“Ye have sisters?”
Her stomach turned over. Again, she’d said too much. “Yes, two, but I’ve lost touch with them.”
“Does yer mother nay ken where they are?”
Guilt marched up her spine. She’d never had the opportunity to share personal thoughts and feelings with anyone and here she was chatting away with Munro Pendray like a long-lost brother. Wrapped up in the conversation, she’d forgotten her mother’s presence. “No,” she replied abruptly. “In my fourth year I studied heraldry.”
To her dismay, he seemed determined to pursue the matter of her missing siblings. “I have a brother and sister,” he explained. “I canna imagine losing contact with Jewel and Grainger.”
She seized on the chance to turn the conversation away from herself and her notorious family. “Jewel is a pretty name.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “And she’s a bonnie lass. My mother played a wee part in saving the Scottish coronation regalia from destruction by Oliver Cromwell’s army, so she deemed it an appropriate name.”
She fisted her hands. There would never be any escape from Cromwell’s legacy and her father’s crime. She envied Munro the love he bore his sister, but he was clearly from a family of staunch Royalists.
“’Tis a well-known tale in Scotland, but I dinna suppose ye’ve heard of it?” he asked.
She shook her head. The sooner she took her leave, the better. “Before my time,” she said. “It’s late. I must get Mama to bed if we’re to catch the coach on the morrow.”
Glass
By the time the cock crowed the next morning, Munro was up and dressed. He felt refreshed after sponging his face and body with a wet flannel soaked in the cold water from the ewer, and was relieved to find he still had a couple of clean linen shirts in his satchel.
After a fitful night, he’d come to a decision that had him looking forward to the day ahead with more optimism than he’d felt for a while. Sarah North was the most interesting person he’d met since leaving home weeks before, and certainly the easiest on the eye. The courtiers he’d met in Whitehall were an affected, self-important lot. Their disdain of Scots was ill-concealed, though the king they fawned over was the son of a Scot. The painted women reeked of cloying perfumes that did little to mask the odor of their bodies. He attributed their stern countenances to a fear they might crack whatever was pasted on their faces if they smiled.
Jewel had enthused over adorning her cheeks with the silly patches the courtesans were fond of, but he couldn’t imagine their mother allowing that affectation. He suspected the purpose of many of the heart-shaped leather patches was to conceal imperfections such as smallpox scars.
In contrast, Sarah was fresh-faced and naturally lovely, her rare smiles a ray of sunshine, her wayward curls enough to drive a man mad. In addition, she was a woman alone facing obstacles in her goal to thrive in a male-dominated and controlled arena. As the son of a courageous woman who’d carried out heroic deeds few men would attempt, he admired her spirit as well as her physical beauty.
He hurried downstairs and directed the landlord to have the coachman put his luggage on the Birmingham coach. He could always backtrack to Shrewsbury and thence to Wales later. There was no pressing reason for him to hurry home. It would be enjoyable to spend a few days trying to coax more heartwarming smiles from Sarah.
The dining room was oddly quiet. The ladies were already seated. Mrs. Ward was tucking into a bowl of oatmeal while her daughter sipped watered ale. He put his hand on the back of the third chair at their table and cleared his throat. “Good day, Mrs. North, Mrs. Ward. I hope ye dinna think me impertinent imposing on yer company again, but since we’re to be traveling companions…”
Intent on her food, the old woman ignored him.
Sarah’s eyes widened and he chose to think that meant she was pleased to see him. “I didn’t realize you were bound for Birmingham,” she said.
“Did I nay mention it?” he replied as he sat.
“No, thou did not,” the crone said hoarsely.
“Mama,” Sarah chided, her face reddening. “You must excuse my mother, Mr. Pendray,” she continued. “She isn’t used to company.”
Munro took it as a good sign she remembered his name. “Please, think naught of it, and I’d prefer ye call me Munro.”
