One of Lord Cainewood’s brothers went off to fetch a footman to see her home. Mary didn’t wake when Sir Cameron lifted her and beckoned Clarice to follow him through the castle to the double front doors.
Reluctantly, it seemed, he handed over her daughter. “It was a lovely evening.”
“Yes, it was. Like a dream, almost.” In her arms, slight Mary felt limp, warm, and overly heavy. “A beautiful dream of castles and lords and ladies. A fairytale come true. And now I must return to the real world, but I’ll carry this memory with me.”
“I’ll remember our dance,” he said in a low voice.
His words flowed over her like warmed, sweet honey. Her own words failed her once again.
His secret little smile reappeared, and he touched her on the arm. “May I see you tomorrow?”
“P-pardon?” She looked down to where his fingers still rested on her pink linen sleeve. Long, strong fingers, so unlike her late husband’s older, coarse ones.
“May I see you tomorrow?” When he removed his hand, her arm felt cold. “I thought perhaps you’d like to come out walking.”
With some surprise, Clarice realized she would like that very much. But it mattered not. The dream was over, and there could be no point in seeing him again. She looked away. “I have work to do tomorrow.”
Mary slumped in her arms, and Sir Cameron leapt to catch her, righting the girl with gentle hands. “The next day, then?”
“No, I—” She broke off, not knowing what to say.
He pulled away, but not before he brushed the hair from her daughter’s face. “You don’t want to see me,” he said flatly.
She winced as she saw his eyes fade and his mouth settle into a grim, straight line. “No, it’s not that, my lord—”
“I’m not a lord, Mrs. Bradford. Only a mere sir.”
“Oh. Sir. Well. It’s just—” She drew a deep breath and tried again. “It wouldn’t be…seemly…for me to be seen about the village with one so…” She looked down at Mary’s tumbled curls. “Young.”
There, she’d said it. She looked up.
“Do you really think I’m too young?” Part of her was mortified that she’d said it—in doing so, she’d as much as admitted she thought he was interested in her. Yet the light was back in his eyes. Clearly he didn’t consider this objection insurmountable.
But he didn’t know about her other objections—ones more deep-seated and not easily brushed aside.
Just then the door opened and a footman presented her with a brief, snappy bow. “Mrs. Bradford? I’ve been sent to escort you home.”
She knew him. John Foster, Mrs. Foster’s oldest son. And John Foster knew her, too. Moved to the castle from the village, he was dressed in Cainewood livery and had acquired the manners to go with it.
She could acquire manners, too, if she wanted to. But John Foster belonged here, and she didn’t. Not here or anyplace like it.
“Shall we leave, then?” she asked, following him down the steps.
She didn’t dare look back. But she knew Cameron Leslie was watching her. Sir Cameron Leslie.
And lud, it felt entirely too good to know that.
FOUR
LATE THE NEXT morning, Cameron paused in front of Clarice’s white thatched-roof cottage. A profusion of carefully tended flowers bordered the pristine raked path through her tiny garden to the unassuming front door.
He wondered what she’d think of the small castle in eastern Scotland he’d recently inherited. It was no palace, to be sure, but her cottage would fit onto half of one of its four floors.
Then, with a rueful smile, he wondered if he was truly contemplating taking a woman he’d known less than a day to live in his home. Was he daft?
He sneezed as he approached the door, then nearly fell in when it jerked open unexpectedly and Mary launched herself into his arms. “Oh, Sir Cameron,” she gushed. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again!”
“Did you think I’d abandon my precious Mary?” He shifted the barefoot, pink-cheeked lassie to balance on a hip as his gaze swept the dusky one-room cottage.
Her mother was stirring something in the kettle over the fire, something that smelled fruity and sweet. Though not half as sweet as her shy smile when she set down the spoon and turned to look at him.
“Ah, there you are,” he said.
“Whatever brings you here, my lord?” Clarice wiped her hands on the apron that protected her trim fawn-colored dress, then gestured to the kettle. “I am hard at work, as you see.”
“And I am not a lord, as I told you,” he replied mildly.
“Sir—”
“Please call me Cameron.” He set Mary on her feet. “As to what brought me here, I just happened to be walking by—”
“Walking?” Clarice seemed a bit flustered. He hoped that would keep her from wondering how he’d located her house. “You walked all the way from the castle?”
Humming a careless tune, Mary ran circles around him. He smiled at her indulgently. “And why not? It’s not so very far.”
“It’s just that…well, they usually ride down in a carriage.” Clarice pushed back a wisp of hair that had escaped her blond plaited bun. “Or on horseback.”
“They?”
“The family, I mean.” She reached out to stop her daughter’s dance, pulling Mary’s small body back against her taller one. Like a shield, Cam thought. “Of course, some of those from the village who work there walk, but the family—”
“I’m not the family,” he said with a shrug, wishing he could set her at ease.
“But the new Lady Cainewood is your cousin, isn’t she?”
“Aye, Caithren is kin. First cousins, and all. But I come from simple folk, Clarice—” He stepped closer. “May I call you Clarice?”
Her cheeks glowed pink in the firelight. Mary squirmed, but Clarice held her tight and nodded.
“Clarice, then. Believe me, Clarice, I have far more in common with you than with the Chases. A baronet is yet a commoner, you know, and before last
