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“Then this will not be a marriage in truth.”

No answer seemed preferable to providing one.

“That answers another question,” she muttered, turning away from him to watch the men finish preparing to leave. He waited, but she did not ask.

“Which is?” Haydn prompted. When she met his eyes, Haydn was forced to confront the sadness in them. What would everyone have him do? Bring her to Bristol to witness his cousin’s treason firsthand? Perhaps a trip across the border to Highgate End where she might even come in contact with Wallace himself? Wouldn’t Edward be happy to hear the most hunted man in Scotland was precisely where he thought him to be, hiding out in the lowlands where he continued to train men to fight for Scotland’s freedom.

“Why we did not have a wedding night.”

He could tell it took every measure of her courage to make the statement. Even attempting to be bold, the flush of pink on her cheeks gave her away. Haydn imagined himself claiming those full lips, pressing himself into her, showing her everything, making Phillipa his in truth. He cleared his throat, offering the full truth this time.

“I’d not have a wedding night in a tent among my men.”

She waited.

“We leave for the Cony Inn,” he said, “if there are no other questions.”

There was one. He could see it in her eyes. But this one, his wife would not ask. So he emboldened her even further, stepping forward. They needed a wedding night if he was to produce an heir, and Haydn could not discern any reason why they should not enjoy it.

Standing so close he could smell her perfume, Haydn leaned down to whisper the answer to her unasked question into Phillipa’s ear. “Aye, if we reach the inn before dark.” He pulled back, his nose tickled by her hair. She stared at him, wide-eyed, confirming that had, indeed, been her question.

But in taunting her, he’d served only to ensure today’s ride would be a long and torturous one for himself.

Chapter Ten

The day had been long and grueling. Phillipa had always found solace in riding and was good at it. When she’d served the queen at court, it had been the thing she’d missed most. Short rides and hunting were not the same as allowing herself to roam the countryside without escort, as long as she remained on Sherfield land.

But this was an entirely different kind of riding. Relentless, even. There was no doubt her husband was in a hurry, but why? He’d explained their hasty retreat from court after the ceremony, and Phillipa could not genuinely say she was upset by it. Freedom from her father’s judgmental, or worse, nonexistent gaze was something she’d always dreamed of, even knowing it would come at a price. That she’d be handed from one keeper to another.

Haydn’s actions since then spoke of another purpose altogether, and she’d begun that day determined to learn what it was. The men spoke, if not always to her, around her. A whispered word here or there. When they’d stopped midday, Haydn and Holt both talked to her briefly. Nothing of significance; they’d simply asked her questions about her time at court, and she answered. In turn, she inquired about their upbringing at Kenshire, admitting that she’d heard of their family, of Blase Waryn especially, but did not know much about them.

Throughout it all, one name kept creeping up, and she thought perhaps it might be the reason for their haste. Rory. And so when Haydn told her he had another brother, and sister, neither of whom were named Rory, she was surprised—she’d been certain it must be one of his siblings.

Their party rode now into what appeared to be a very small village, her husband’s words coming back to her as they had all day. “Aye, if we reach the inn before dark.”

“What is this place?” she asked Haydn, who rode next to her.

“Fenwall St. Eastake,” he replied as the others rode ahead of them.

“What an odd name.” She spied no more than twenty homes. A windmill. And as they drew closer to the center, a well around which ten or so people milled. No church manor home or church even. “That is the inn you mentioned?” Phillipa asked. As they rode past the well, the townspeople watched them with a combination of fascination and suspicion.

“Aye.” Though he spoke more today than the day before, Haydn still said very little. And not only to her, she’d noticed, but the others as well. Guarded, though for her benefit or not, Phillipa was not sure.

“It appears we’ve not reached it by dark,” she said. Haydn had just dismounted, so she could not see his face. When he handed the reins to Isaac and turned toward her, Phillipa was surprised to see him smiling.

Though she could dismount easily enough on her own, when Haydn reached up for her, Phillipa found her hand grasping his. It was as firm a grip as she expected. When her feet reached the ground, he did not let go. Instead, Haydn pulled her toward him.

“You misunderstood my meaning,” he said, his voice low. “But I think you know that already. Though I admire your audacity in trying.”

She was beginning to learn that about him. Saying what she was thinking seemed to please him. The very opposite of her father or the king. She would test her theory.

“Audacious would have been feigning an inability to continue when we stopped by the stream earlier.” The thought had occurred to her.

At first she thought he let her hand go finally because she’d dared too much. But his smile stayed in place. “So you’ve been thinking about the matter, have you?”

She could lie, but there would be enough of that in their marriage. The truth, when possible, was always preferable. “Aye.”

Something happened with his smile then. It turned. . . sly. “I believe you will be pleasantly surprised, Phillipa. There is naught to be apprehensive about.”