The itchy bites proved his point. Flea bites! He would have been better off sheltering under a tree or in a cave somewhere. He ran his tongue around his teeth and grimaced. The stale taste of the rough brandy from last night remained. He was disgusted with himself, and it was time he did something about it. If everything had gone according to plan, he should now be in Morpeth boarding the ferry to Sydney, but he wasn’t and he had no intention of going. He was going to go home to Matilda, tell her he had made a mistake and ask her to marry him. He would rather die a pauper than be involved in that irrevocable marriage of convenience. Yet, one question remained—would Matilda have him, especially after making that ridiculous proposition and shaming her? He sincerely hoped that was not the case. He wanted nothing more than to hold her in his arms for the rest of his life and die a happy man. Cramming his damp hat back on his head, he pulled his cape over his shoulders and made his way out to the back of the inn.
