," Jake whimpered. "It's horrid milk."
"It's perfectly good milk, and you're going to have to get used to it, my friend." His father sat him down at the table and handed him the cup. "I want you to drink half of it."
The child ignored the cup, and his mouth took a stubborn turn that Nathaniel had never seen before. He'd never met with any resistance from his son, only passive compliance, and he'd assumed that was the child's nature. Now he wasn't so sure. There was something about the boy's expression that was uncomfortably reminiscent of himself on occasion.
He held Jake's gaze steadily, exerting his will in silence. If he couldn't win a battle of wills with an exhausted six-year-old, then the world was going to hell in a handcart. To his relief, Jake finally took the cup, and, his nose wrinkled, carried it to his lips. Between chokes and disgusted sips the level in the cup went down to half.
"That's all arranged." Gabrielle spoke as she entered the parlor, clear relief in her voice at the prospect of a few hours of civilized rest and refreshment. "Madame has given me a bedchamber across the passage. There's a truckle bed for Jake, so I'll put him to bed now. Then she's going to bring me dinner." She rubbed her hands with glee. "Saddle of hare with junipers, and a sea bream in parsley sauce. Oh, and a bottle of St. Estephe."
"You certainly seem to have seen to your own comforts," Nathaniel observed with asperity.
This unmerited grumpiness merely kindled Gabrielle's somewhat perverse sense of mischief. She'd invented a perfectly reasonable explanation for the innkeeper of why mistress and servant would be dining together in the parlor, but now she looked at him in wide-eyed innocence.
"I assumed you would eat with the servants. They're having tete de veau, I believe… or was it pig's cheek? And Madame said there's a spare pallet in the loft for you. I'm sure they don't have bedbugs; the inn seems very clean and well managed."
"You relieve me," Nathaniel said. "Your consideration is overwhelming."
Gabrielle hid her grin. "Oh, and also I sold the gig and nag for three livres and ten sous and hired a postchaise for the morning. There are plenty of changing posts between here and Paris, so we should make good time tomorrow."
"Such efficiency, countess. I'm in your debt." Nathaniel strode to the door.
"I'm only trying to help," Gabrielle declared, her eyes now flashing with irritation. If Nathaniel wasn't prepared to be joked out of his irritability, then she was fatigued enough to indulge her own.
"Why are you angry? I don't like it when you're angry." This extraordinary statement from Jake silenced them both.
They looked at the child, who was regarding them both with lackluster eyes.
"We're not angry, love," Gabrielle said cheerfully. "Papa's just jealous of my saddle of hare." She smiled at Nathaniel, inviting him to join in with a response that would reassure the child.
But Nathaniel was not to be soothed. "And you have a most misplaced sense of humor, ma'am." He banged out of the parlor, leaving Gabrielle to deal with Jake.
She stared crossly at the closed door and then shrugged. The strain was telling on both of them; it was probably better if they did keep out of each other's way for a while. She turned her attention to Jake and his need for a wash and bed.
Nathaniel's irritation made his role of reclusive servant even more convincing. When their polite inquiries received only monosyllabic responses, the inn servants left him alone to his dinner. Judging from the empty tray brought down from Gabrielle's chamber, she had thoroughly relished her own repast, he noticed. Not that his own tastes were so overly refined that he couldn't enjoy the hearty peasant fare in the kitchen. He'd eaten a lot worse in his time, and the rough red wine was tolerable.
The pallet in the dormitory loft, however, was a different matter. Nathaniel had no: the slightest intention of spending the night suffocated by the garlic snores of unwashed peasants. Clean straw in the hayloft was infinitely preferable.
Gabrielle, from the parlor window, saw him cross the yard from the kitchen door, the swinging agility of his stride unmistakable in the golden glow. Then the door closed and the yard was in moonlight. At the stable he paused, a lantern dangling from his hand. He looked up at the inn toward Gabrielle's window, where she stood in the shadow. Then he went into the stable. The door closed and as she watched, a soft light appeared in the small round window of the hayloft.
She had little difficulty understanding his refusal to share the servants' sleeping quarters. Had he been expecting her to be watching… hoping she was, even? It didn't take much imagination to interpret that backward look as an invitation. It had been days and days since they'd lost themselves in the glorious maze of passion.
She turned back to the room, nibbling her fingernail as a current of excitement ran through her, chasing away the fatigue of the long and arduous journey. She could go to him when the inn went to bed. Who would ever know? Jake was so deeply asleep, it would take the last trump to wake him.