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wooden floor. Only three of the dozen were occupied by horses that stamped and made snorting noises as her steps resounded behind them. The place smelled . . . well, like a stable. |
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Mariah wanted to sink to the floor and cry. But what good would that do? Instead, she decided to find the most desirable corner of this horrible building and stake it out for herself. |
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At the end of the stalls was an archway. She went through it and found herself in a hall lined with four wooden doors. The one on her right was locked, but the others were open. The three rooms were small, and only one was fully furnished. It contained a bed covered with a handmade quilt, a commode on which stood a basin with a pitcher beside it, and a wooden clothes tree. It was clearly a bedroom. Maybe even her bedroom, a servant's quarters in the stable. |
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Not exactly a suite at the Hilton, but it was better than sleeping in a pile of soiled straw. Even better, in some respects, than a twentieth-century hovel. And at least here, things seemed quiet. Peaceful. |
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She'd manage. No matter what, she'd manage. |
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If only she understood what had happened to her. |
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Startled, Mariah sat up, blinking in the soft light. Where was she? Oh, yesat Thorn's inn. In the room in back of the stable. |
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Sometime, if she could believe her senses, in the past. |
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"Mademoiselle?" The raspy masculine voice that had awakened her spoke again, and she stared at the form in the doorway. She couldn't make out his features, but the man seemed shorter, more squat than Thorn. And Thorn had not spoken French to her. |
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"Yes?" she replied warily, still groggy and light-headed. |
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"You are resting in the wrong place, mademoiselle." |
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Her heart sank. Maybe she was, in fact, to sleep with the horses. "II'm sorry. I" She rose quickly, realizing in dismay that, on top of everything else that had occurred in the past hours, she had been tired enough to collapse onto the bed still wearing her snug, damp dress. At least, she |
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