by Lauren Royal
“Take your time,” he called to her. “I’ll wait for you here.”
“Nay, come join me!” She rushed to the other side, saw the endless, brown swath of the road, steeples of churches, a working mill. “You can see a mill from up here, Jase! It’s running. The top of a mill—wouldn’t that be interesting?”
He was a miller, after all.
But his chuckle floated up the ancient stone walls. “I’ve no need to see a mill. I have one of my own.”
“I knew that. But there’s a big river too, and”—she worked her way around the perimeter—“a town, Jase! A bonnie large town!”
“Stamford,” he told her. “We’re nearly there.” From her high perch, he looked small as he walked around to her side. The sun glinted off his hair. “I can see the town from here,” he called up. “The keep is built on a hill. They usually are, you know. A motte, the hill is called.”
“You cannot see it as well as I can,” she argued. “It’s a lovely town. With wee toy carriages going all over it.”
Laughing, he seated himself on what was left of a crumbling stone wall. “Enjoy. Come down when you’ve seen enough.”
“Please come up,” she begged. She wanted to share this with someone. The beauty, the wonder. “Please.”
He stared up at her for a minute. She wished she could see his expression better, especially when he released a long-suffering sigh. Finally he said, “Has anyone ever told you you’re stubborn?”
Without waiting for an answer, he stood and brushed off his breeches, then disappeared around the other side of the keep.
A few footsteps echoed up the stairwell, slow and measured. Then…faltering? There was silence for a minute before the footfalls resumed, then stopped again. More silence, followed by the padding sound of walking on grass.
Then the sun was glinting off his hair again. He was standing below her, outside the keep.
“I changed my mind,” he called up.
Realization slowly dawned.
How very wrong she’d been. Ashamed, she slowly made her way down the tower. He met her at the bottom of the steps with a shrug and a self-deprecating grin.
“You’ve a fear of heights,” she said softly. “That’s why you won’t ride at the edge of a high bridge, isn’t it?”
Warm color flooded his cheeks. “Well, I did tell you I’m not superstitious.”
It was just like a fellow not to come out and say it. “You should have told me the truth. I wouldn’t have teased you so.”
“You’d pass up that opportunity?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s hardly a manly admission.”
“But I understand. Though it’s not exactly the same, my mother feared small spaces.”
“Did she, now?” He raised a brow. “And I imagine she quoted you wisdom for this sort of thing?”
Caithren smiled. “A common blot is nae stain.”
“Come again?” He started toward where he’d left Chiron and their food.
She trailed after him. “Don’t fret about small faults that are common to everyone.”
“I see.” Handing her a round of bread, he took the chicken and cheese and seated himself on a broken stone wall. “Well, I thank you for not laughing. I’ve never admitted this particular fault to anyone.”
An unexpected warmth spread out from her heart, that he would choose her in which to confide. Never mind that it was so obvious he’d have looked the fool for denying it—it was a rare man who would own up to such an affliction.
She dropped to sit cross-legged on the grass, arranging her skirt to preserve her modesty.
“Miss your breeches, do you?” he asked, ripping a healthy portion from a chicken leg.
Composing herself, she tore off a hunk of the bread. “When I’m riding, aye. Maybe you should buy me a pair.”
He only grinned, but the brilliant slash of white made her breath catch. Up here on this hill, she felt close to him. Closer than she’d ever felt to any man before.
It made no sense. He’d kept her off the coach. He refused to believe a word she said. He was an Englishman.
She ate in silence for a while, watching the comings and goings of people passing under the medieval gateway at the bottom of the hill.
“It’s a pretty town, all stone,” she remarked.
“A rich town. The wool trade has made their fortune.” He took a swig from his flask of water, then passed it to her. “They’ve a fine marketplace. There, see? And it looks as though they’ve a fair in full swing this eve.”
She squinted into the distance. “Oh, just look how busy. So many booths!”
“Would you like to go?”
