The scrumpy was delicious but rather strong, and after the meal Lily became quite sleepy. Seeing her yawns, Edward put the book aside and produced rugs, and she and Betty snuggled into them and soon nodded off.
She woke at one point and noticed that he too was dozing, his chin sunk onto his neckcloth, crushing its elegant folds. His long, booted legs were crossed and stretched out before him and his arms were folded.
He looked younger in sleep. Younger and somehow vulnerable.
He must have been aware of her regard, for he opened his eyes and looked straight at her. She smiled, their gaze held a long moment, then he shifted and sat up. He stretched and said quietly, “I don’t know about that scrumpy, but the ale packed quite a punch.”
She nodded. “The scrumpy did too.”
He glanced at the sky. “Late afternoon. If our luck continues, we’ll have you home again before midnight.” He gave an endearing crooked half smile and added, “Like Cinderella.”
She gestured to her borrowed clothing. “Not quite like Cinderella, but yes. Thank you. I’m very grateful for all you’ve d—”
He cut her off with a gesture, as if he didn’t want her gratitude. “Shall I continue reading the story?”
She glanced at the still-sleeping Betty and shook her head. “Let’s wait until she wakes. Despite her stated preference for a gory tale, I think she’s enjoying this as much as I am.”
The light inside the carriage dimmed as they entered a forest. Lily gazed out the window, watching the play of light and shade through the leaves and the tracery of branches. “Forests are magical places, don’t you think? When I was little Rose and I weren’t allowed to play in the woods near our house, so naturally there was nothing we wanted to do more.”
“Naturally.”
“Our nurse tried to frighten us with tales like ‘The Babes in the Wood,’ and she also told us the most terrifying stories of elves and pixies stealing us away.” She laughed softly. “Of course that made us want to go and play there even more.” She tilted her head and looked at him. “I suppose being a boy, you were allowed to go wherever you wanted.”
“Guilty as charged, though only after I went to live with my grandfather, when I was six.”
Her smile died. “Oh. What happened?”
“Nothing terrible, don’t worry. I was born in London and spent my earliest years there, and until I went to Grandfather’s the only garden I knew was bound by black iron railings and a locked gate. And woe betide any child rash enough to pick a flower or climb a tree.”
She wrinkled her nose. “That’s mean. Children need to play. So what happened when you were six?”
“I had weak lungs as a child, and each winter I fell ill—coughs and cold and terrible breathing problems. The winter I was six, I was coughing my lungs up as usual when Grandfather arrived on an unexpected visit. He took one look at me, declared that no child should be raised in a filthy city and swept me away to Shields—the family seat in the country—insisting that ‘fresh country air would make the boy well again.’ It did too. I lived with Grandfather from then on, leaving only to go away to school.”
She gave him a troubled look. “Your parents didn’t come with you?”
“No, they both preferred living in London. Mother was an acknowledged beauty and adored the social whirl, as did my father. I saw them each Christmas, of course.”
“Of course,” Lily murmured, wondering how any mother could just give her small son away like that. “And at your grandfather’s home—Shields, was it?—was there a forest nearby to explore?”
A reminiscent half smile appeared on his face. “There was indeed. Grandfather gave me free run of the place—the stables, the forest, the village—as long as I told someone where I was going, and took my dog with me.”
“Your dog?”
“Nipper. A terrier, the cleverest little dog you’ve ever seen. We went everywhere together.” He was silent for a while.
“So you were happy at your grandfather’s?”
“Oh, yes. It was heaven to a small boy whose greatest adventures to that point had been standing on a chair and gazing out the attic window, imagining himself climbing out and exploring the endless sea of rooftops and chimneys, mysterious lands half hidden in the swirling smog.” He gave a self-deprecating grimace. “I was a foolish, dreamy child.”
“Not foolish at all,” she said softly. “What is life without dreams?”
There was a short silence, then she prompted him further—she was so enjoying this brief glimpse into his past. “And so at your grandfather’s you had the whole estate and your very own forest to explore?”
“Not just explore, but to command. I was Robin Hood.”
She chuckled. “And did you have a band of merry men to lead?”
And there, suddenly, was that bleak look. “I did—then,” he said quietly, and turned his face away. He picked up a book—not the one he’d been reading to her—and began to leaf through it, a clear signal that the conversation was over.
What had she said? They’d been talking about Robin Hood and his merry men, and childhood games. Where was the harm in that? But he obviously didn’t want to talk about it.
And before Lily could think of a way to get him talking again, a large pothole jolted Betty awake and ended their intimate conversation. But not Lily’s thoughts about it.
Everyone changed between the time they were small to the adults they became, but the contrast between the dreamy little boy who imagined rooftop lands, and the happy child exploring the world with his dog, and playing Robin Hood with his friends in the woods—how had he become this man with a reputation for keeping people at a distance? A coldhearted rake? That wasn’t the man who’d rescued her, and protected her, the man who’d kissed her under a moonless sky and the next day read to her for hours
