She wondered if she would ever become accustomed to anyone asking for her thoughts on anything. Hard on the heels of that thought came the one that she wished it could be that man there asking for her thoughts far into their future.
“My uncle advises against it,” she said. “My father was wounded by a boar inside it, and you’ve seen what that left of him. No one goes there without very good reason.”
“I’m sorry about your father.”
“He was a very good man. Patrick is very much like him, if I can make that comparison, though the thought that he could have traveled from a past time to...” She shook her head. “Difficult to believe.”
He smiled briefly. “I understand, believe me. I’m not sure I would have believed it if I hadn’t lived it.” He studied her with afaint smile. “Were there no numbers in your book that left you wondering about impossible things?”
“There were the numbers 1823 written on one page,” she conceded.
“What did you think they meant?”
“I assumed they were the tally of scorching looks the duke had sent the kitchen maid.”
He laughed, then clamped his lips shut as Fiona stirred in his arms, lifted her head and glared at him, then fell back asleep with her head thumping on his shoulder. Oliver huffed out another faint laugh, then looked at her with a smile.
“You’re very funny,” he said.
She supposed that if she’d been a kitchen maid with an equally full tally of experiences with men and their mores, she might have taken his look for one of affection. His smile didn’t fade, but he tilted his head toward his shoulder.
“Why don’t you sleep for a bit on that bit of good humor,” he said with another smile. “I’ll watch over you.”
She didn’t imagine she would sleep, but she did as he bid and at least closed her eyes. She supposed it would be a very bad habit to become accustomed to, so she finally lifted her head and looked at him. He was simply sitting there, looking at nothing.
Only she realized he wasn’t doing that, he was watching very carefully.
“You need to sleep,” she said quietly.
“I’m fine.”
She straightened and shook her head sharply to clear it. “I’ll keep watch.”
“My chivalry will suffer.”
“Better that than your gut from Giles’s sword.”
“There is that,” he agreed. He considered, then nodded. “For an hour, perhaps. Wake me sooner if anything changes.”
She nodded her assent, though she imagined he wouldn’t sleep through it if her brother went on a rampage. She did, however, shift a bit so she could watch him at least pretend to sleep, braw, chivalrous lad that he was.
In time, she decided that he had managed to fall asleep in truth. She might have been tempted to join him, but there were voices coming from the great hall that sounded as if they were discussing things that were… unpleasant. She managed to put sleeping children down on scraps of marginally clean rushes pushed up against the wall, then rose soundlessly to her feet and walked across the kitchens to discover what she could about the goings on in the keep.
Her brother was sitting with Master James in front of the hearth on the far side of the hall. She could hear their whispers slipping along the wall like shadows, whispers of things she imagined weren’t entirely sane.
She felt hands come to rest on her shoulders, but she didn’t jump because she knew whose hands they were.
“They’re just words,” he murmured.
“I don’t like them.”
“I don’t likehim.”
“I don’t think a churched lad should be doing the things he’s speaking about.”
“Maybe he stole the clothes.”
She would have smiled, but she was too unnerved to. She felt Oliver take her hand and pull her back toward the hearth in the kitchens. She allowed him to help her sit on the floor, then looked at him as he sat down next to her.
