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