“Oh, aye!” But London was beckoning. Gothard was on the loose. She needed to find Adam. “But we haven’t the time,” she added with a sigh.
“We couldn’t possibly make it to another sizable town by nightfall.” He gestured toward the sun, low in the western sky. “We’ll be staying the night in Stamford regardless.”
She considered. “There will be things to buy at a fair, aye?”
One eyebrow arched. “What, have I not bought you enough?”
“One gown! One half a gown, truth be told.” Her hand fluttered up to cover the top of her chest, although she was wearing her own laced bodice and modest shift.
Jason’s laugh rolled over the hillside. “I was fooling, sweet.” Her heart turned over at the careless endearment, even though she knew it meant nothing. “I’ll buy you a comb. And some clothes, if they’ve any ready made,” he added before she could ask. “And we can eat.”
“Are you not eating already?” She aimed a pointed glance at the bare drumstick in his hand.
“Fairgoing victuals,” he explained, grinning as he chose another. “One cannot attend a fair without eating. Fair food doesn’t count as real food.”
It sounded too good to be true, an evening of frivolous entertainment in the midst of their urgent journey. But they had covered quite a distance today, and it would serve a purpose as well. Jason did owe her replacements for her belongings.
And she still hadn’t recovered from him calling her sweet, never mind that he hadn’t seemed to notice.
Confused, Cait stood and walked over to a pile of rubble, then climbed over it into an enclosure. “When was this built, do you think?” She gestured at the remnants of walls that marked what used to be chambers, now carpeted with soft grass instead of fragrant rushes. “It looks to be very old.”
“Norman, I believe,” he said with a nod that drew her attention to his arresting features.
My, but he was beautiful.
Awareness flooding her being, she deliberately looked away from him. “Can you picture this castle all solid, with banners and tapestries on the walls? And knights battling. Over there, maybe.” Feeling giddy, she whirled in a wide-armed circle. “Oh, I expect it was glorious!”
She stilled and turned to see him shrug. “I expect it was cold and rather crude.”
Compelled by some pull beyond her control, she moved toward him. His hair shone blue-black in the deepening shadows, and his features looked sculpted in stark relief.
A curious quiver ran through her. “Do you not like castles?” she asked softly.
“I like them well enough.” He made himself busy gathering the remains of their supper.
She stepped over the rubble and knelt to help him. “I live in a castle.”
He looked up sharply, assessingly. “Do you?”
“Aye, but it’s not quite a real one, you see. I mean, it’s not ancient.” Once again her nerves had her blethering, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “Da built it for my mother on the land that she brought to their union. He always called her his queen. It’s fortified, but just a house for all that…fifteen rooms.”
“The castle at home—Cainewood—has stood five hundred years. It has maybe a hundred rooms.”
“A hundred rooms? Are you sure?” Looking up at him, she reached blindly, encountering his hand instead of the napkin
she was aiming for.
His fingers gripped hers. “I said maybe,” he said with a grin. “I don’t know if anyone has ever bothered to count.” He swiped up the napkin and stood, pulling her to her feet with him.
“How can they not have counted?” Marveling, Caithren followed him back to Chiron. “Is that castle in ruins, then, like this one?”
“Oh, no. Though Cromwell did his best to flatten it, it still stands. I—people live in it.”
“Is it very grand?”
He shrugged. “It’s home. A home, I mean.”
“Have you been inside?”
His face was unreadable. “As a child, I used to play in the keep. That part is in ruins, though not as far gone as this. Of course, I never went up to the top,” he added with a wry smile.
“As a child,” she mused. “I cannot picture you as a child. What was your childhood like?”
“Happy enough, when I was young.” He opened the portmanteau and started stuffing everything inside. “My parents were staunch Royalists, so I never saw much of them. Father often went off to defend the king, taking my mother with him. They both died in the Battle of Worcester. I was the eldest, at seven. Colin was six, the twins just one. As I grew, my main concern was keeping the family together.”
