Jason chuckled when he saw the sign.
“Whatever do you find so amusing?” Cait asked.
“My brother—um, he…lives in a place called Greystone.”
“So?”
“It just struck me as funny, is all.” He swung himself down to the street. “We’ll stop here for breakfast.”
“Why don’t we eat it on the road?” she suggested, looking at the square, at the sky, at anything but him. “I’ll wait here with Chiron while you go inside and get something.”
“The Gothard brothers were in Stilton, which means they’re not making better time than we are. I’m certain they’re fast asleep. We have time to stop and eat.”
“I’d rather not, if you wouldn’t mind.” She didn’t want to face him across a table. “I’ll stretch my legs while you fetch the food.”
Without agreeing, he helped her dismount. She took his horse by the reins. “I’ll just walk Chiron over there”—she indicated the village green and a post with a sign in its center—“and wait for you.”
“I’d rather you come inside. After yesterday—”
“You said the brothers will still be sleeping. How unsafe could it be? You can watch me from the window.”
He fixed her with a penetrating gaze that made her quickly look elsewhere. “Very well,” he said at last. “But stay in sight.”
The grass was soft and springy, and it felt good to walk after more than an hour in the saddle. She was delighted to discover that she wasn’t really sore anymore. After four days on horseback, her body was finally adjusting.
She tethered Chiron to the signpost, which was topped by a fancy wrought-iron affair with letters spelling not only SAWTRY, but also SALTREIAM, the village’s name from Roman times.
Doffing her shoes and stockings, she wiggled her toes in the grass and wondered what Jason was thinking of her after last night. He was acting normal. Perhaps he’d never fancied her in the first place, so her behavior meant nothing to him. She couldn’t decide if that was better or worse than the other possibility—that he had fancied her before last night, and now he was politely concealing his revulsion.
Neither option was appealing.
In an effort to cheer herself, she rolled her shoulders, reached for the sky, then bent to touch her feet, coming face to face with a fresh, white daisy. She plucked it from the grass and brought it to her nose, smiling at the sweet, familiar scent. Sprinkled liberally throughout the green, the flowers reminded her of a childhood pastime, and she picked a handful, tucking up her skirt to collect them.
Jason found her sitting cross-legged and working industriously. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked, amusement lacing his voice. “A daisy chain?”
She slit the last stem and slipped the first daisy through it, completing the circle. Then she looked up into his smiling eyes, finding it easier than she’d expected.
“For you,” she said, rising. “A peace offering.” Standing on tiptoe, she crowned him with it. “A daisy chain is supposed to protect you from the fairies.”
Instead of teasing her about another superstition, he turned pink beneath his tan, revealing freckles she hadn’t noticed before. “We’ve found peace between us already,” he said. “Have we not?” With a sheepish smile, he removed the daisy chain and put it on her own, smaller head.
It slipped right down and around her neck. He leaned closer, taking his time arranging it into a uniform curve atop her bodice, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary.
A frisson of confusion ran through her. She licked her lips and looked down, then reached to grasp the amulet that lay framed within the flowers. Something solid and familiar to cling to in the midst of all this foreignness.
When she glanced up, he was contemplating her bare feet. He bent to pluck another daisy and tucked it into the plait behind one ear. Stepping back, he grinned.
“You look very Scottish,” he said.
“Do I, now?” She made herself meet his gaze and smile. “Well, you look very English.”
“Hmm…” he said in a thoughtful tone. “Both of us managed to say that without sounding insulting.” He turned to untie Chiron. “Imagine that.”
“Imagine that,” she echoed.
Imagine that, indeed.
FORTY-THREE
WHITE AND yellow wildflowers dotted the gently rolling land on either side of the narrow lane leaving Sawtry. As they rode, Jason could see Emerald lazily toying with the daisy chain around her neck, silent as the peaceful landscape. But for once it wasn’t an adversarial silence, merely the silence born of exhaustion, the comfortable silence that comes to pass when two people coexist without the need to fill it with senseless chatter.
Indeed, the only sounds were those of Chiron’s hooves on the rutted road and the occasional travelers who passed. Until there came a wild yell, and three young bareback riders came racing down the road right at them, all but forcing Chiron into the stream that ran alongside.
“Gypsy lads!” Emerald came alive. “They pass through Leslie every year, and oh, they play the most lovely music.” She cocked her head. “Can you hear a lute?”
“Easy, boy.” Jason reined in. “I can hear nothing except—egad, here they come again.”
From the other direction, they thundered past.
“Follow them,” she urged. “They must be encamped nearby.”
Sure enough, over the next hill came the delicate notes of the lute she’d heard. The lively tune grew more distinct as they turned off the road and followed the trail of clumps kicked up by the racing horses.
The Gypsy boys halted and slid from their mounts beside a makeshift community of people milling among tents, carts, and pack animals. Smoke rose into the air above the encampment. The lads bent over in laughter, pointing at Jason and Emerald.
An old woman motioned them closer, flashing a gap-toothed grin.
Emerald turned and tilted her head back,
