//CLARA//
Within minutes, the sky bruised purple. Rain hammered the broken carriage like bullets.
"We can't make the estate in this," Casimir gritted out. "The roads will wash out by midnight."
He shouted orders to his coachman, thunder swallowing his words. The man sprinted down the road.
Casimir steadied me. "We take shelter. Now."
Through the downpour, a two-story building loomed. A creaking sign read: The Gnarled Oak. An inn held together by spit and desperation.
I hiked my shredded skirts, still tiptoeing through mud. "Casimir, this isn't shelter. This is a slasher film opening. I can hear tetanus calling my name."
He ignored me, shoving open the door.
The interior was even more of a nightmare. The air was a thick, swampy blend of unidentified scent, and the smell of wet dogs drying by a massive stone hearth. The floor was covered in sawdust to soak up the mud.
Casimir spoke to a man who was clearly the owner of this dilapidated dumpsite. His belly poked out from his grimy apron. He didn't even look at Casimir first. Instead, his gaze crawled over me, lingering on my exposed ankles with a look that made me want to scrub my skin with sandpaper.
Before I could snap at him, Casimir yanked me behind his back, shielding me from the man's filth.
"Beggin' yer pardon, but the house is near full up," the man grunted through his rotten teeth.
He wiped a greasy hand on his stained apron and spat a thick glob of tobacco juice toward a nearby bucket. He missed, the liquid splattering against the wood with a wet thud, which made me grimace in disgust. My gag reflex kicked in instantly but I was able to manage it.
Barely though.
"I got one room left to let. Top o' the stairs. Ye can take it or go find a soft patch o' straw in the stable with yer coachman and the beasts."
This dude's a total dick-ass.
His eyes flickered toward me again, but the second Casimir slammed a hefty pile of coins onto the scarred counter, the man's interest in me vanished.
Certainly, money, whatever the currency, always has a funny way of clearing up a man's vision.
Without wasting another second, Casimir grabbed the heavy iron key and practically hauled me up the creaking staircase.
The room was half the size of my walk-in closet. A chipped washstand. A kerosene lamp. One narrow, sagging mattress that looked untouched since the Industrial Revolution.
I eyed it warily and stepped back. "Hard pass. I need a scalding bath, rubbing alcohol, and soap unused by the entire country. This is a biohazard, Casimir. If we'd stayed in the city, I'd be in a marble tub, not wondering about fungal infections and missing kidneys. I blame you. I blame your stupid carriage. Your dumb coachman. And especially that fucking asshole who cut the axle!"
The room went deathly quiet. Rain hammered the roof.
Casimir watched me with an unreadable expression, then slammed the deadbolt home. He unbuttoned his damp waistcoat with jerky movements, leaving his shirt clinging like a second skin.
"Mind your tongue, Clara. You're putting sailors to shame. Since when do you speak this manner?"
I crossed my arms. "The world's louder than your ivory tower suggests. You should know that."
His jaw tightened.
"My coachman is in the stables, Clara. There are no other rooms. There is no disinfectant, and if you do not stop complaining, I am going to find a very effective way to make you quiet."
He stepped closer, filling the cramped space, gaze hardened.
"Sit. Down."
My pride stung, but as I caught the bone-deep exhaustion etched into his face, the sass died in my throat.
I bit my lip, keeping myself from saying anything else, lowering myself into the edge of the bed with the grace of someone sitting on a pile of needles. My pinky finger flicked up in disgust. If only I could bolt back out into the torrential rain to avoid these sheets, I would. But that wasn't an option.
The room didn't have a fireplace. Just the lingering chill from the storm. Casimir stood by the washstand, his silhouette sharp against the flickering light. He's in deep thoughts, probably plotting how to smoke out the person who sabotaged his carriage.
The cold finally caught up to me. It seeped through my skin and settled into my marrow until my teeth were uncontrollably clattering.
"Strip down," he commanded out of the blue.
I froze, my jaw going slack. Thinking if I was just hearing it wrong.
"Excuse me?"
He crossed the space, shadow looming. Without a word, his fingers worked the laces of my sodden dress, rough, hot against my frozen skin. He moved with terrifying speed until the mud-caked silk slid away.
Cold hit me. I gasped.
Casimir pulled me up, letting the fabric pool at my feet. I stood in nothing but a thin, translucent slip. Hiding nothing.
His gaze raked over me hungrily, lingering on the sharp points of my nipples, the curve of my hips, my trembling thighs. Restraint hung by a thread.
I leaned closer as his fingers hooked my strap. "Weren't you so concerned about my virtue? Scandal? Reputation?"
He stopped. Pinched my chin, tilting my face to meet his storm-gray eyes.
"No one knows me here, Clara." His hand snaked around my waist. "To them, you're my woman, a wife, a mistress, a whore, much less a ward. It matters little. And as of this moment, I've done nothing to ruin you."
I should've been offended. Instead, I burned.
My trembling fingers fumbled with his buttons. One. Two. Three. I pushed his shirt off, palms tracing the hard planes of his chest. To his steady heartbeat. Goosebumps littered his skin.
His hand slid lower, gripping my backside. He dipped toward my neck, and I thought he'd finish what we'd started in the carriage.
He stepped forward, forcing me back until the bed hit my knees. His lips found my throat, a gentle kisses trailing to my collarbone, dangerously close to my breast.
I couldn't breathe.
Then, the rustle of a coarse blanket followed. My feet left the floor. He lifted me effortlessly, tucking me in. He followed, the bed groaning, removing his wet trousers under the covers.
Relief? Disappointment? Both.
Any other night, I'd spiral about bacteria. But as Casimir's body heat slammed into mine, my internal germaphobe went silent.
He was naked behind me. I felt his restraint, hard, and pulsing. Yet he only pulled me against his chest, arm wrapping my waist, hauling me into his heat.
"Just sleep now, my little bird." His voice was rough, thick, costing every ounce of strength.