He was making a mess of packing the two bags, but she was afraid to interrupt to help. Hearing the way he’d said Father, she sensed this was part of the puzzle. “You’ve done what you thought your father would have wanted.”
He closed the first latch. “He was a war hero.” The second latch snapped into place. “Honorable, brave, self-sacrificing. It’s difficult trying to live up to him.”
She moved closer. “You make him sound like a god. He couldn’t have been.”
“You didn’t know him.”
“Neither did you,” she pointed out softly. Her stomach felt odd. She moved closer still.
His eyes darkened, and he cleared his throat. “How is your shoulder?”
“My shoulder?”
“Where it was nicked by my sword. Would you mind if I looked?”
She blinked, feeling heat stain her cheeks. “All right.” Slowly she loosened the laces of her bodice and pulled it and her shift down her shoulder, feeling terribly naked beneath his gaze.
Nothing marked the skin but a tiny dark scab.
He bent close, nodding. “Looks good.” His voice sounded husky by her ear, and her skin tingled at his nearness. Beneath the sleeves of her shift, the little hairs stood up on her arms.
“I-I thank you for taking care of me.” Her fingers fumbling, she shrugged back into her sleeve and tightened her laces. She swayed forward involuntarily, peering up at him as she tied the bow. “For caring.”
His gaze locked on hers. Her heart skipped a beat. His hand came up and tugged on one of her plaits.
She looked from his compelling green eyes to the lips that had touched hers last night…
He swallowed hard. “The fair will close at nightfall,” he said, pulling back. “We’d best be moving.”
THIRTY-TWO
CAITHREN DODGED a couple of dogs that were chasing each other near the entrance to the fair. “It’s delightful!”
“It stinks,” Jason countered.
She wrinkled her nose against the ripe smells of cattle and fish. But the odors didn’t dim her enthusiasm. “Aye, but it’s exciting, don’t you think? We’ve nothing like this near Leslie.”
She pushed into the noisy crowd, heading straight toward the area where vendors displayed an amazing array of merchandise. She passed stands piled with soap and candles, sugar and spices, making a beeline for a table strewn with a hodgepodge of gloves, ribbons, and lace.
“The blue suits you.” Jason lifted a spool of ribbon and held it up to her hair. “Would you like a length?”
Her smile was quick, but she couldn’t ask for luxuries—at least until Jason collected the reward he’d been blethering about. She opened her mouth to say nay, but he was already handing the ribbon to the vendor.
“A yard, if you please. And some of the red as well.” He glanced at her skirt. “No, make that the green.”
“Jason—”
“You’d prefer the red? I thought you’d rather not wear that dress.”
“Nay, it’s only—”
“All three, then.” He dug in his pouch for a coin. “Do you know where we might find a comb for sale?”
“To the left, sir,” the merchant said as he handed Jason his change.
Jason stuffed the coins and ribbons into his pouch. “Come along, Emerald.” He took off in the direction the vendor had indicated, leaving her to follow.
Too excited to be irritated at the name, she found her attention pulled in all directions at once. A stall selling eggs, milk, and butter sat beside one offering fat brown sausages. The rich aroma of coffee beans competed with the scents of tobacco and cocoa.
She looked up, and Jason was gone. Craning her neck, she spotted his raven-topped head above the crowd and hurried to join him.
“Do you fancy this one?” The comb he held was made of the finest ivory, like his own, the creamy white polished to a high sheen.
“One of those will do.” She indicated a comb of brown, mottled tortoiseshell. “Or this one.” She picked up a plain wooden comb.
Jason plucked it from her hand and set it down. Experimentally he lifted one of her plaits and ran the ivory comb through its tail, then dug once more in his pouch. “We’ll take it,” he said, and that was that.
Caithren blinked in astonishment. She’d never seen anyone make such quick decisions.
Exchanging coin for the comb, he handed it to her. “Will this fit in your pocket?”
She nodded and slipped it inside, beside his pistol she still carried.
