Cameron saw Clarice’s features soften. “Very well. I’ll walk you to the cookshop.” She put the basket on the table. “But as for going rowing alone with Sir Cameron—”
“We’ll be out in the open for the world to see,” he rushed to reassure her. “There’s nothing unseemly about that.”
While Mary skipped to her trundle to fetch her doll, Clarice lifted an enormous pile of neatly folded and colorfully decorated throw blankets, holding them before her as though she hoped they were armor Cam couldn’t pierce.
“May I see one?” he asked.
“Certainly.” She lifted her chin from the top of the stack, and he took one and shook it out. “Crewel work,” she explained. “They fetch a pretty penny in London.”
“You’re very talented with a needle.” The designs were lovely. “Were you thinking to take them to London now?”
Musical laughter filled the room, lifting his heart. “I’ve never been to London. Martinson—the village blacksmith—he visits his sister there twice a year and sells them for me.” She replaced her chin on the pile. “I heard he’s leaving next week, so I thought to bring them by. The smithy is beside the cookshop.”
“Anne’s mama owns the cookshop,” Mary put in.
“Ah, I see.” Cameron followed them to the door. “Do you mind if I walk along with you? I could carry some for you.”
“As you wish.” Clarice visibly relaxed when he relieved her of more than half the pile. “But I’m not going rowing.”
SIX
HALF AN HOUR later, Clarice was stepping into a well-used hired rowboat.
Warm sunshine glinted off her plaited blond bun as she seated herself on the wooden bench and settled her pale yellow skirts about her. Cam took up the oars and paddled them into the center of the River Caine, where the gently flowing water took over the work, drawing them downstream.
“A lovely day, isn’t it?” He set down the oars and swept off his hat, tilting his face to the sun with an appreciative sigh. “I’d wager it’s raining now in Scotland.”
“Do you think so?”
“Aye.” He moved to sit beside Clarice, one hand near to hers where it was clenched on the edge of the bench. “A good bet, as it’s usually raining. Though it’s beautiful for all of that.” England was pretty, especially here by the river, but he preferred the more striking, harsh contours of his homeland. Inching his hand closer, he linked his little finger with hers. “Scotland is a bonnie place to live.”
Without pulling her hand away, she stared straight ahead, feigning interest in a pair of swans floating on the river. “I’m certain Scotland is lovely. But so very far from here.”
“Not so far.” He twined another finger with hers. “Caithren has already promised to pay a visit next summer.”
“But she’s from there, isn’t she? She would want to go home.”
“Her home is here now, with her husband. As it should be.” A quick bit of maneuvering, and three of his fingers were wrapped about a like number of hers. “But aye, she’ll want to come see me and keep an eye on what I’ve wrought with the land of our forebears.”
Her hand felt cool, her fingers slightly roughened from her work. More evidence, had he not known it already, that she stood on her own two feet and did what had to be done.
If—hypothetically, of course—he were to marry, he’d need a bride who would shoulder her fair share of the never-ending tasks around Leslie. His cousin Caithren was like that, and the more time he spent in Clarice’s company, the more he found himself thinking she was the same sort. The sort who would be a helpmate and a friend as well as a wife.
He blinked at that thought. “Has the village always been your home?”
“Always. I’ve never once laid my head anywhere else.” She shot a swift glance to their joined hands. “I was born here in Cainewood…more than twenty-three years ago.”
Cameron didn’t miss the falter in her voice. “And you’re thinking that’s a long time, are you?”
She pulled her hand away and folded it with the other one in her lap. “I’m nearly twenty-four. How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” he said, shifting on the bench to face her.
Her eyes grew hazy, contemplative…disappointed? “Just as I thought,” she said, drawing a deep breath. “I appreciate your attentions, Sir—”
“Cameron. Just call me Cameron.”
Clarice hesitated. While she didn’t want to anger him by ignoring the request, she didn’t want to encourage him, either. A small part of her had hoped he only looked youthful, that he was her age or maybe just a year or two younger.
But nineteen! Lud, she was more than four years his senior!
And a widow with a child.
“I appreciate your attentions,” she repeated, omitting the Sir this time. “It’s quite flattering under the circumstances—”
“And what circumstances might those be?”
She averted her gaze, but the bright pink musk-mallow flowers that dotted the riverbank looked entirely too cheerful. “I’m half a decade older than you.”
“A slight exaggeration,” he said. “And you’ve lived your entire life here in Cainewood. I reckon I’ve seen more of the world.”
“What does that have to do with—”
“I promise, Clarice, the difference in our ages doesn’t matter.”
For the first time, she sensed an impatience in him that should have frightened her, given her past. But for some odd reason, it didn’t. Or not much.
She drew herself up. “How about my feelings, sir? Do they matter?”
“Of course your feelings matter.” Leaning near, he captured her gaze with his clear hazel eyes. “But maybe you’ll find that I can change them.”
He was close, so close. Too close. She stopped breathing. How could it be that even with full awareness of her low station and true age, this handsome young baronet—this literally breathtaking young man—still wanted her?
It was nonsensical.
And even more nonsensical, part of her wished he were serious. That he wanted her for good.
Her heart fluttered dangerously. It seemed the fairytale wasn’t
