So as not to analyze it overmuch, he changed the topic at once, and applied himself to attempting to pay for his meals. When the staff could not be bent on this score, Jonathan settled for tipping each of them extra vails for their trouble.
“Are you off to Miss Parker’s now?” asked a ruddy-cheeked maid with white curls.
“Aye,” answered Jonathan, then changed his mind. “I may pick up a few biscuits from the bakery on the way.”
“Ah,” said the maid. “See how Stephen’s foot is getting along.”
“Is Stephen the baker?” Jonathan asked.
The maid laughed. “Hardly. Stephen’s his eight-year-old son. Sledded his foot into a tree yesterday, trying to race his brothers. Lads that age have bottomless stomachs. I’d wager he’s eating the best buns as fast as Mr. Bauer takes them out of the oven.” She flicked her fingers. “Off with you then, before the food goes cold.”
Unsettled by the brief conversation with the maid, Jonathan closed the distance between the castle and the bakery slower than his usual jaunty pace. Although he’d mastered the art of introducing himself to others, he had failed to give much importance to their replies.
Jonathan had introduced himself to the baker, but hadn’t considered the person Mr. Bauer was outside of the bakery. Jonathan might have heard everyone in Scotland’s thoughts on the war, the weather, and the Prince Regent, but he didn’t knowthem.
He kept all conversations superficial. Eighty percent commentary on the weather, ten percent complaints about traffic, five percent directions to the next town, and the rest signing his name in guest books when he checked into the next inn or posting house on his route. It was easy to be charming when one didn’t expose one’s true self.
He’d always thought he liked it that way. Cleaner. Easier. Now he wasn’t so certain.
Perhaps a small change of plans was due.
He pushed open the door to the bakery.
“Ho there, Mr. MacLean,” the baker called out. “More shortbread, is it?”
No, not “the baker.”Mr. Bauer.Who had been paying more attention to Jonathan than Jonathan had to him.
His neck heated.
“Shortbread for me,” he agreed, “and whatever Miss Parker would like best. How is Stephen’s foot?”
The baker’s face lit up. “Only thing wounded on that boy is his pride. Can’t admit to losing a race to his younger brother, can he? But I play along, and let him eat all the hot buns he likes.” Mr. Bauer chuckled and handed Jonathan a paper parcel. “Go on, then. Miss Parker must be waiting for you.”
Jonathan left a pile of coins on a corner of the counter and headed toward Miss Parker’s shop.
He’d bothered to learnhername, hadn’t he? But he didn’t know much more than that. He would have made a muck out of choosing the right library book for her, if Cat Lady hadn’t been there to save him. And he wouldn’t have known Miss Parker’s first name was Angelica, if he hadn’t overheard one of her actual friends use her Christian name. She didn’twanthim to know. Jonathan was a stranger.
He could do more. He couldbemore.
Connecting on a level slightly deeper than the superficial didn’t terrify himat all.
Jonathan liked Miss Parker more than he wished to admit. Liking someone too much led to pain when he inevitably lost them. He must take care only to like, and never to love.
Miss Parker was dangerous. He liked her because he didn’t have totryto like her. She was witty and bonny and clever. Liking her was easy and uncomplicated.
At least, ithadbeen uncomplicated. Strangers’ opinions couldn’t hurt him. This new plan of truly coming to know someone else—of letting them stop being a stranger—risked someone else truly coming to knowhim.
Although it would only be for a week or two, the prospect made him feel disturbingly vulnerable. What if he tried to make real friends with her, and couldn’t? What if it worked beyond his wildest dreams, only for him to have to walk away?
Which one was worse?
Chapter 6
Angelica felt Mr. MacLean’s proximity long before the bell tinkled above her shop door.
She’d looked up from her swage at the exact moment he’d stepped into view, whistling his way down from the castle before vanishing into the bakery across the street. She also happened to glance up once again the moment he’d stepped out of the bakery.
Or maybe her gaze had been on the front window all along instead of concentrating on her work.