“Good. Now, for a gown…”
“I don’t think we’ll find a gown here, Jase. The fabric, aye, but—”
“Come along—we’ll look.”
He dragged her up one row and down another, past bolts of silks and muslin and calico. But as she’d said, no ready-made garments were for sale. She found it difficult to keep up with his purposeful strides, so she was happy for a chance to catch her breath when he paused before a gingerbread cart.
“I’m hungry again.” He grinned at her sound of disbelief. “Would you like some as well?”
She shook her head, watching while the baker dusted a wooden board with ground ginger and cinnamon. He scooped a hunk of hot brown dough from a pot and rolled it out, then cut it into small discs. Without further cooking, he piled several on a piece of paper.
When Jason paid the man and had a warm little circle of cake in his hand, the savory scent was too tempting. Her fingers crept toward the treat to break off a bit, and he laughed and handed it to her, taking another round for himself.
The gingerbread was spicy but not very sweet, and the doughy texture was unusual but not unpleasing.
A small hand tugged on Jason’s breeches, and they both looked down to see a wee lad’s grubby face.
“What, you too?” With another laugh, Jason handed a piece to the child.
When the boy stuffed it into his mouth and swallowed convulsively, Jason sobered. “So that’s the way of it, is it?” Returning to the cart to purchase another serving, he handed it to the lad, along with the coins he’d received as change. “Run along, now, and buy yourself some milk.”
The child’s eyes widened in his dirty face. The coins disappeared into a fist gripped so tight the poor lad’s knuckles turned white. Without so much as a thank you, he took off running.
Caithren lifted a turquoise plume from a nearby stand and waved it through the air thoughtfully. “That was nice, Jase.”
He shrugged and pinkened beneath his tan. “It was nothing. Do you want that?”
“Nay!” She dropped it back to the table as though it had burned her fingers.
Was he intent on buying her everything she so much as looked at? Maybe it was a sign he was softening toward her,
and that was a pleasing thought…or maybe he was only feeling guilty she’d lost her belongings on his account. Either way, she didn’t want him spending his money unnecessarily, so she’d best keep her hands to herself.
A wild burst of laughter drew her attention from the merchandise. With Jason in tow this time, she fought her way into a crowd that circled a troupe of ropedancers. “Look, Jase!”
Indeed, she didn’t know where to look first. One man was performing on a low rope, another on a slack rope that looked mighty dangerous, and a third was scaling a daunting slope. A fourth man danced upon a rope with a wheelbarrow in front of him, two children and a dog perched inside. A duck on his head was singing to the crowd and causing much of the laughter.
At the absurd sight, Caithren joined in, laughing even harder when the man executed a silly little bow, nearly tumbling from his rope in the process. The duck squawked in alarm, but of course it was all just part of the show.
“I never thought to hear you laugh,” Jason said wonderingly beside her.
She turned to see a strange look in his eyes. A look that, if she hadn’t known better, she might interpret to mean he liked her.
“I’ve had nothing to laugh at lately,” she said gravely, the moment of light, unburdened hilarity lost.
“No, you haven’t,” he agreed. “Let’s see what else I can find to amuse you.”
With a light touch on the small of her back, he guided her through the throng and across a trampled field. Ahead loomed another enthralled crowd. “Ah, a mountebank,” he said.
“A what?”
“A man who calls himself a doctor.”
“Calls himself? Is he a doctor, or nay?”
He looked down at her, flashing an enigmatic grin. “You decide.” And he pulled her into the cluster of onlookers.
“Is that the mountebank?” she asked, indicating a rather rumpled looking fellow in a velvet suit that looked much too hot for the summer afternoon.
“Hush,” Jason said. “Listen.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the man called out, “do ever you suffer from distempers and ails of the digestion? Why suffer when you can take Dr. Miracle’s Universal Healing Potion? My tonic is made from a secret recipe sent down through the ages from the sages of Rome. Along with healing herbs, it contains miraculous powdered bones from the relics of the saints.”
