Page 13 of The Secret Daughter
“I know it’s obvious,” he said impatiently. “What I mean is, where are you going to sleep?”
“I will find somewhere.”
“At this time? Don’t be ridiculous. Come and have some dinner—I have stew simmering in the pot. You can sleep in the wagon.”
She opened her mouth and he added, “And I will sleepunderthe wagon. I’ve done it often. It’s quite pleasant when it’s as warm and dry as it is now.”
She hesitated, and he said, “You have no need to worry. My intentions are honorable, and even if they weren’t, the wagon has a bolt on the inside of the door. You will be quite safe. Now come along, I don’t want my stew to burn.”
The man calling himself Reynard discreetly observed the girl while he stirred the stew. She intrigued him, and not just because she was beautiful, with those dazzling green eyes, pure complexion and curly dark hair. She’d pulled her hair back in a knot, but tiny dark curls clustered like feathers around her forehead and her dainty ears and at the creamy soft nape of her neck. Her mouth was a soft and satiny dark pink. She was temptation personified.
But she wasn’t the kind of girl he could seduce: a virtuous maidservant who’d lost her position by refusing a gentleman’s advances was hardly likely to succumb to the charms of a shabby vagabond.
Though it was a shame—apart from being lovely, she intrigued him in other ways. She was guarded—as nervous as a doe in hunting season. Understandable, he supposed, seeing she was traveling alone and he was a stranger. She was bright. Quick, too, with an answer for everything…
He tasted the stew and tossed in a little more salt.
That story about her grandmother…It didn’t quite fit. Oh, he didn’t doubt her grief—those tearstains were real—but he’d been up that lane before and had a poke around the ruined château. It was deserted and had been for decades, and the only house nearby housed a farmer and his wife, both around thirty and too young to be grandparents.
Her hands were very soft, too, and not the hands of a maid who did menial work. Although he supposed she could be a lady’s maid, and her hands kept soft because she was handling silks and satins on a daily basis. Her mistress wouldn’t want rough skin catching on those delicate fabrics. Still, there was something about her…
He stirred the stew and pondered.
“You’re not from around here,” she said.
“No, I’m English. But I like this part of the world and have traveled this way several times.” And the pickings had been good enough that he thought it well worth another visit.
But her disingenuous question intrigued him. He was well aware his French accent wasn’t particularly good and that she must already have realized he was English. So why ask?
“And yet you travel around France?”
“That’s right. I like it here.”
She gave him a thoughtful look, and it occurred to him that she thought there was something shady about his being here. As if he were wanted for some crime in England. He smiled to himself. He wasn’t going to enlighten her. He produced a couple of bowls, dished up the stew and cut a few slices of bread to mop up the juices. It wasn’t fancy, but it was filling and tasty.
She tasted it cautiously, then looked up in surprise. “This is very good.”
He laughed. “You think men can’t cook?”
“No, I mean, I’ve never eaten anything cooked in the open over a fire before.”
He raised a brow. “Not even when you lived in the country with your grandmother?”
She shook her head. “I never lived with her. I was raised in an orphanage by nuns.” She ate another spoonful. “What’s in this?” A deft change of subject, he noted.
“Vegetables, beans, a rabbit and some herbs. And a splash of wine, which reminds me.” He poured a little wine into the mugs that they’d used for tea earlier, and passed one to her, saying, “No glasses, I’m afraid.”
She thanked him and continued her meal.
“So, when you went to find your grandmother,” he prompted.
“Do you have a home?” she said, once more changing the subject.
“Several.”
She blinked and looked up from her meal. “Several?”
“Yes.”
