fleeting smile. “A man who lives more than half an hour’s ride away. Romain Boyer’s farm is a prosperous little place hidden well back in the hills.”
“If something has happened to your niece, will her husband also welcome us?” Cassie asked. “Much has changed in France in recent years.”
“We will find shelter there,” Laurent said confidently. “I must ride beside you, Cassie the Fox. The way is confusing and I will have to guide you.”
“Very well.” Cassie lifted a pair of scissors she’d been holding by her side. “But first I’ll trim your hair and beard so you’ll look less conspicuous.”
She began clipping efficiently at Laurent’s thin white hair. After she’d cut away the tangles that fell over his shoulders, he changed from a wild-eyed hermit into a shabby old man who wouldn’t draw a second glance.
When she finished, Grey lifted his friend up into the driver’s seat and bundled the horse blanket around him. To Cassie, he said, “My turn. If you give me the scissors, I’ll do the cutting myself so we can get moving without more delay.”
“You’d have trouble with the back.” She began cutting below his left ear. His hair was much thicker than Père Laurent’s, so she took it in chunks. She was taller than he’d realized, average or a bit above. “This will only take a couple of minutes.”
He stood still despite the closeness of the sharp blades. If he could shave his head and face completely bald, he’d be willing, just to get rid of the horrible, filthy mass of hair. During the years of imprisonment, he sometimes whiled away time by breaking off individual hairs. If he hadn’t done that, the tangled mess would be past his waist.
Despite all the knots, she managed to quickly cut his hair so that it was above his shoulders, then did a beard trim. She’d left enough hair to keep his head from freezing, but removing the weight made him feel lighter and freer. Not cleaner, but that would come.
It felt strange to be so close to a female again. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and kiss her horizontal. He was embarrassed by his intense reaction to a woman older than his mother. Dear God, how long until he could find himself a willing wench?
Forcing down lustful thoughts, he stared into the snow. He might no longer be a gentleman, but at least he had enough self-control not to behave like a beast with the woman who had risked her life to save him. At least, he hoped he did.
“There.” She finished trimming his beard a couple of inches below his chin, then bent to scoop up the handfuls of fallen hair. “Mustn’t show our direction by leaving a trail of hair.” She balled up the greasy locks and stuffed them into a corner of the cart. “Time to get back inside so we can be on our way.”
“No!” The word ripped out of him. “I can’t bear being closed up. There’s almost no traffic in this weather. I’ll lie in the back of the cart under the canvas cover.”
She studied his face. Her eyes were blue and shrewd and contained unexpected depths. “Very well,” she said. “Be sure to stay hidden if we pass other carts or riders.”
Thank God she was a sensible woman. Sighing with relief, he flipped back the canvas and climbed up into the cart. Given how she’d brought down both him and that great burly guard, best not to cross her. He’d had no idea how dangerous little old ladies could be. Well, there was his grandmother, the dowager Countess of Costain, but her weapons were words. With a pang, he wondered if she was still alive.
He settled in among the boxes and baskets. The space was more cramped than the lower compartment and the corner of a box stuck into his side, but he didn’t care as long as he was in the open air.
A homey equine scent wafted back from Père Laurent’s horse blanket. Grey didn’t mind. He’d always loved riding. What would it be like to be on a horse again?
He’d probably fall off. How much of his life would have to be
“If something has happened to your niece, will her husband also welcome us?” Cassie asked. “Much has changed in France in recent years.”
“We will find shelter there,” Laurent said confidently. “I must ride beside you, Cassie the Fox. The way is confusing and I will have to guide you.”
“Very well.” Cassie lifted a pair of scissors she’d been holding by her side. “But first I’ll trim your hair and beard so you’ll look less conspicuous.”
She began clipping efficiently at Laurent’s thin white hair. After she’d cut away the tangles that fell over his shoulders, he changed from a wild-eyed hermit into a shabby old man who wouldn’t draw a second glance.
When she finished, Grey lifted his friend up into the driver’s seat and bundled the horse blanket around him. To Cassie, he said, “My turn. If you give me the scissors, I’ll do the cutting myself so we can get moving without more delay.”
“You’d have trouble with the back.” She began cutting below his left ear. His hair was much thicker than Père Laurent’s, so she took it in chunks. She was taller than he’d realized, average or a bit above. “This will only take a couple of minutes.”
He stood still despite the closeness of the sharp blades. If he could shave his head and face completely bald, he’d be willing, just to get rid of the horrible, filthy mass of hair. During the years of imprisonment, he sometimes whiled away time by breaking off individual hairs. If he hadn’t done that, the tangled mess would be past his waist.
Despite all the knots, she managed to quickly cut his hair so that it was above his shoulders, then did a beard trim. She’d left enough hair to keep his head from freezing, but removing the weight made him feel lighter and freer. Not cleaner, but that would come.
It felt strange to be so close to a female again. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and kiss her horizontal. He was embarrassed by his intense reaction to a woman older than his mother. Dear God, how long until he could find himself a willing wench?
Forcing down lustful thoughts, he stared into the snow. He might no longer be a gentleman, but at least he had enough self-control not to behave like a beast with the woman who had risked her life to save him. At least, he hoped he did.
“There.” She finished trimming his beard a couple of inches below his chin, then bent to scoop up the handfuls of fallen hair. “Mustn’t show our direction by leaving a trail of hair.” She balled up the greasy locks and stuffed them into a corner of the cart. “Time to get back inside so we can be on our way.”
“No!” The word ripped out of him. “I can’t bear being closed up. There’s almost no traffic in this weather. I’ll lie in the back of the cart under the canvas cover.”
She studied his face. Her eyes were blue and shrewd and contained unexpected depths. “Very well,” she said. “Be sure to stay hidden if we pass other carts or riders.”
Thank God she was a sensible woman. Sighing with relief, he flipped back the canvas and climbed up into the cart. Given how she’d brought down both him and that great burly guard, best not to cross her. He’d had no idea how dangerous little old ladies could be. Well, there was his grandmother, the dowager Countess of Costain, but her weapons were words. With a pang, he wondered if she was still alive.
He settled in among the boxes and baskets. The space was more cramped than the lower compartment and the corner of a box stuck into his side, but he didn’t care as long as he was in the open air.
A homey equine scent wafted back from Père Laurent’s horse blanket. Grey didn’t mind. He’d always loved riding. What would it be like to be on a horse again?
He’d probably fall off. How much of his life would have to be
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