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“I can’t begin to imagine how.” No, she shouldn’t be insisting, but neither should he be taking this whole business as some sort of schoolboy lark. “You said you’ve spent seven years running from these people.”
“Yes, but as I also said, Miss Roseingrave is behaving decidedly un-Amhas-draoi.”
“Meaning you’re still alive.”
“Precisely. For whatever reason, she wants to keep me that way. Máelodor’s men might find a wounded man and a young woman easy targets. Not so a battle-trained Amhas-draoi warrior. We’re safe as houses for the nonce. I, for one, plan to enjoy the respite.” He lifted his good arm behind his head. Closed his eyes.
“You are the most infuriating man,” she huffed.
“Yes.” He smiled, eyes still closed. “But you love me anyway.”
Elisabeth sat on the box beside Rogan, watching the road unfold before them, the landscape to either side vibrant green with spring. She lifted her face to a weak sun moving in and out of low, thick clouds, scattering shadows over the fields to either side. Let the stiff wind give her mind a thorough sweeping as she inhaled the heady spring scents of turned earth and new growth. Birds chattered and sang in the hedgerows, and once or twice she caught sight of a fox, a red flash through shady woods strewn with wildflowers.
Brendan slept. Helena Roseingrave left them on their way through Banagher with a promise to meet up with them later in the day. No explanation, though she and Rogan spoke quietly together for some minutes before she swung up into the saddle.
Passing the wagon, Helena reined in the gelding, her level black gaze resting on Elisabeth until she wanted to squirm. Horrid, smelly dress. Hair a messy tangle. She could well imagine the wonderful picture she made.
“He abducted you in order to protect you from Máelodor?” As if Helena found it hard to believe Brendan would act from a purely altruistic motive.
Elisabeth flushed. “That’s what he says.”
“He’s not the way I imagined him.”
“No. He isn’t the way I imagined him either.”
Elisabeth’s initial terror had receded far more quickly than she thought it would. After the first night, when she’d started at every sound, she’d since slept like a log. She’d never realized how sheltered and protected she’d truly been. How privilege had insulated her from more than poverty. And how much she would enjoy this strange taste of freedom.
Long days of travel left her exhausted by nightfall. An inexplicable curiosity at the ever-changing scenery pulled her from her blankets at dawn. That and Rogan’s breakfasts of thick slices of ham and eggs fried to perfection accompanied by crisp potatoes, which she shared with Killer.
The little dog came and went, sometimes disappearing for long stretches when Elisabeth would finally decide he was gone for good. Then, just as she’d given up hope, he’d turn up trotting along beside the wagon as if he’d never been away. Helena despised him. Rogan tolerated him. Brendan ignored him, but Elisabeth found Killer’s company strangely reassuring and wouldn’t hear a word against him. At times, she almost felt as if he knew what she was thinking and might at any moment open his mouth to tell her everything would be all right.
“Ah, Miss Fitzgerald. Twenty more points for me. Look there. A flock of sheep.” Rogan’s voice jolted her from her thoughts as he pointed to a meadow up ahead.
“You win.” She laughed. “I’ll never surpass you unless I’m presented an entire parade of post chaises and an old woman or two.”
“Not your fault. I’ve more practice at travelling piquet. On the road as much as I am, I see what’s about. Besides”—he glanced at her from the corner of his eye—“you’ve been a thousand miles away all day. We could have passed flocks of dancing pink sheep and you’d not have noticed one of them.”
She ran her finger over the gnarled wood of the seat. “I’ve been thinking.”
“A dangerous thing for a young lady to be doing,” he teased, laughter in his voice.
“My family and friends must be worried sick. My aunts are probably out of their heads wondering what’s happened to me. I shouldn’t be here.”
“No?” He shot her a crinkly eyed smile. “I’m a big believer in destinies, Miss Fitzgerald. Perhaps you’re exactly where you need to be.”
“Completely compromised, fleeing for my life, and heading who knows where for who knows why?”
“That about sums it up. Look on it as an adventure.”
She gazed out over a lush green meadow, so beautiful it caused a pain low in her chest. “Catastrophe, more like.”
He nudged her playfully with an elbow. “It’s what you make of it. You can let it beat you down or you can shape it into something better.”
“Like taking lemons and making lemonade?”
“I prefer barley into whiskey.” He grinned. “You drink what you like, and I’ll drink what I like.”
Chivied out of her melancholy, she returned to watching the unfolding of the road ahead, the sun warm on her back. Dwellings clustered close to the road, a scattering of cottages and storefronts. Traffic increasing so that Rogan had to slow the wagon, the ponies tossing their heads and whinnying their greetings. Two dogs ran from a yard, barking and racing after them. Killer responded with a series of yaps, the fur on his back in an angry ridge.
