“You didn’t need to do this.” His voice was quieter now. And then, almost reverently, he murmured, “Daisy Margaret Montgomery.”
Her name in his mouth sent bells ringing in her head. A wave of dizziness threatened to wash over her.
How could henotbe Alastair? She touched the worktable to maintain her balance. Why would he say her full name like that?
Because she’d introduced herself to him—that was why. Hadn’t she?
“I had plenty of time to work on them while you slept,” she admitted before deliberately steering the conversation back to her original point. “But a working man would never wear pieces such as these.” If she’d wanted to, she could have sold them for nearly half a year’s profits.
“No,” he said. “He would not.”
Gilbert looked on in awe. “That means you’re probably a nobleman! I thought you might be a nob by the way you talk.”
Alastair nodded.
Daisy turned back to face the worktable but couldn’t seem to remember what she’d been doing.
“He’s not wrong,” she said softly.
A GOOD SHAVE
While Gilbert finished his snack—along with listing more of his impassioned opinions on John Locke—Daisy cut off another slice of bread and poured soup into a bowl for Alastair, who had not been without his own thoughts on the subject.
The conversation had been both fascinating and disconcerting.
Fascinating because so many of the ideas were new to her.
Disconcerting because it all felt so unbearably natural.
As though Alastair belonged here.
And that was dangerous. It made it all too easy to forget that his presence in her kitchen was temporary.
“I need to start writing my theme, so I’ll be in the dining room, Dais,” Gilbert announced, gathering his books before turning to their guest. “Thanks for the help, Mister… Alastair. Now I need to get these ideas down on paper.”
“The tricky part,” Alastair said with a knowing nod.
“Indeed,” Daisy inserted, feeling oddly left out of the conversation. Once Gilbert disappeared, she busied herself with wiping up stray crumbs, but her mind wasn’t on the task.
This growing inability to concentrate whenever Alastair was near was getting more than a little annoying.
“Daisy?” The quiet way he said her name made her pulse stutter. He could sense her unease. “I can’t very well call you Miss Montgomery if you’re my wife, can I?”
“I don’t suppose it would be wise.” She forced a bright smile. “Are you still hungry? That wasn’t much of a meal…”
He shook his head, rubbing his fingers over the scruff along his jaw. “Actually, I wondered if you might have a razor.”
“A razor…? Oh! Yes, you can use my father’s.”
Without waiting for a response, she spun on her heel and hurried upstairs, grateful for the excuse to put some distance between them. She needed a moment to breathe—to gather herself.
Inside her room, she knelt before the wooden trunk at the foot of her bed, the familiar creak of its hinges echoing in the quiet. She ran her fingers over the smooth grain before lifting the lid, releasing the faint scent of cedar and time.
Inside lay various belongings she had kept of her father’s—a worn leather-bound journal, a neatly folded handkerchief, and the battered gloves he’d worn in the fields. She hesitated before reaching for his old shaving kit, the weight of the past pressing against her chest.
After her father passed, she hadn’t been able to part with these remnants of him. They weren’t just objects; they were memories—the scent of his pipe, the echo of his laughter…
She swallowed down the emotion that rose unbidden. Now wasn’t the time for sentiment.
