“Ye need nae come all the way to Kinmarloch,” she said and hiccoughed.
He found two lap blankets and put them over her. “I gave you the wine. And stuffed you with goose. I have to make sure you get to your keep. Safely.”
She fell asleep on the short ride back.
He did not allow himself to look at her sleeping. He didn’t know why, but he felt it would be a very dangerous thing to do.
Nine
Helen woke up a bit muzzy, her mouth dry. But she was warm even though she was alone on the pallet.
“Mags.” She sat up.
“Here, my lady.” Mags was seated at the table, darning.
There was softness under Helen’s hands. She looked down. Two heavy wool blankets covered her. And there was a meaty smell in the air. Fat frying. Could it be ham?
“Are ye well?” Mags asked.
“Aye. I think I drank too much wine at the castle.”
“Aye. That’s what Mr. Pike said when he carried ye in.”
Blast. What a weakness to have been drunkenly asleep in front of him. And how disappointing not to have the memory of him carrying her out of the carriage, feeling his arms around her. She would have liked to have been able to hold that in her mind. His strength, his male scent, his handsome face and grin so close—because she was sure he would be grinning over the fact she had gotten drunk despite her claim she wouldn’t. The memory of that almost-embrace by the beautiful Jack Pike would have been something to hug close and remember when she was tired and cold and alone.
She stood up in her nightdress. Wait. Had . . . had he seen her like this?
“I put ye in yer nightdress, my lady, after Mr. Pike left. Ye kept giggling in yer sleep.”
“I will have to get these blankets back to him today.”
“He said we should keep them.”
Helen frowned at Mags. “I will return them today.”
Mags put her darning down. “Are ye ready for breakfast?”
“What is it?”
“Ham.”
“Where did the ham come from, Mags?”
“It came home with ye, last night. In a basket with bread.”
“So it came from Mr. Pike.”
“Nae. He said it came from Mrs. Mac. I knew she was yer friend so I have already cut off two slices and put them in the pan to fry.” Mags’ eyes were pleading. “Please, my lady, please. Dinnae make us give the ham back.”
The aroma of the ham was stronger now, and Helen could hear a sizzle from the hearth. Mags never asked for anything. Ever. But Helen knew the ham was not from Mrs. Mac. The cook was generous, but she would never pilfer a whole ham—worth several weeks’ wages, if not more—from the duchy, no matter how hungry Helen was or how thin she looked. Perhaps a small amount of meat, perhaps the bread, but never a whole ham.
Helen lied to herself. The ham was from Mrs. Mac. They would eat these two slices and then find a way to return the ham.
“We willnae give the ham back yet.”
Mags scurried to take the pan off the fire and the slices were quickly eaten and very soon two more slices were in the pan. And then two more. But Helen made Mag eat those last two alone as she herself thirstily drank water. After all, she had feasted on goose and wine last night and had made no provision for poor Mags who had eaten groats.
Damn herself for not thinking about Mags. And damn Jack Pike for thinking of Mags. That was Helen’s responsibility, and she must do better than a lecherous, flirtatious, beautiful Englishman.
