Blushing! Like a lad in leading strings!
Ye’re wearing a kilt, ye idiot.
Aye, kilts were likely worse than leading strings, weren’t they?
He managed to swallow and tried for a nonchalant shrug. “Nae use being dirtier than ye have to be, aye, milady?”
“I do not know. I do nothaveto be dirty at all.”
Ah, there was the haughtiness he’d been expecting. But she was smiling when she said it, which seemed to take the sting out of her words.
Before he could decide if he should be offended by her words, she’d nodded politely and slipped past him.
“Enjoy your buns,” she called over her shoulder, “then please leave. I do not have time to banter with you today, and as I will soon be leaving as well, I cannot be in charge of feeding you each day.”
The last was almost hard to hear, as she was hurrying away so quickly, obviously intent on her mission. Lysander glanced down at the plate of buns beside him and rubbed at his jaw for a moment.
The beard felt strange, but he assumed it did a good enough job masking his true appearance, along with the eyepatch he wore over his right eye. She hadn’t seemed to guess who he really was, and he hadn’t had to rub dirt and horse shite all over himself.
Although the kiltwasstill quite drafty.
Well, he hadn’t worn the damn thing to just sit around her garden and eat buns, had he?
Making up his mind, he tugged his tam down and hurried after her.
“Wait, milady!” he called.
When she slowed and turned an exasperated look on him, he remembered to limp pitifully.
“Aye, Sir Interloper? Mr. Trespasser? The buns were not enough?”
“How could they be, milady, when all I was hungry for was the opportunity to bask in yer presence?”
To his surprise, she rolled her eyes, apparently not appreciating the compliment. “Oh, not you as well?” she muttered, as she turned back on her path and picked up her pace.
Lysander hobbled after her. “Where are ye going in such a hurry, milady?”
“To the vicar’s cottage. I must speak to his sister, Willa. I am going to ask her to accompany me on my journey and—Whyam I telling you this?”
Knowing he was safe as long as she wasn’t looking at him, Lysander’s smile flashed. “Because I’m easy to talk to?”
They’d reached the village square, and suddenly there were a dozen new distractions, but Tiffany didn’t slow. Instead, she hurried on, and Lysander slammed into a horse.
Well, not a full horse, just the horse’s flank. But still, it was deuced embarrassing.
“Damned depth perception!” he muttered, as he rebounded and bumped into a merchant of some sort. “Och! Terribly sorry, sir.” He doffed his cap as he managed to stay upright, but then a dog—they just allow dogs to wander around the square, shiteing as they went, these days? What were they, barbarians?—brushed up against his knee, and Lysander spun around to catch himself once more.
And then she was there.
Tiffany clamped her hand around his elbow and gently tugged him out of the path of traffic. “There. Are you alright?”
It was the concern in her eyes that was nearly his undoing. He wanted to tear off the tam and the eyepatch and declare himself, just so she’d stop looking at him with so much pity. But he reminded himself hewantedher to think he was pitiful, so he ducked his head and mumbled, “Aye, milady. My thanks.”
“Market day can be overwhelming if you are not used to it,” she said gently. “Especially if you are blind on one side. And?—”
When she bit off whatever she was going to say, he was curious enough to glance up at her. She was looking at him strangely.
“Was your eyepatch not on the left eye yesterday?”
