“Well, I’ve only been in the great hall for Christmas dinner once a year,” Clarice said. “I’ve never seen any of the other rooms.”
“I’ll show you around,” her daughter proclaimed, displaying nary a hint of the awe that made Clarice’s heart beat a rapid tattoo.
The castle was grandly ancient; the very thought of entering the family’s private living space was both daunting and exciting. And the carriage was clattering over the drawbridge already.
Shadows sheathed the carriage’s windows as they passed beneath the barbican. Then it was bright again, and Clarice Bradford found herself inside the crenelated walls of Cainewood Castle.
The carriage door was flung open, and Mary ran down the steps into the enormous grassy quadrangle. “Who are you?” Clarice heard her ask. “And who is this?”
“You must be Miss Mary,” came an unfamiliar voice. Clarice alighted from the carriage to see a young man crouched by her daughter, an infant in his arms. “And this is baby Jewel. Lord Cainewood is an uncle now, aye?”
“Lord Cainewood plays games with me sometimes. The babe is lucky to have him for an uncle.” Four stories of stately living quarters looming behind her, Mary ran a small finger down the child’s tiny nose. “But Jewel is an odd name. ‘Specially for a boy.”
“Ah, but Jewel is a lass.” A grin appeared on the stranger’s face, lopsided and indulgent. “Though she has little hair on her head yet, she’s a girl.”
“Oh. Will she have more hair soon?”
“Aye. A bonnie lass she’ll be. Just like you.”
Mary’s giggle tinkled into the summer air as the young man rose to his full height and caught Clarice’s gaze with his.
Something fluttered inside her when she met his warm hazel eyes. Since he hadn’t answered Mary, Clarice had no idea who he was. He looked to be a wedding guest, though, dressed in a fancy dark blue suit trimmed with bright gold braid. She’d been told this would be a small family wedding. Judging from his accent, she guessed he belonged to the bride’s side.
The stranger was tall. Clarice was not a short woman, but this gentleman topped her by nearly a head. Straight wheaten hair skimmed his shoulders and rippled in the light breeze, shimmering in the sunshine. And his eyes…
She gave herself a mental shake. This magical fairytale day was sparking her imagination—that was all. She’d never thought to be inside the castle walls as an invited guest to the lord’s wedding—she and Mary the only commoners invited—the only non-family invited, come to that. Lord Cainewood had said that since their misfortune had inadvertently led to his marriage, he wanted them with him to celebrate. The sheer wonder of it was going to her sensible head. Making her giddy.
“You talk funny,” Mary said to the stranger.
“Mary!” Clarice exclaimed, but she couldn’t seem to look at her daughter. Her gaze was still riveted to those hazel eyes. He didn’t talk funny, either. To the contrary, his rich, lilting Scottish burr seemed to flow over her, seeping into her skin.
Lud, she feared her knees might give out.
“Do you think so?” He tore his gaze from Clarice’s and looked down at Mary. “Ye should gae a’ folk the hearin’, ye ken?” he said in an accent so broad it was obviously exaggerated.
At the look on her daughter’s face, Clarice laughed, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Surely laughter wasn’t appropriate at a lord’s wedding. She schooled her expression to be properly sober. “He means you should listen to people without passing judgment,” she told Mary.
The gentleman grinned, showing even white teeth. “I’m Cameron Leslie,” he said. “Cousin of the bride.” Shifting the baby to one arm, he reached for Clarice’s hand. When he pressed his warm lips to the back, her breath caught and she thought she might swoon.
Clarice Bradford had never swooned.
“And you two must be the mother and daughter I’ve heard so much about, whose trials set Cainewood on the road to meet and woo my cousin Cait.” She released her breath when he dropped her hand. “Though to hear Lord Cainewood’s side of it,” Mr. Leslie added with a wink, “it was Caithren who did the wooing.”
Clarice couldn’t help but smile. His cousin Caithren sounded like just what serious Lord Cainewood needed. “I’m Clarice Bradford,” she said.
“It’s pleased I am to meet you.” He looked down when Mary tugged on one leg of his velvet breeches. “What is it, sweet?”
“Will you pick me up?”
“Mary!” Clarice frowned and set a hand on the girl’s shoulder.
But Mr. Leslie handed the baby to Clarice, then reached down and swung her daughter into his arms. “Of course I’ll hold you, princess.” His eyes danced. “She’s charming,” he told Clarice.
“I…” She cradled the sweet-smelling babe, at a loss for words. Mary was acting inappropriately forward, to the point of burrowing into Mr. Leslie’s neck. And Clarice…
Clarice was jealous.
It was absurd. The planes of his face were clean-shaven, his skin flawless and…young. He was quite young. Not even twenty, she’d guess. She could see it in his complexion, in the straightness of his lanky form, in the angle of his head. This was not someone who had yet suffered the slings and arrows of life.
And Clarice was nearly twenty-four years old. Old enough to know she had no business fancying an aristocratic gentleman, especially one several years younger than she.
She’d never really fancied anyone before. It was quite a heady experience.
And her daughter was clearly just as smitten.
Clarice was startled out of her thoughts when the whine of bagpipes filled the quadrangle.
“That’s our signal,” Mr. Leslie said. “I expect I should fetch the bride.”
When he set Mary on her feet, the girl reached up and firmly took his hand. “May I come with you?”
“Of course you may, princess.”
“Princess,” Mary breathed as they walked away. Bemused, Clarice smiled down at the cooing infant in her arms, vaguely wondering how
