Thread of Darkness

Ch. 19: what if we shared a room?

He massaged his palm — stained with ink — and the compass tattoo on his wrist winked at her. Penny shifted the picnic basket closer. This, she felt, was not the best time to mention that she'd also packed glazed cherries, cold cuts of meat, and a pitcher of sour lemonade. And a set of playing cards, just in case they felt like a game of King's Trident.

"I like food," Penny said defensively. "And anyway, I—"

The carriage lurched.

Penny flew forward. Grayson reached for her — whether to catch her or defend himself, she didn't know — and they collided with the wall. Her face cracked against his skull. Something wet dribbled down her back. There was another thump, and they toppled sideways on to the floor. Grayson collapsed on top of her, his belt buckle digging into her waist. She could feel his rocketing heartbeat, the warmth of his skin.

An unwelcome jolt of desire went through her.

Grayson pushed up on his forearms. "Pen? Are you alright?"

She winced. "I'm fine."

"Your head." His fingers brushed her hair. "It's bleeding."

"Where?"

Penny touched her skull. Her hands came away red, and she wiped them on her skirt. A dull ache had begun in her left temple. Not, Penny thought, that she was about to admit to it; Grayson looked one word away from inspecting every inch of her body for bruises. Black liquid dripped from his cheek, and she gasped.

"Grayson," Penny said. "You're bleeding, too."

His mouth twitched. "That's ink, Princess."

"Oh."

Heat crept into her cheeks. Grayson bit his lip. He looked like he was trying very hard not to smile, Penny thought. Then again, she could only imagine what a state she looked: covered in blood, red hair matted, her travelling gown soaked in ink.

"Don't laugh," she warned.

Grayson shook his head. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Their eyes locked. He really did have pretty eyes, Penny thought, so beautiful that it was almost unfair; the flecks of gold seemed to grow brighter at night, rising with the glittering stars. She could feel every breath he took. Every inch of him, heavy and still, against her body.

Hang on.

Why was everything still?

"Grayson?" Penny asked.

"Yes?"

She shifted. "I think the carriage stopped."

Grayson blinked. Then he pushed up slightly, peeking out the carriage window. "We're here." He rolled off, climbing to his feet. "Just in time, too. I could do with a hot meal and a change of clothes."

He hopped lightly out of the carriage, holding out a hand to help her down. Penny tried not to wince as the impact jolted through her skull. Stupid carriage. Stupid head injury. Grayson reached over to adjust her satin hood, pulling it lower over her eyes.

"Just in case," he murmured.

They faced the inn.

The squat building was tilted slightly, and a single yellow lantern swayed in the breeze near the path. Someone had nailed a pair of horns to the front door. The thatched roof was caving in near the chimney, and Penny could smell wet hay, manure, and the sharp tang of rum. Two men sat on the bench out front, laughing over tankards of ale.

Grayson's face tightened.

"What is it?" Penny asked.

Grayson shook his head. "This place isn't how I remember it." He glanced back at the carriage. "Wait here for a moment."