He was disappointed when no offer to use Sarah’s given name was forthcoming. He’d guess a lack of social graces was the least of Mary Ward’s problems, but she was obviously more cognizant of what was going on than he had assumed. “I look forward to the journey,” he declared, nodding his thanks to the waitress when she brought a bowl of steaming oatmeal and a spoon. “Ale too, if ye please,” he asked.
“Nice to meet a man with manners, and a lovely brogue,” she replied, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek.
Her gesture provided a view of ample cleavage before the lass went off to fetch his beverage.
The corners of Sarah’s mouth edged up when she noticed his blush.
“Ye canna blame a mon for looking,” he said with a shrug.
His quip missed the mark; Sarah’s fledgling smile turned to a frown, strengthening his suspicion that she’d endured an unhappy marriage.
Having scraped the last of the oatmeal out of her bowl, Mary Ward eyed his breakfast, until she turned abruptly to scowl at her daughter. He had a feeling Sarah had given her mother a swift kick under the table.
Sarah wasn’t looking forward to traveling with her mother, who was clad in the same threadbare frock and shawl. She wasn’t optimistic that a change of clothing lay in the small, well-worn shoulder-bag Mary Ward carried slung across her body. A woman who lived in a prison likely didn’t need a large wardrobe.
Munro Pendray was clearly a sophisticated man of the world who would soon tire of being cooped up with malodorous companions, but she was pleased he was taking the same coach. She’d felt comfortable enough with him to share things about herself she never shared. He’d made her smile, and there’d been little to smile about these last years.
But she would have to be careful not to divulge too much. Men were ultimately untrustworthy and she was better off without them. Henry Marten’s legal wife and Sarah’s mother had both suffered because of his actions and beliefs. She had no knowledge of his legitimate children, nor did she know the fate of her sisters, but all of his offspring carried the burden of his treachery so long ago.
She liked Munro; he had a sense of humor and a masculine charm and beauty that went beyond mere handsomeness. The episode with the serving wench had given rise to a ridiculous wish she too knew how to flirt with a man and please his eye. However, there could never be any relationship with him. They came from two different worlds. The stark truth of it left her strangely bereft, but she had no intention of marrying again. She’d been blessed with an unexpected opportunity to be a valued member of society, independent of the yoke of male domination.
She almost laughed at her own foolishness. As if a man with Pendray’s wit, breeding and appealing looks would be interested in the likes of her.
He finished his oatmeal. “Good, but I’ve had better,” he declared. “Would ye nay agree, Mrs. Ward?”
Sarah had to admire his dogged determination to engage her mother, but he received only a grunt in reply.
He got to his feet, tucked in the chair and offered his hand. “May I escort ye, Sarah?”
No man had ever treated her with such courtly manners. His genuine polite regard made her feel like a lady for the first time in her life. She hadn’t given him leave to call her by her given name, but couldn’t resist the flirtatious twinkle in his eye. “You may, Munro,” she answered, accepting his assistance.
He linked her arm with his as she stood, then reached for her portmanteau. “Allow me.”
She resisted the temptation to lean into the well-muscled arm, to rely on his strength. Instead, she held out a hand to her mother. “Come along,” she said, blinking away tears as Mary Ward took her hand and rose. It was the firs
t skin on skin contact she’d had with her mother since their long-ago goodbye at Mrs. Flamsteed’s residence.
Several people were milling around the mud-caked coach when they entered the courtyard. The coachman evidently recognized Munro and ushered him and his companions to the front of the line.
It was clear there would only be room inside for one more passenger. Some would be left behind or obliged to sit on the roof. The grumblings of discontent had already begun. She’d contributed to the dilemma by bringing along her mother. “We should step aside,” she began as Munro offered to help her climb the steps into the coach.
A puzzled frown marred his handsome face. “For what reason?”
Her throat constricted. It was impossible to explain the circumstances of why she had come south alone but was now returning with a companion.
“Thy pardon,” her mother declared, nigh on knocking Sarah over in her hurry to board the coach.
Munro chuckled. “So much for stepping aside.”
