Page 9 of The Secret Daughter
“An interesting name.” For a maidservant, he meant.
She lifted an indifferent shoulder. “My mother’s employer named me.”
“Well then, mademoiselle Vita-from-the-Latin, I will just harness Rocinante here and then we’ll be on our way.”He led the horse to the wagon and backed her into the shafts.
“Rocinante?” She gave a choke of laughter. It was perfect. Except that the original Rocinante was male.
He raised an eyebrow. “You are familiar withDon Quixote?”
“Who? No.” She shook her head. “Just that it’s a funny name.” A French country maidservant would be unlikely to know the Cervantes novel. She only knew it because Lady Scattergood had gotten her to read it aloud. “And I was thinking of her hat.”
“Rocinante might be old, but she’s an elegant lady. I would offer you her hat, only she would miss it,” he said so seriously that she laughed again.
Recognizing the name had been a careless slip. They would be able to communicate much more easily in English—his French was confident, but fairly basic, and when he was stuck for a word, he had a tendency to Frenchify an English one, which she found quite entertaining. But as long as she maintained her role as a poor country girl, she couldn’t admit to any knowledge of English, let alone familiarity with a classic of Spanish literature.
A maidservant traveling alone by foot would not engender much curiosity; a young English lady traveling alone through the French countryside would certainly be cause for speculation. And Zoë wished to remain anonymous.
Her pilgrimage was personal and private and nobody else’s business. Besides, she might cry, and she didn’t want anyone to witness that. She hadn’t cried since Maman died.
He gave Zoë a thoughtful look, fed Rocinante an apple core and finished fastening the traces. Then he leaned inside the wagon and brought out a man’s hat.
“You’re getting sunburned,” he explained as he held it out to her. “It’s not as elegant as Rocinante’s but it’s all I have.”
He was right. She could feel the sun tightening her skin.She glanced inside the hat, but it seemed quite clean and unstained. His hair was also clean and glossy. She put it on, and then laughed as it slid down until it rested on her nose. “Thank you. It’s a bit too big, but it will do for the moment.” She twisted her hair into a knot and tucked it into the hat, which cooled her neck and helped position the hat so she could see.
He donned another hat, this one quite disreputable-looking, climbed up on the wagon and held out a hand first to take her bundle, then to help her up. She grasped it and felt a slight frisson at the skin-to-skin contact. His hand was warm and strong and he lifted her to the seat without apparent effort. Wiry strength, not meaty muscle.
They set off, Rocinante at a steady amble. Still feeling a little wary, she perched on the very edge of the seat, her bundle between them, close at hand.
“We don’t go fast,” he commented, “but we get there in the end. And the scenery is beautiful.”
“Beautiful?” It was all just hedges—not exactly neat, at that—and beyond them fields and rows and rows of grapevines.
He glanced at her and gave a soft huff of laughter. “I don’t suppose a country girl would see anything special in it, but I like to observe the birds and small creatures. Hear that?” He tilted his head. “Those are chaffinches, and if you look carefully, you’ll see them—they’re probably nesting in that hedge there.” Then he pointed to the sky. “And there’s a pair of hawks, looking for their next meal.”
She looked and saw two birds high in the sky—just dots, really—gliding effortlessly. As she watched, one of them suddenly plummeted like a falling stone. She gasped, thinking it was about to crash into the ground, but at the very last minute it swooped back up and flew off, some small, doomed creature wriggling in its beak.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” he murmured. “I could watch them for hours.”
“Mm.” She was wondering about the poor little wriggling thing.
He glanced at her and smiled. “Nature isn’t softhearted, and neither are we.”
She sighed. “I know. But I’d rather not watch.” Which was a bit cowardly of her, she knew.
The wagon rumbled on. They rode in silence, and Zoë started to relax.
“So, Mademoiselle Vi— Oops!” The wagon hit a pothole and jolted so hard that Zoë was almost thrown from her seat. His arm shot out and wrapped around her waist, pulling her to safety.
“M-merci,” she gasped.
“Sorry, I should have spotted that hole. Still, no damage done.”
His arm was still around her waist, warm and strong, her bundle squashed between them. She moved a little uncomfortably, and he seemed to notice where his arm rested and withdrew it immediately. “You shouldn’t sit so close to the edge. This road is full of potholes and I might not be so quick to catch you next time.”
She nodded and moved a few inches closer to him. He glanced at her and chuckled. “I won’t bite, you know.” He gave her a droll look and added, “Not unless you want me to.”
It was just harmless flirting, she knew, so, feeling a little foolish, she moved another few inches closer and placed her bundle on her lap. She was probably being overcautious, but her earlier experience with the three men had rattled her.
