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He was staying! But he should not. “Do you think ’tis wise?”

For an answer, he placed the tray on a table large enough to hold it and moved to the candle she’d lit earlier. He picked it up.

“It was not wise for either of us to come to England. And certainly not for you to have accompanied me. But that has not seemed to stop our course as yet.”

Alex used the candle to light the others. Clara was glad she’d taken off the hat and washed her face earlier. And even more grateful to Sara for providing her with this opportunity to be herself—with Alex.

“May I?”

He pulled out the chair, its gold-trimmed maroon velvet cushions the height of luxury. Indeed, everything about Kenshire was at once richly appointed and comfortable. Approachable.

Like its countess.

Clara vowed to leave her worries behind for the night and enjoy Alex’s company somewhere other than on horseback or in a stable.

She sat, her boy’s clothes allowing for an easy transition.

Alex sat across from her, split the food between them, and poured wine for them both.

“I’m glad you declined an invitation to dinner.”

“Why?” She didn’t mean to blurt out the question, but there was no denying she was eager for his answer.

“We need to talk.”

Aye, they did.

“About what happened. . . “

Her cheeks grew warm. Without her hat and smudges, she felt exposed. And Alex was looking at her that way, as if she were one of the courses placed in front of him.

She blurted. “You were right—”

“I was an idiot—”

They spoke at the same time.

Her grin was immediate. “Please, do continue. I find your opening much more intriguing.”

Clara popped a morsel of cumin-spiced duck into her mouth. She was hungry indeed, and the fare was so much finer than the meals they’d shared on the road.

“You’re so kind,” he said, obviously meaning just the opposite. “I was an idiot not to have explained my thinking that night. Clara. . .”

Her smile faltered when his voice turned serious.

“I will not be coy with you. I told you that I want you, and I do. I think of that morning at the loch. Of the nights you’ve slept in my arms. Our conversation at the inn and that night, in the stable. . .”

He took a sip of wine, peering at her from above the rim of his goblet.

“I meant what I said, however. That I don’t know anything about you other than—”

“You know my name.”

“Your given name.”

“And that I have nightmares each night.”

“But I don’t fully understand what haunts you.”