Sarah was certain her face must be as red as a winter beetroot, but she welcomed his hand on her elbow as he helped her climb aboard. She settled into the worn seat next to her mother, expecting him to follow, but he strode off to speak to the coachman.
An elderly, well-dressed man sporting a horseshoe mustache boarded. After eyeing both women, he squeezed himself in the seat across from her. She wished she’d had the gumption to tell him the seat was saved for…
For whom? Munro was nothing but a passing acquaintance, but it was of some satisfaction when disappointment flickered in his eyes as he entered and took the seat facing her mother.
The coach lurched from side to side as passengers settled themselves on the roof and luggage was stowed in the rear basket.
“Ye’ll have to forgive me, Mrs. Ward,” Munro said with wink. “I hope I dinna kick ye. My legs are a mite long for this tight space.”
He received another huffed grunt in reply, but his wink had Sarah dreaming of those long legs rubbing against hers as they set off on the journey north.
Munro’s attempt to soothe the ruffled feathers of a passenger displaced by his change of plans had resulted in forfeiting the seat across from Sarah. He was initially annoyed she hadn’t saved the spot for him, but then why should she? They were simply passing acquaintances.
As the coach pulled out of the courtyard, he tapped a knuckle against the glass window. “This is an improvement,” he offered. “The coach from London had blinds. Couldna see a thing unless we lowered them.”
“And then you choke on the dust,” the man next to him said, extending his hand. “Ravenscroft’s the name. George.”
Munro accepted the hearty handshake, noting the man made no effort to introduce himself to the women. However, he seemed more sociable than previous fellow travelers. “Pleased to meet ye. I’m Munro Pendray and may I introduce Mrs. North and Mrs. Ward?”
Ravenscroft acknowledged them with a brief nod. “Glass is a marvelous thing,” he declared. “I’m in the glass business myself. Not blown plate such as we have here. Decorative.”
“Tumblers and the like,” Munro offered, surprised the fellow made no remark about his Scottish brogue.
Ravenscroft tweaked his grizzled mustache. “Oh no, dear boy, much more sophisticated than that.”
Over the course of the next several hours, they learned more than anyone would ever wish to know about glass blowing. Ravenscroft never stopped talking, even in the brief moments they were allowed to step off the coach while fresh horses were hitched.
Mary Ward snored loudly for most of the journey, despite several nudges from Sarah.
Munro found their situation funny. His winks and grins seemed to eventually convey his amusement to Sarah, who stopped fussing over her mother and began chewing her knuckles in an effort to stifle her own giggles at Ravenscroft’s self-importance.
They pulled into Worcester’s Talbot Inn at twilight. Munro stepped out of the coach first, followed by Ravenscroft, who made no effort to assist Sarah and her mother.
Two women who’d traveled on the roof had to be helped down from their perch. Wrapped in blankets, they clung to each other in the courtyard, teeth chattering, complaining of frozen hands. “Imagine what it must be like in winter,” Sarah whispered with a shudder.
“Aye,” Munro replied. “It was cold enough inside.”
“I bid you farewell,” Ravenscroft interrupted. “Worcester is the end of my journey.”
Munro shook his hand. “Thank ye for sharing yer knowledge of glass,” he said.
“Fascinating subject, isn’t it? Goodbye.”
Ravenscroft boarded a private carriage, waving as it departed. The passengers who were staying overnight trooped into the Talbot.
“I thought he’d never stop talking,” Mrs. Ward complained.
Sarah laughed out loud and punched Munro’s arm. “You kept trying to make me laugh,” she accused.
Munro rubbed his bicep, feigning injury. “Because it does my heart good to see ye laugh.”
She avoided his gaze but even in the gathering gloom he could tell she was blushing. He sensed a playfulness buried deep inside Sarah North. The prospect of freeing it stirred interest in another part of his body besides his heart.
