Chapter Twenty-Four
Rhys had intended, with all his soul, to stay awake.
He wanted another night of meandering conversation and childlike wonder in the dark.
But as he curled around her, his face curved into the recess of her neck and freshly-washed hair, he found himself surrounded by her scent—not the cinnamon and dates that she’d worn today, as enticing as that had been and would continue to be, but Seph herself. Her own special perfume.
It was a scent he had tried half his life to forget and had never quite succeeded.
He wanted to tell her that. He wanted to confess so many things. He wanted to hear her laugh when he told her he’d accepted a poorly paid residency at a ramshackle pub in rural Ireland just in the hopes that he’d befriend a woman who sounded like she did.
Seph probably knew the women in Kildare sounded nothing like the Travellers.
She probably knew that.
But then her breathing deepened and rumbled, her warm body snuggling backward into his, languid and sated. And he found himself both smiling at the gentle purr of her snores and being lulled into their spell, their irresistible, thought-melting spell.
Before he knew it, it was morning.
He was alerted to this unfortunate fact by the squirming in his arms as Seph attempted to extract herself from his embrace without waking him. Or at least that was what it looked like. He knew she could be stealthier than this if she really wanted to be.
“No,” he muttered, pulling her tighter. “Stay.”
“Rhys,” she whined, wriggling against him in an attempt to flip over and look into his face, which she managed after a fashion. “I am thirsty. And naked.”
“What a coincidence,” he said, not releasing her. “Did you really think I’d let you sneak off without a kiss good morning?”
“Oh, but my breath,” she started to protest, only to sigh in defeat as he took a long, sweet press of the lips, anyway.
He kept kissing her, gently and without urgency, despite their unclothed state, until she relented to the inevitable and kissed him back.
“Better,” he said, loosening his grip a little. “Now why don’t I fetch you some water and we can waste the entire day in here, without getting dressed at all?”
She sighed, burrowing her face against his bare chest. “As lovely as that sounds,” she murmured against his skin, “we already told the entire house we were going to the Twittens today and that we’d bring back gifts for Merlin.”
“Ah, what idiot did that?” he said with a frown, remembering those words leaving his own lips. “Fel rhech mownt pot jam.”
“Like a fart in a jar,” Seph agreed. “I remember that one. And perhaps. A little. But we do need to order the shoes. If I’m getting two identical pairs, I want them to be worth the cost.”
“All shoes are identical,” he said somberly, “when you are a man.”
Reluctantly, he released her, admitting that breakfast did sound worthwhile and it was best to get this venture into town over with, lest they give up another morning, further into the delightful discoveries of their burgeoning affair.
Besides, he could smell bacon.
Rhys went down first, letting Seph pretend to fuss over her hair to give her the plausible excuse to follow a bit afterward, as though they did not wake together and had not been in any sort of carnal congress the night before.
Unnecessary, he thought, as the majority of the household thought they were married, but it was what she wanted, and just now, Rhys couldn’t think of anything more important than giving that woman what she wanted.
“I just think it ought to be written down, is all,” Nini Winterstone’s voice announced before he’d even rounded the corner into the dining room. “Any good ringmaster knows you put it in writing if you don’t want your set to devolve into crying and misplaced grease paint.”
Merlin was watching her with a bemused little smile, like he was familiar with this argument but still did not understand it. “If you feel we must.”
“I do,” she said. “I do. And I’ll do it. I’ve better penmanship than you, anyhow.”
“Madam, the cat has better penmanship than I,” Merlin replied, covering a little wheezing laugh with his kerchief. “I believe Father Wheeler has volunteered to go first. Isn’t that right, Father? Ah! Mr. Caradoc. Good morrow. Where is your lovely companion?”
“Arguing with a pile of hairpins,” Rhys said, grinning at the assembled motley and rounding the table to the two empty seats they’d used the night before. “I do not envy the fairer sex.”
“Perhaps you should, Mr. Caradoc,” said Madame Ivanova, eyeing his brightly-dyed yellow waistcoat and contrasting burgundy jacket. “I think you’d have a taste for preening, if given the opportunity.”
“Oh, I do have a taste for it,” he told her candidly. “I’ll wear kohl on the night of our performance and you will admire my steady hand, my good woman, or I’ll eat my hat.”
“That’s one of his tricks,” Seph’s voice told them, her body following the sound at a brisk clip with the swish of her skirts. She was wearing lilac and pearly beige today. Always two colors. “Eating his hat.”
“Hush,” he tutted. “My wife is always trying to give away my secrets.”
She flushed, her elegant, little throat flexing at the word, and avoided his grin as she found her place next to him.
At the end of the table, Father Wheeler cleared his throat. “I do not have a … well, a performance set, as Mrs. Winterstone put it. I am not a performer. Not really.”
