‘Please.’ Cassian sounded a little stifled, but he took it and sluiced himself down in turn, and Daizell took the chance to watch while he could. Turnabout was fair play.
Cassian definitely stripped to advantage: the candlelight hadn’t lied. Slim, but not willowy; not tall, not too much sinew and muscle. He was an elegant package, Daizell thought, a picture that repaid attention, with the water running rivulets down his skin in droplets that begged to be caught with a finger. A finger that Daizell might pop into his mouth, or even between Cassian’s parted, expressive lips . . .
Bad Daizell. Bad.Fifty pounds, he reminded himself, and reached for the rough cloth to dry off.
Jed Browning, it transpired, had a cart, and was going past a hamlet whose name Daizell instantly forgot, where there was an inn that would give them a meal and a bed. It was now close on five o’clock, still warm and light, but night had a way of springing itself on you when you were on foot in the countryside. They thanked their benefactress, Cassian rewarded her for her kindness – lavishly, Daizell guessed by her expression – and they climbed into the back of Jed Browning’s cart, resting on hay-bales.
That was the sort of thing that looked charmingly pastoral in paintings, but was surprisingly prickly in practice. It also tended to insects. But Cassian didn’t object, lying back to look at the sky, and if he was happy, Daizell wouldn’t be complaining. The hay cushioned the jolting as the cart rumbled over the rough stony path, and it was a while since Daizell had lain back companionably with someone he liked and enjoyed the moment.
‘You were dashed good with the horses,’ he remarked. ‘Do you have your own?’
‘A pair I trained myself, of whom I’m very proud. Horses are wonderful creatures. So much life, and feeling, and they hardly ever judge one.’
‘Hardly ever?’
‘Oh, I’ve been judged by horses,’ Cassian said with a laugh. ‘When I’ve been egregiously foolish or careless. But mostly they’re very accepting.’
‘But you’re not driving yourself now?’
‘No.’ It sounded a little awkward. ‘I had reasons to go by the public coach.’
‘I’m sure,’ Daizell said. ‘Well, it’s such a safe and comfortable way to travel.’
‘Highly convenient, too, never taking one out of one’s way—’
‘And so reasonably priced,’ Daizell finished. He could see Cassian’s grin, and his own lips were curving. ‘I expect you’ll sell your own pair and become an aficionado.’
‘I won’t do that,’ Cassian said, and though he was smiling still, Daizell felt he meant it.
They were peacefully silent a little longer, then Cassian said, ‘Charnage?’
‘Daizell.’
‘Sorry?’
‘If you don’t object. Most people call me by my first name, that’s all. Daizell, or Daize for short. Unless you’d rather not, of course.’ He cringed internally as he spoke, kicking himself for the unguarded offer. Of course Cassian wouldn’t want to be on first-name terms with him: this was a temporary association, not a friendship, and Daizell would do well to remember that. ‘It doesn’t matter. Charnage does very well.’
‘No,’ Cassian said. ‘No, I would like to. Thank you. Daizell.’ The name sounded magical in his soft voice. ‘That’s an awfully unusual name.’
‘I should think it’s unique.’
‘Where is it from?’
Daizell had of necessity told this story a great deal. The familiarity helped him recover himself from the surge of embarrassment and then of pleasure, and the sound of his name in Cassian’s voice. ‘Are you familiar with the name Dalziel?’ He pronounced it in the Scots way and saw Cassian frown.
‘Dee Ell? You mean, the letters DL?’
‘Pronounced Dee Ell, spelled D-a-l-z-i-e-l. It’s a Scottish surname. My mother’s uncle Ralph Dalziel took great pride in his roots, and when I was born my parents hoped to curry favour. He was rich. I was to be Dalziel Charnage in his honour, and he was to hand over the readies in his will, you see. Except my father’s ability to spell was commensurate with his other talents, so he had me christened Daizell, with the I and L in the wrong places, and wrote as much to Uncle Ralph, who pointed out the mistake. Some people would have corrected themselves and smoothed matters over, but my father did not like to have his mistakes pointed out. He insisted my name was indeed Daizell, pronounced as spelled. Uncle Ralph took the hump, and there went my chance at a rich godfather and an inheritance. But at least I have an interesting name out of it.’
‘Good heavens,’ Cassian said. ‘That’s uh, remarkable.’
‘Very typical of my father. And myself, I suppose.’
Cassian twisted round to look at him with a little frown. ‘Well, it suits you, I think. Daizell, then. Oh. Er. I would return the compliment, but—’
He didn’t want Daizell Charnage to call him by his first name. Naturally not. Daizell kept his features pleasant despite the familiar, hateful way his stomach clenched at the rejection, and waved an airy hand. ‘As you prefer.’
‘I didn’t mean I wouldn’t want – Um. The thing is, I loathe my name.’
