Regency Christmas Wishes(42)

But women like Alice weren’t for kissing and leaving. Bad enough that he’d already done that once. He wouldn’t do it again. Women like Alice were for marrying, for coming home to and cuddling in front of the fire.

Gareth supposed he would have to marry eventually. Certainly if he ended up with the title. But he knew he needed a woman who wouldn’t tug on his conscience too much. Alice did. She poked at his calm and his conviction when they were together and haunted him when they were apart.

He had stayed away from her as much as possible, out of the house during the day and trying to keep a stretch of carpet or expanse of table between them when in the house. Some vague sense of duty—and Cook’s marvelous food—had him coming home for meals. Then, he often felt compelled to spend the odd hour with Clarissa. She was confined to bed and sofa now, clearly uncomfortable and, wholly unlike her, taking pains to hide it. Perhaps, he thought, motherhood would be the thing to coax her out of her very extended childhood.

He was on his way back now. He would stay until late afternoon. Then he would head out again, to Kilcullen village and the pub. He had discovered, more or less by accident, that the place filled as the day waned. Men would arrive: farmers, bakers, even the local solicitor and physician, lifting pints and spinning tales. On the first late afternoon Gareth had been there, he had stayed at his table in the corner, not wanting to intrude on their familiar camaraderie. But first one man, then another and another, had toasted him. It had seemed rude not to buy a round. And soon he’d been in the middle of the throng, chatting with men he’d known as a boy and with their sons, who had been boys themselves then.

Now he looked forward to his hour in the warm, smoky room. If he did receive more deference than he probably deserved, it was balanced with humor and the odd piece of advice. And as gratefully as the gathering accepted his rounds of drinks, there was always someone purchasing the next pint and pressing it into his hand. As it happened, he was drinking far less than he was used to, sipping each pint slowly so his companions would have less to pay for.

Several days ago old Manus Phelan had brought in his fiddle. Since then, he’d been joined by his son Padraig on the flute and Donal Clancy on the bodhran drum. The music was lively, provincial, and Gareth was very much hoping to have more of it today.

Whistling a lilting reel, he guided Cinn down a rocky hillock toward the stream. He’d been riding the horse long, if not hard lately, covering miles each day. Cinn wasn’t so young anymore and seemed to appreciate a few minutes with his feet and muzzle in the cold water.

Apparently someone else had the same idea. Several children, shabbily if warmly dressed, were watering a pony in the stream. Across the way, Gareth could see the brightly colored caravan of a traveler family. The children glanced up as Cinn waded into the stream, eyed Gareth with wary but not unfriendly eyes.

“Good day,” he greeted them.

“G’day, sir.” The youngest, a girl, reached out a hesitant hand to touch Cinn’s muzzle. She laughed as the horse gave her fingers an affectionate nibble. “ ’E’s pretty. What’s ’is name?”

“Cinniúint,” Gareth replied, and was startled by a cackling laugh from behind him.

An old woman walked toward them, arms full of kindling. She was tiny, weathered, but gave an impression of surprising vitality. “Cinniúint is it? And what would you be knowing about Fate, young man?”

“Probably not nearly enough, madam,” he replied, and dismounted.

She approached him until her nose was a mere six inches from his coat buttons. To Gareth’s surprise, she reached out a bony finger and prodded him in the chest. “You’re after denying yours,” she snapped. “Always have done.”

“Madam—”

“Tost!” she shushed him. “Do you know what a second chance looks like?”

Amused, deciding this fortune teller was far more diverting than most, Gareth shook his head. “I fear I do not, madam. Perhaps you will tell me.”

She snorted. “As if I’d be knowing that. I’ve never needed one, m’self. But you’d best have a care. Fighting what’s meant to be is more dangerous than trying for the stars. The door’s closing, young man. Best decide which side you’re to be on.”

Gareth waited. When she said nothing further, he demanded, “That’s it?”

“Aye.”

“You’re not going to tell me that I’m to have my heart’s desire by the New Year—or tumble into a well on Twelfth Night? Come now, madam.”

She poked him again, but chuckled. “Saucy boy. Well, as to the first, ’tis possible, I suppose, though I’ve no faith in the quickness of your head. As for the other, watch how much ale you swill. Or stay away from wells. Sin é. That is all.”