When he put my hand to his breast and I felt the fast thud, I was sure my cheeks became fire.
Turning away, I rubbed my temples. We were separating. I wouldn’t succumb to the attraction between us anymore.
“Well, Lady Gantry, I’ll see you for dinner. I’ll secure rooms as well.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“We’ll have to see how much this slows us down. There won’t be time to drive past Stonehenge.”
“My lord, you never want to stop when we go to Warwick.”
“It’s the closest ancient artifact in England. It sort of inspires me of Rome because of the massive stonework. Since I never took you, here on our last trip together, we should attempt to stretch our legs—”
“Stop, Felton. I don’t want to be tempted. I believe we will have more charity for one another if we forgo remembering what we had.”
His gaze burned and it became fire to my lungs. He wasn’t thinking of separating. “We had something. I feel it’s worth fighting for. I’ve fought for so many things, for the betterment of England. I’m fighting for what I want.”
He looked down, then peered toward the people standing ahead of me. “But it takes two for an argument. One for a grudge. Tramel has taught me the distinction.” Felton clasped my portmanteau. “I’ll take this. The driver said the coach was very crowded. I’d rather you come with me. I will let you be. And you will be able to rest or draw. Whatever you want.”
I took it from him. Didn’t want to depend on him or anyone else. If Noah and Enna were to continue to depend upon me, I had to be strong. “I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure? It will be crowded and noisy.”
Noisy? Was it wise to put myself in a situation that put my peace at risk?
I was about to protest when I saw an older woman, her daughter, and a calf, the calf from the pen, precede me into the coach.
He slipped the portmanteau from my fingers, bowed, and left for his carriage.
If I wasn’t so stubborn, I’d change my mind and ask if I could go with him, but I’d rather sit with livestock than chance another moment weighing what Felton and I had and why it was gone.
* * *
I was wrong.
Two hours with a calf chewing my handkerchief, while pressed between the breasts of two burly matrons, was horrid. Trying not to breathe the stench of people who thought bathing was bad for one’s health convinced me that I wasn’t too proud to beg.
Help.
Moooooo.
Then the noises ripped at me. Snippets of this conversation, then that one, hurt my ears. Booming voices inside the coach, more voices dumping through the roof like a waterfall.
Drowning, fending off a cute cow attack, I didn’t know how to calm.
She was cute, with light brown eyes like Helena’s. Big ears like Noah’s but with splotchy white patches on her tawny coat, she shouldn’t be a monster. Or smell bad like one, not with such pink lips. Maybe I’ll call her Jacaranda, but that would mean she’d always end up smelling bad.
Mooooo.
Thenmoomoo. That would be how I’d tell the tale of the handkerchief killer.
Fidgeting, I received an elbow to my ribs and a “Sorry.”
Pinned, I could neither walk nor run away. I was losing this fight for control.
Nothing to sketch.
Nothing to draw my mind to peace.
