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“No. No.” He shook his head and drank some wine. “It’s this side of Russia and above Africa. I’m pretty sure I’d’ve noticed it.”
“Perhaps the map was made by someone who disliked Rome.”
“Do you think?” He seemed much struck by the thought. “Just decided to do away with Italy altogether?”
She shrugged.
“What an idea! I wouldn’t have had to study Latin all those years if Italy had disappeared.”
“But now you already have, and I’m sure you’re a better man for it.”
“Huh.” Jasper sounded unsure.
Melisande ate some boiled carrots. They were quite good. Cook had added something sweet—honey, perhaps. She’d have to remember to compliment the little woman. “And did you discuss anything more with Mr. Horn besides his defective map?”
“Yes, we talked about a fellow we know in Scotland.”
“Oh?” Vale was drinking more wine, and it was hard to read his expression. Melisande’s interest sharpened. “What is his name?”
“Sir Alistair Munroe. He was attached to my regiment, but he wasn’t a soldier. He was sent by the crown to record animals and plants in America.”
“Really? He sounds like a fascinating man.”
Vale frowned. “He is if you like talking about ferns for hours at a time.”
Melisande sipped her wine. “I quite like ferns.”
Vale frowned harder. “In any case, I’m thinking of making a trip up to jolly old Scotland to see him.”
There was a silence as Melisande con c Meto templated her cooling peas and carrots. Was he running from her? She’d so enjoyed living in his house and knowing he was nearby. Even if he was away for large parts of the day or stayed out until all hours of the night, she knew he’d come home eventually. Just being in the same house as he soothed her soul. Now she wouldn’t have even that.
Vale cleared his throat. “Thing is, he lives north of Edinburgh. It’s a ways away, a trip of a week or more on bad roads in a carriage. There’ll be drafty inns and bad food and the possibility of highwaymen—probably be an awful trip altogether.”
He had transferred his scowl to his plate. He jabbed at his beef with the tines of his fork.
Melisande was silent, no longer eating because her throat seemed to have closed. He was going to see a man, whom, by his own admission, he didn’t particularly like or know well. Why?
“But, despite all that, I wonder if you’d like to accompany me, my lady wife.”
She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that for a minute his words didn’t make sense. She looked at him to find that he was watching her intently, his eyes bright blue-green. A blessed relief began spreading through her chest.
“When will you leave?” she asked.
“Tomorrow.”
Her eyes widened. “So soon?”
“I have something important to discuss with Munroe. Something that can’t wait.” He leaned forward. “You can take Mouse. We’ll have to bring his leash, of course, and make sure he doesn’t scare the horses at inns. It really won’t be comfortable, and you might be terribly bored, but—”
“Yes.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Yes.” Melisande smiled and resumed eating. “I’d like to come with you.”
“THEY’RE TRAVELING TO Scotland,” Bernie the footman said as he brought the dish of peas back into the kitchen.
Sally Suchlike nearly dropped her spoon into her bowl of soup. Scotland? That heathen land? They said the men grew beards so fierce you could hardly see their eyes. And it was a well-known fact that the Scots didn’t bathe.
