Page 43 of When the Laird Conquers

He shrugged. “There’s fabric.”

“Will the people be friendly?”

“I daenae ken.”

For the better part of twenty minutes, perhaps longer, she bombarded him with similar questions. When she ran out of questions about the village, she asked about the weather, about the food, about the mountains, the lochs, whatever she could think of to hold his attention.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew it was annoying him, but the very fact that he kept on riding alongside the carriage gave her some satisfaction. He could have moved away whenever he wanted, but he didn’t.

“Will it be cold?” she asked. “Should I have worn a thicker cloak?”

“I daenae ken,” he grumbled, his eyes narrowed and fixed on the seemingly endless road ahead.

She smiled, tilting her head to the side. “Do you always answer like that?”

“Like what?”

“With as few words as possible?”

He expelled a weary sigh and glanced at her. “I do when there’s naught else to be said.”

Oh, but there is so much to be said.

She resisted the urge to smile as she met his gaze, thinking of the night before. There were so many things she wanted to ask, information and explanations that only he could answer.

Could he tell her why his kiss had made her stomach tighten? Could he explain why his touch had made her legs tremble and stirred heat like a fever that had not had anything to do with sickness? And what about the hardness between his thighs? How did that work? And why had it made her feel so breathless, so tingly all over?

She wanted him to explain the sorcery of it all, yet some polite, restrained habit of Englishness held back such questions. Propriety was so ingrained within the fiber of her being that every time she attempted to ask about what had occurred last night, it stuck in her throat and made her face burn.

“Don’t you find that a journey goes by more quickly with conversation?” she asked brightly.

He stared at her, his wolf-like eyes cold. “A journey takes as long as it takes. It cannae go quicker or slower.”

“I had no idea you were such a philosopher,” she teased. “Of course, your theory is wrong. If you were to ride faster, you would reach your destination faster. The same is true of the opposite.”

“Aye, but ye werenae talkin’ about pace,” he remarked. “If I ken a journey takes half an hour, chatterin’ away willnae make it pass quicker or slower. Although it might feel like an eternity.”

She scoffed, feigning insult, while secretly pleased that he was saying more than a handful of words to her. “Well, I apologize for trying to be a pleasant distraction, and I apologize for being curious about these new surroundings.”

“I accept yer apology,” he muttered.

With that, he clicked his tongue and urged his horse forward until he was riding just ahead of the carriage’s horses. Too far away to have to listen to any more of her nonsense, but close enough that he could keep an eye on things.

Indeed, unless she wished to aim her idle questions at his horse’s backside, the conversation was over.

You just wait, Gordon.

She didn’t know how long it would be until they reached the village, but once they did, he could expect a fresh bombardment of sparkling conversation. And out in public like that, despite what he had said in his study, he would not be able to stray far from her at all.

Agnes adored the market towns of England. She had an entire vault of memories of her and Christine drinking in the sights and sounds and smells of the town closest to their childhood home, where they had wiled away countless hours, sampling delicious things, admiring fine fabrics and jewelry, purchasing new ribbons and adornments, eavesdropping on town gossip, before wandering down by the river to have a gossip themselves.

The sizeable village of Braemar was a bittersweet echo of those bygone days. Pretty grey stone houses with slate roofs refused to crowd one another, the shops marked by beautifully painted signs that swung in a light, slightly chilly breeze. Smaller stalls were arranged in a sunny market square, where women gossiped, children played, and older men smoked pipes and gossiped in their own way.

“I don’t know where to begin!” Agnes gasped, a thrill of excitement running through her.

Lizzy was safely strapped to her, though Agnes had chosen to turn the baby outward instead of inward so her darling niece wouldn’t miss anything.

“Fabric,” Gordon said grumpily, standing at her side on the edge of the square.