surge of excitement forced her to close her eyes. A moment, she decided; all I need is a moment alone.
Flint rose then, solicitous as he brushed the hair from her forehead, pulled her handkerchief from her grip and fanned her lightly. The makeshift breeze was welcome, and she leaned into it gratefully, sighing, thinking what a disgrace it would be to swoon in the king’s garden, and with Oliver nearby.
“I’ll fetch your husband,” Flint said then. “I don’t think you should be alone.”
“No,” she pleaded, thinking of Oliver’s anger. “Not yet, please!”
“It’ll be all right,” he soothed. “I’ll handle the explanations.
You’ve nothing to fear.”
“But Mr. Flint, please—”
“I shall detain him long enough for you to calm yourself. And then,” he added softly, “I’m going to invite myself to dinner.”
5
“I tell you, Cat, and I tell you true—there are times when I think you should be locked away. Imagine having all that to drink and then almost disgracing yourself, right in the king’s garden!” Gwen paused for a breath, her broad smile putting the lie to the sternness of her tone. “Honestly, you give the Welsh a bad name, you do. Why, what would your father think?”
They were riding slowly along the Windsor road, approaching the Eton turnoff to Caitlin’s English home. Caitlin said nothing to Gwen’s friendly, sometimes laugh-punctuated jibes.
“And Griff,” Gwen said slyly. “Why, if he were here he’d probably have you over his knee in a trice.”
Caitlin nodded to herself. Griff probably would do something like that. The man had no sense of propriety, and certainly he did not have the grace of a man like James Patrick Flint.
A muffled sound of disgust escaped her lips. How, after what he’d nearly done, could she think of him so … so kindly? She drew her cloak more closely around her, though the twilight was anything but chilly.
“Cat? Cat, did you hear what I said? About Griff?”
“I heard,” she answered sullenly, “and I’d appreciate your not mentioning him again. Or prattling on like this.”
Gwen sobered instantly. “Oh. I’m sorry, Cat. I understand.”
But she didn’t, Caitlin thought. Gwen was under the impression that she was feeling great waves of remorse—and she wasn’t, and that was what bothered her.
Three days had passed since the reception at Windsor Castle, and this was the first day she’d left the house without feeling as if every servant and villager in the country could see the guilt on her face. Oliver, fetched by Flint, had scolded her harshly all the way home and had punished her by refusing to take his meals with her. Thus isolated from everyone but Gwen, Caitlin had had plenty of time to review the incident and to thrash over her feelings. And then there had been the dreams: at one moment she was trying to lure Griff into her bed by behaving like a harlot, and at the next she was dancing with him, her gaze unwilling to leave the flashing dare in his eyes. Oliver, too, stalked her at night, smashing through her bedroom door with the butt of his musket, stripping her of her nightclothes and laying open her flesh with steady strokes of a coachwhip. Griffin laughed at her uproariously; Flint consoled her and stroked balm on her wounds; Oliver returned to open them again.
Finally, just after the midday meal, she’d had enough of her own thoughts and ordered Davy to prepare her horse despite Gwen’s protest that it wasn’t safe to ride so late in the day. They rode at a furious pace along the banks of the Thames until both mounts were threatening to lather. Then they walked back for over a mile before they remounted and Gwen began her attempts to bring a smile to her mistress’s face.
And the worst part was that Caitlin had been unable to tell Gwen everything. She’d hinted broadly about Flint’s bold advances, but covered herself with lies about her drinking and the silly reactions the wine had produced.
“Cat,
Flint rose then, solicitous as he brushed the hair from her forehead, pulled her handkerchief from her grip and fanned her lightly. The makeshift breeze was welcome, and she leaned into it gratefully, sighing, thinking what a disgrace it would be to swoon in the king’s garden, and with Oliver nearby.
“I’ll fetch your husband,” Flint said then. “I don’t think you should be alone.”
“No,” she pleaded, thinking of Oliver’s anger. “Not yet, please!”
“It’ll be all right,” he soothed. “I’ll handle the explanations.
You’ve nothing to fear.”
“But Mr. Flint, please—”
“I shall detain him long enough for you to calm yourself. And then,” he added softly, “I’m going to invite myself to dinner.”
5
“I tell you, Cat, and I tell you true—there are times when I think you should be locked away. Imagine having all that to drink and then almost disgracing yourself, right in the king’s garden!” Gwen paused for a breath, her broad smile putting the lie to the sternness of her tone. “Honestly, you give the Welsh a bad name, you do. Why, what would your father think?”
They were riding slowly along the Windsor road, approaching the Eton turnoff to Caitlin’s English home. Caitlin said nothing to Gwen’s friendly, sometimes laugh-punctuated jibes.
“And Griff,” Gwen said slyly. “Why, if he were here he’d probably have you over his knee in a trice.”
Caitlin nodded to herself. Griff probably would do something like that. The man had no sense of propriety, and certainly he did not have the grace of a man like James Patrick Flint.
A muffled sound of disgust escaped her lips. How, after what he’d nearly done, could she think of him so … so kindly? She drew her cloak more closely around her, though the twilight was anything but chilly.
“Cat? Cat, did you hear what I said? About Griff?”
“I heard,” she answered sullenly, “and I’d appreciate your not mentioning him again. Or prattling on like this.”
Gwen sobered instantly. “Oh. I’m sorry, Cat. I understand.”
But she didn’t, Caitlin thought. Gwen was under the impression that she was feeling great waves of remorse—and she wasn’t, and that was what bothered her.
Three days had passed since the reception at Windsor Castle, and this was the first day she’d left the house without feeling as if every servant and villager in the country could see the guilt on her face. Oliver, fetched by Flint, had scolded her harshly all the way home and had punished her by refusing to take his meals with her. Thus isolated from everyone but Gwen, Caitlin had had plenty of time to review the incident and to thrash over her feelings. And then there had been the dreams: at one moment she was trying to lure Griff into her bed by behaving like a harlot, and at the next she was dancing with him, her gaze unwilling to leave the flashing dare in his eyes. Oliver, too, stalked her at night, smashing through her bedroom door with the butt of his musket, stripping her of her nightclothes and laying open her flesh with steady strokes of a coachwhip. Griffin laughed at her uproariously; Flint consoled her and stroked balm on her wounds; Oliver returned to open them again.
Finally, just after the midday meal, she’d had enough of her own thoughts and ordered Davy to prepare her horse despite Gwen’s protest that it wasn’t safe to ride so late in the day. They rode at a furious pace along the banks of the Thames until both mounts were threatening to lather. Then they walked back for over a mile before they remounted and Gwen began her attempts to bring a smile to her mistress’s face.
And the worst part was that Caitlin had been unable to tell Gwen everything. She’d hinted broadly about Flint’s bold advances, but covered herself with lies about her drinking and the silly reactions the wine had produced.
“Cat,
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