Page 25 of Every Day of My Life

“Or we could speak in your English,” she said casually, hoping this time it might startle him into a confession.

A confession about what, she certainly didn’t know. That he was a man so famous that he had a scribe following him and jotting down his more noteworthy doings? He’d obviously lost at least the first half of that recounting, so he might not want to discuss it.

He had gone very still, but perhaps that was his way of assessing the battlefield before committing to a course of action.

“I learned your tongue from a book,” she said when it looked as if he might never speak again. “A book about a duke. I may not be pronouncing the words properly.”

“You’re doing it wonderfully.”

Which he said in Gaelic, which she supposed might be the best way to continue. She waited, but he only knelt there, silent and grave. His usual method of conducting his affairs, if his diary had told the tale true.

She handed him back his cup, then started to get to her feet. He leapt up and held out his hand to help her up, which she found to be slightly uncomfortable for some reason. She wasn’t accustomed to any sort of courtesies from her kin, though young Ambrose had recently taken to exercising his manners enough to see her seated before he took a stool next to her and single-mindedly worked his way through his suppers.

“So,” she said casually, “you said you were returning home.”

“I’m trying,” he agreed.

“You might have an easier time if you had your phaeton and matched ponies,” she said in as offhand a manner as possible.

He looked at her as if he’d never heard of such a thing. “My what?”

She was beginning to wonder if he’d not only been robbed, but clunked on the head hard enough to lose a few of his memories. “Your conveyance,” she said, trying to dredge up a bit of patience.

“My conveyance?”

“How you came here,” she clarified. “Unless you simply rode a horse.”

He only nodded.

That was hardly an answer. She was beginning to suspect that there were not just a few strange and mysterious thingsclustered around the man in front of her and she wasn’t entirely certain those things weren’t several otherworldly characters from her uncle’s fevered imagination.

“Were you indeed robbed,” she asked sternly, “or was that a falsehood?”

He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. She was tempted to try once more to startle him into blurting out details about himself that he seemed reluctant to reveal, but there was something that stopped her. She was accustomed to instantly judging men and situations in order to avoid trouble. The man in front of her still had his hands in plain sight, he had offered her water, and he had been polite and respectful to her kin when he’d been in their hall.

He had also taken a blow for her and not made any mention of the rather hot soup she’d poured on his leg, so perhaps he had his own reasons for keeping things to himself.

“I was left here by my friends,” he said carefully.

“Here in the witch’s croft?” she asked in surprise.

“Aye.”

“And you cannot simply return home?”

“My friends asked me to wait for them here.”

“But that seems strange,” she said, which she thought was a truly unholy bit of understatement.

He smiled slightly. “I agree.”

“Why don’t you come wait back at the hall where you at least have a hot fire?”

He inclined his head politely. “The invitation is most welcome, but I must wait here. Many horses will be mine if I do as they’ve asked.”

“How many?”

“Twelve hundred.” He paused. “Possibly fewer, but I’m hoping for that many.”