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“So there is a fire within you. I’m glad to see it.”

With that, he left. Not a word about their wedding night, or any further details about their future. That, she supposed, was her fault, as Phillipa had the opportunity to ask questions but failed to do so.

Tomorrow, she would. If he truly would not get angry at her for doing so, then what did she have to fear by speaking up? Surely not as much as she had to fear by crossing him. Perhaps she’d learn nothing untoward. Nothing to incur the king’s wrath?

And maybe it was a will-o’-the-wisp she’d seen at the bog they passed earlier. The idea seemed just as likely, and perhaps less dangerous.

Chapter Nine

He expected to have to wake her. Haydn didn’t expect her to walk out of the tent just after daybreak looking so fresh and ready for the journey already. Wearing a traveling gown, the one her maid had packed apparently, his wife was just as lovely today. Her hair, as it had been last eve, was no longer properly coiffed but lay in long waves around her shoulders, held back this morning with a simple strip of ribbon. If some might think it odd, a married woman wearing her hair down and uncovered that way, he certainly did not. Especially as he’d denied her the maid she was surely accustomed to having by her side.

He’d planned for them both to accompany him to Hillstone, but when Amice admitted she was not a competent rider, he had changed his mind. After what had occurred earlier this month in Galloway, he was anxious to get to Bristol Manor to speak to his aunt and uncle, and attempt, as best he could, to get through to his cousin about the dangers now posed to him. They’d been there all along, of course. And Rory was aware of the consequences of his actions. But with luck, Haydn’s nuptials would make him realize the precariousness of their situation.

She caught his eye, and Haydn had to fight to temper his anger at her father. He’d known the man was a bastard. Within minutes of meeting him, he despised him. Men like him, ones who cared for titles and standing and power above all else, were the worst sort in his opinion. He’d told his father many times, if the king stripped them of Kenshire, of their holdings, he’d be perfectly content to join his father’s “other” family, the reivers his father had run with many, many years ago. Men, and women, with more honor than Lord Sherfield could ever conceive. Aye, they stole from others. Usually the Scots. But they did it to survive, and their code of honor was one he could understand.

This other code, the king’s code, he could not. So many died in the king’s ongoing battle to retain power over those who clearly wished for freedom from it.

“Good morn, my lord,” she said, walking up to him. And then correcting herself, “Haydn.”

“Good morn,” he replied as the others prepared to leave their temporary shelter. Holt was nowhere to be seen, and the others already had begun to pack up camp. All eve his brother had chipped away at his resolve. Reminding him she’d done nothing yet to warrant Haydn’s mistrust. Asking him how he’d wish Haddie to be treated if she were in Lady Phillipa’s situation.

“How will speaking to her put us in danger?” his brother had asked as they sat by the fire. Haydn reminded him that his wife had chosen to retreat to her tent moments after they’d eaten, that he’d not ordered her to leave, but Holt did have a point. Likely she did so because he’d said very little to her all day, and he’d warned the others to do the same.

So he’d given in, made his way to her tent, and regretted it. Keenly aware that it was their wedding night, but having no notion to make her his bride in truth in a tent. And then those revelations about her father. Something in him had snapped, and now Haydn didn’t know if he could put it back together. Still uneasy to reveal too much to her, knowing as he let his guard down he may say something, even inadvertently, that could be used against his family, he nevertheless decided today would be different. There was a fire there, as he’d told her, and Haydn felt challenged now to see if he couldn’t bring it out. Let it burn. It could serve her well at Hillstone Manor.

“Did you sleep well?” It had been regrettable that they’d not made it to the abbey, as he’d planned. Haydn was sure sleeping on the ground was a new experience for her, and though he had no plans for this marriage to be anything but one in name only, he also had not intended to be cruel, as Holt accused him of last eve. Though his haste to get away from her father had been justified, as it turned out.

“Better than I’d have expected. Thank you.” She nodded to the tent being dismantled by Isaac and Hamon now. “’Tis hard to believe one packhorse carried a tent so large.”

He approached her as if she were a deer, cautiously so as not to spook her. “I would apologize, Phillipa, for my treatment of you on our wedding day.”

As always, her gaze was measured. “It certainly was not what I’d expected, but then, neither was our marriage,” she said. “Much has changed suddenly for me. And for you, I would imagine.”

Temporarily, aye. She wanted to ask him something, and though he was in a hurry to be on the road, Haydn wished more for her to ask her questions. He would, if nothing else, ensure she knew no man in his employ while at Hillside would dare mistreat her.

“Go ahead,” he prompted. “Ask.”

She squared her shoulders, as if preparing for battle. A niggling of sorrow, and another of anger at her father, settled into him. Burrowed, as if uninvited.

“Why did we leave with such haste?”

Holt arrived back at camp. When he began to walk toward them, Haydn shook his head.

“I dislike being at court. If we stayed for the feast, it would have extended our time there for at least a day. As it was, we did not make it to the abbey of St. John’s for the night. I’d not intended,” he waved his hand, “for this.” And also, he needed to get to Bristol immediately. But that, of course, he did not say.

“Why could Amice not travel with me?”

“She admitted you are a much more competent rider and she would have slowed us down.”

“Why did you not speak to me about it? Or about anything, in fact.”

Phillipa became more and more emboldened with each question that she asked, and he answered without pause. Though this was a trickier one. Some measure of truth was necessary.

“You are the daughter of one of the king’s closest advisors. I am a man in the king’s crosshairs.”

She frowned. “So your solution for this is to simply avoid me?”

“Aye,” he admitted.