comment.
“What is your horse’s name?” she asked.
“Bucephalus,” he said.
“He is a beauty.”
“Yes.”
They were quiet then until he had finished brushing the horse down, forking the old hay out of the stall and spreading fresh, feeding and watering the animal. It was surprising really. Most women of his acquaintance liked to chatter, with the notable exception of his sister Freyja. But then Freyja was an exception to almost all rules. The silence was a comfortable one. He did not feel at all self-conscious at her quiet scrutiny.
“You love horses,” she said when he was finished and leaned back against a wooden beam and crossed his arms. “You have gentle hands.”
“Do I?” He half smiled at her. “You do not love horses?”
“I have not had much to do with them,” she admitted. “I believe I am a little afraid of them.”
But before they could become more deeply involved in conversation, a stable lad appeared to inform them that the innkeeper’s wife had a pot of chocolate awaiting them in the dining room, and they made their way back across the yard, running and dodging puddles again. The rain seemed to be easing somewhat.
They sat and talked for two hours until their midday meal was ready. They talked about books they had both read and about the wars, newly over now that Napoléon Bonaparte had been defeated and captured. He told her about his brothers and sisters without telling her exactly who they were. He told her about Wulfric, the eldest; about Aidan, the cavalry officer who had recently come home on leave, married, and decided to sell out; about Freyja, who had twice been almost betrothed to the same man but who had lost him to another woman last year and had been spitting mad ever since; about Alleyne, his handsome younger brother; and about Morgan, the youngest, the sister who bade fair to being lovelier than anyone had any right to be.
“Unless,” he added, “she were to have fire-gold red hair and green eyes and porcelain skin.” And the body of a goddess, he added silently. “Tell me about your family.”
She told him about her three sisters, Cassandra, older than herself, Pamela and Hilary younger, and about her younger brother, Branwell. Her parents were both still alive. Her father was a clergyman, a fact that explained why she was estranged from her family. What had impelled the daughter of a clergyman into a life of acting? He did not ask the question and she did not volunteer the information.
By the time they had finished the midday meal, the rain had eased to a light drizzle. If it were to stop within the next hour or so, the roads should be passable by tomorrow. The thought was somewhat depressing. The day seemed to be going far too fast.
“What is there to do for amusement in this town?” he asked the landlady when she came to remove their dishes—they had been deemed far too important for the services of the maid, it seemed. That wench was busy serving a few townsmen their ale in the adjoining taproom.
“There isn’t nothing much on a day like this,” she said, straightening up, setting her hands on her hips, and squinting in concentration. “It’s not market day. There is just the church, which isn’t nothing much as churches go.”
“Any shops?” he asked.
“Well, there is the general shop across the green,” she said, brightening, “and the milliner’s next to it and the blacksmith’s next to that. Not that you would have any need of
his
services.”
“We will try the general shop and the milliner’s,” he said. “I have a mind to buy my wife a new bonnet since she ran away without one.”
Claire’s—the only one she had brought with her—had been lost inside the stagecoach, she had told him earlier.
“Oh, no!” she protested. “Really, you must not. I could not allow—”
“You take wotever he is offering, ducks,” the innkeeper’s wife said with a wink. “I daresay you earned it last night.”
“Besides which,”
“What is your horse’s name?” she asked.
“Bucephalus,” he said.
“He is a beauty.”
“Yes.”
They were quiet then until he had finished brushing the horse down, forking the old hay out of the stall and spreading fresh, feeding and watering the animal. It was surprising really. Most women of his acquaintance liked to chatter, with the notable exception of his sister Freyja. But then Freyja was an exception to almost all rules. The silence was a comfortable one. He did not feel at all self-conscious at her quiet scrutiny.
“You love horses,” she said when he was finished and leaned back against a wooden beam and crossed his arms. “You have gentle hands.”
“Do I?” He half smiled at her. “You do not love horses?”
“I have not had much to do with them,” she admitted. “I believe I am a little afraid of them.”
But before they could become more deeply involved in conversation, a stable lad appeared to inform them that the innkeeper’s wife had a pot of chocolate awaiting them in the dining room, and they made their way back across the yard, running and dodging puddles again. The rain seemed to be easing somewhat.
They sat and talked for two hours until their midday meal was ready. They talked about books they had both read and about the wars, newly over now that Napoléon Bonaparte had been defeated and captured. He told her about his brothers and sisters without telling her exactly who they were. He told her about Wulfric, the eldest; about Aidan, the cavalry officer who had recently come home on leave, married, and decided to sell out; about Freyja, who had twice been almost betrothed to the same man but who had lost him to another woman last year and had been spitting mad ever since; about Alleyne, his handsome younger brother; and about Morgan, the youngest, the sister who bade fair to being lovelier than anyone had any right to be.
“Unless,” he added, “she were to have fire-gold red hair and green eyes and porcelain skin.” And the body of a goddess, he added silently. “Tell me about your family.”
She told him about her three sisters, Cassandra, older than herself, Pamela and Hilary younger, and about her younger brother, Branwell. Her parents were both still alive. Her father was a clergyman, a fact that explained why she was estranged from her family. What had impelled the daughter of a clergyman into a life of acting? He did not ask the question and she did not volunteer the information.
By the time they had finished the midday meal, the rain had eased to a light drizzle. If it were to stop within the next hour or so, the roads should be passable by tomorrow. The thought was somewhat depressing. The day seemed to be going far too fast.
“What is there to do for amusement in this town?” he asked the landlady when she came to remove their dishes—they had been deemed far too important for the services of the maid, it seemed. That wench was busy serving a few townsmen their ale in the adjoining taproom.
“There isn’t nothing much on a day like this,” she said, straightening up, setting her hands on her hips, and squinting in concentration. “It’s not market day. There is just the church, which isn’t nothing much as churches go.”
“Any shops?” he asked.
“Well, there is the general shop across the green,” she said, brightening, “and the milliner’s next to it and the blacksmith’s next to that. Not that you would have any need of
his
services.”
“We will try the general shop and the milliner’s,” he said. “I have a mind to buy my wife a new bonnet since she ran away without one.”
Claire’s—the only one she had brought with her—had been lost inside the stagecoach, she had told him earlier.
“Oh, no!” she protested. “Really, you must not. I could not allow—”
“You take wotever he is offering, ducks,” the innkeeper’s wife said with a wink. “I daresay you earned it last night.”
“Besides which,”
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