“You are a vicar,” said Master Yuri through a mouthful of bread. “There is no truer showman.”
The priest chuckled, coloring a little at the cheeks. “That may be true, in fact,” he allowed. “What I meant to say is that my healing sessions are typically … erm … without formal structure. In fact, I would prefer to meet with our host in private if he allows it.”
“I told you already,” Merlin said, his fingers clicking around inside his little bowl of ice chips, “I don’t want you to heal me.”
“And I don’t intend to,” the priest said immediately. “But I still might offer some comfort, I think. You mentioned difficulty sleeping, and nagging pain, yes? I cannot take away a cancer as advanced as yours, anyhow, but I can certainly assist with ulcers of the mouth and bouts of sleeplessness.”
“Hm,” said Merlin, narrowing his pale eyes. “That is tempting.”
“Ah, but that does rob us of the pleasure of another group spectacle,” Madame Ivanova pointed out. “I was rather looking forward to another one.”
“We are going into town today,” Seph reminded everyone.
“We could bring back a diversion for after dinner, for those wishing for an activity. I actually have something specific in mind, given the time of year. It will only take up an hour or so, but I think it might enhance our business here nicely, if everyone is agreeable.”
“Mysterious,” said Master Yuri. “I like it.”
“As do I,” Merlin agreed. “Father Wheeler can attend me this afternoon for our private showing, and tonight after dinner, Miss Bosw—err, Mrs. Caradoc will set us to activity. Pardon me, my dear. My memory wobbles these days.”
Seph was glowing pink at the address but gave a tight-lipped nod and then groped around on the table for a teacup to hold directly to her face.
Rhys watched this with delight.
And no longer regretted that they’d had to get out of bed this morning, after all.
*
Once again, Rhys found his well-laid plans interrupted by the whims of the universe.
Though he had intended, rather staunchly, to turn today’s outing into a romantic and whimsical escapade through the Twittens with Seph, instead, he found himself burdened with multiple hangers-on who had found their description of the imminent shopping so appealing that they had no choice but to provide them company.
“Of course, if we must look away from where you shop, that is no trouble,” Madame Ivanova said in her most patronizing faux accent, which had returned in force the instant they’d left the grange house lawn. “But I remind you that you are not here to fool us, only dear Merlin.”
“I’m afraid it’s nothing as exciting as all that,” Seph said sweetly. “We’ve a few practical necessities to see to. All the trickery was brought along in our luggage.”
“Ah,” said the other woman with a pout. “Pity.”
“I am eager to see this puzzlemaker,” the Breton fellow exclaimed. He had told Rhys his name, but it was far too French to remember. “I like a good challenge, myself!”
“Then why do you subdue your clients?” Master Yuri returned tartly.
Rhys sighed a few times but did not otherwise protest their presence.
“Do you think that’s how Father Wheeler does it?” the Breton pondered, scratching at his copper-red stubble. “Mesmerism does have its uses in healing.”
Rhys did not know. Nor did he feel particularly compelled to solve that admittedly intriguing mystery just now.
“We’re going this way!” he announced, grabbing Seph by the elbow and motioning down a random avenue. “Shall we meet you back here at luncheon? We know a place with excellent bread.”
“But you are to show us this puzzlemaster!” the Breton exclaimed. “How will we find him without you?”
Seph curled her lips inward and bit them with her teeth, trying to hide her amusement and failing.
Rhys cut his eyes to her in a little glare.
“I’m afraid Monsieur Charpentier is correct, my dear,” she said to him in a pouty, simpering voice that was absolutely meant to annoy him. “What if I take those interested to Graham’s workshop while you see to one of our more practical errands?”
“What if you did?” he returned through his teeth. “What a thought!”
In the end, he trudged off, muttering to himself, with one of Seph’s silk slippers in his pocket and vague directions to the nearest cobbler. He had half a mind to get her something ugly in revenge, but of course he wouldn’t.
He shouldn’t.
He might.
She’d also told him to go to the greengrocer and buy a bushel of fat, round maips, then have them sent directly to the house and bathed in ice water.
He could buy tiny radishes instead, he pondered, loping around a large puddle from the endless autumn drizzle as he navigated the streets.
Or some obnoxiously shaped gourds would be amusing.
But no, he would not tamper with the maips.
He knew what they were for.
And she’d called them maips when she’d asked, as well. Not neeps, not tornapa, and not even the Saes word, turnip. She’d used the Welsh.
She knew right where he lived, didn’t she? She always had, the wench.
He was grinning to himself as he entered the cobbler’s.
And in the end, he chose something pretty.
In two colors.
Always two colors.
Because he knew where she lived as well.