Worcester
After installing her mother in their tiny upstairs chamber, Sarah took a deep breath as she entered the dining room of the Talbot Inn. It was smaller than the one in Gloucester, but just as crowded with loud men. She’d agreed to dine with Munro, a prospect that was at once reassuring, exciting and nerve-racking. The Blue Coat school had provided no instruction on how to converse with gentlemen on an equal footing, and Reginald hadn’t been interested in conversation. But then he was no gentleman.
Munro stood and pulled out a chair for her, his smile of welcome genuine and warm. “Is yer mother nay joining us?” he asked, a hint of hope in his voice.
“No,” she replied as she sat. “I stopped by the kitchen and ordered food sent up for her. She’s too tired, though how that can be when she slept all day…”
He chuckled. “I nodded off a time or two myself,” he admitted. “Especially during the fourth or fifth account of Ravenscroft’s experiences living in Venice.”
She nodded. “I’ve never even heard of most of the Italian towns he mentioned. It sounded exotic.”
“Aye,” he agreed with a suggestive glint in his eyes. “Perhaps I’ll visit there one day.”
She allowed a brief, wistful moment of imagining herself traveling through sunny Italy on Munro’s arm, then chased the fanciful notion from her head. “It seems to me he is more of a glass merchant than a craftsman.” She fisted her hands in her lap, unsure if it was ladylike to offer such an opinion.
“Ye’re perceptive,” Munro replied, easing her fears, “though he hinted at being involved in secret new techniques for making lead crystal and claims King Charles has granted him a patent to be the only manufacturer.”
She soldiered on, despite a peculiar flutter in her chest at the mention of the monarch whose father had been condemned to the chopping block by her own father. “He lost me with all his talk of dark-colored flint from London as opposed to the expensive white flint from Italy.”
“Me too,” Munro replied. “I think he even mentioned using flint from Oxfordshire.”
“I was born there,” she said, instantly regretting once again revealing more about herself than was wise.
Munro raised an eyebrow. “In Oxford itself?”
“Yes,” she murmured. “And you were born in Scotland.”
“How did ye guess?” he quipped.
They exchanged a smile when two pies were served by a reed-thin old man. “Rabbit?” Munro asked.
“Pigeon. Dost thee want ale an’ all?”
“Aye,” Munro replied.
The old fellow wandered off.
Munro wiggled his eyebrows. “I doot I’ll get a kiss this night,” he observed with mock seriousness, “and certainly no buxom cleavage to ogle.�
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Sarah couldn’t help it. She laughed heartily. “A strong gust of wind might carry him away. Let’s hope he at least makes it back here with our ale.”
The laughter died in her throat when Munro narrowed his eyes. There was no mistaking the lust in his gaze. Fear and loathing had skittered up her spine when Reginald looked at her that way. Now, she had an urge to thrust out her breasts and flutter her eyelashes.
It was insane, but perhaps there was nothing wrong with enjoying an evening with a charming man, so long as she didn’t allow herself to become too enamored with him.
Enamored? Where had that notion come from?
She watched Munro tuck into his food. It would be easy to develop a fondness for such a man. More than a fondness…
She gritted her teeth and polished her cutlery.
“Tell me more about Blue Coat,” he suddenly said. “What did ye do after the fourth year?”
She recognized his interest was genuine, but it was after Blue Coat that her dreams had turned to dust. She would have to choose her words carefully. “Some of the girls were from impoverished noble families and everyone learned to comb and dress hair, in the event they found themselves in service after leaving.”
“Is that what happened to ye?”
“No. I was spared that fate when Reginald North came to the school in search of a wife to be his apprentice and helpmate in the management of his growing business.”
Munro stopped chewing as the servant deposited two tankards of ale on the small table. “Good man. Ye didna spill a drop,” he said, shrugging when the old man shuffled off without a word. “Go on.”
“Apparently impressed with Reginald’s credentials, the school’s headmistress recommended me as a quick study.”
Munro sipped from his tankard.
Sarah kept to herself North’s lack of concern with her dubious background. “I suppose I was flattered by his attentions and married him willingly, though he was twenty years my senior.”
Kingslayer's Daughter (The House of Pendray Book 2) Page 3