“And why should she be? She had power. She used it.”
Flint laid a hand at her back, causing her to startle a bit. “I can see that I'll have to keep constant watch for attempted insurrection,” he said as he guided her through the door of the little ale house that was so low he was forced to duck.
They entered a dark, smoky taproom with a few listing tables and a well-worn bar. Across the flagstone floor a pair of farmers sat at a battered table nursing ales. A pretty blond barmaid leaned on the counter, thinking her own thoughts.
Flint seated Felicity at a table by the front window and set down his crop on the table.
“Tea?” he asked her.
“Ale.”
Up went that eyebrow. “Indeed.”
“The samples I've had in the neighborhood have been quite good,” she assured him, reaching up to untie her bonnet. “In fact, your own estate ale is a recipe from Aunt Winnie.”
Flint stopped in his tracks. “Aunt Winnie?”
Felicity smiled. “She has been in charge of its brewing since she’s been here. I hope you don’t mind that I asked her to continue.”
“You had that talk, did you?”
“Yes. And it was astonishingly amicable. I think we should get along famously.” His eyebrow began to rise. Felicity raised her finger in response. “If I stay.”
There was something so satisfying about making him huff like that. She had a feeling no one else dared try, except maybe the Siren. Felicity admitted that it gave her a rather delicious shiver to see the spark flare in his eyes.
By the time he returned, her bonnet was on the table and her gaze out onto the long green. “So, if that is the Manor down the lane,” she mused, “then this must be Rosamund Green?”
He set two brimming mugs down on the table and took up the other chair. “It is.”
She nodded, peering out through the thick glass to the village beyond. “Pip really does love this place. I'm glad I saw it.”
“You could live near it,” he coaxed. “Possibly invite Pip to wander all over it with you and tell you the local stories.”
Refusing to betray the pain that offer ignited, Felicity just smiled and picked up her ale.
“It is my concerted belief,” she said after taking a long sip and surreptitiously wiping the foam from her upper lip, “that men conspire to keep the better things away from women.”
He looked around. “Like what, the green? The alehouse?”
“The ale.”
Flint’s chair scraped across the stone as he picked up his own ale and leaned back. “Most women aren't interested in things like ale.”
“Most women have never been given the chance to decide for themselves.”
“So, you're doing it for them?”
She tilted her head. “It has been a long few days.”
“I thought you spent it locked in the house with no one to talk to.”
“Metaphorically speaking.”
He gave a mournful shake of the head. “I don't suppose this behavior is an aberrancy.”
She considered it. “Well. Of course, I haven't had the latitude to try ale or jump fences in my various positions. It might severely impact the morals of the children. God forbid they should learn to stand up for themselves or, perish the thought, have adventures.”
“Please tell me you were this radical before arriving here. It would serve my father right.”
