Gareth reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins. She waved them away. “ ’Tis the season for charity, so have my words and welcome.” Then she gathered up her wood and trundled off.
He handed a half crown to each child. “Happy Christmas, sir,” they chorused.
“Happy Christmas,” he said absently and, remounting Cinn, continued on his way.
Well, he mused as he crested the hill, advice and fortunes alike were worth precisely what one paid for them. He thought Alice would have been most diverted by the encounter. Perhaps he would tell her about it.
Then again, he thought, perhaps not.
No sooner had he decided not to speak to Alice than she drove into view. Bundled in copious wool head to toe, scarcely visible among the piles of baskets filling the dog cart, she was unmistakable. And if the pace with which she was driving her pony was any indication, she was in something of a hurry.
Alice almost lost her grip on the reins when Gareth loomed up nearly in her path. She pulled the pony to an ungainly halt and pushed several feet of wool muffler off her face. “It isn’t wise to leap onto the road like that. Someone might mistake you for An Cú and shoot you.”
Oh, he was handsome when he laughed. The corners of his eyes crinkled; his wonderful mouth curved like a harp. “The Hound, if I am not mistaken, rides only at night. And I daresay you’re doing his job for him, taking from the rich and delivering to the common folk.”
“Yes, well, perhaps then he will take his job back.”
Alice hadn’t meant to sound so sharp, but she was tired, rushed, and having Gareth dash up like, yes, a romantic and fabled highwayman was wreaking havoc on her calm. He leaned in; she skittered away from him and got a raised brow for it.
“Would you like some help, Alice?”
“Help?”
“Mmm. You know: assistance, aid, a strong back and ready hands.”
She liked his hands. “I know what it means, Gareth.”
“Yes, you’re a clever elf. You know what it means, but seldom ask. It’s not a sin to need help on occasion.”
Not a sin, of course, but if she didn’t fill her time, if she weren’t the one to be relied upon . . . what would she have left?
Alice let out her breath in a soft sigh, took a tiny leap of faith. “Thank you. I would be glad of your assistance.”
“Splendid. Lead on.”
They carried on, Gareth keeping pace with the cart. “What time shall we leave tonight?”
“Tonight . . . ?”
“For the Christmas join. I’ve received no end of invitations and assumed you would be attending.”
“I . . . yes, of course. And you intend to go?”
“Certainly. Food, drink, singing carols and Donal Clancy on the bodhran. Who would want to miss it?”
Who indeed, Alice thought, stunned that he was even considering joining the join. Who indeed. It was just the sort of entertainment she would have expected him to shun: rustic, traditional, and tied so thoroughly to Kilcullen. “Gareth, are you teasing me?”
“Teasing you?”
“About tonight. You are not truly going—”
“I’ve said I was. For heaven’s sake, Alice, what are you going on about . . . ? Ah. I think I understand. Whether I wish to go is less important than whether others wish me to stay away. Fine.”
“No!” she nearly shouted. Then again, more gently, “No. That isn’t it at all. You’ll be welcome and no question. In fact, I think it marvelous that you wish to attend. I am merely surprised.”
He actually looked hurt, an emotion Alice didn’t think she’d ever seen in him before. “Is it as laughable as I suspect? The thought of me finding a moment’s peace of mind in Kildare? Finding that there is an essence of home for me?”
“Not at all. Don’t be silly. There isn’t a door here that isn’t open to you.”
“What did you say?” he demanded sharply.
“There isn’t a door . . . Oh, you don’t believe me. I’m sorry for that, sorry for questioning you. But I’ll show you.”
And she did. In each house they entered, they were welcomed warmly. There was deference in people’s attitude toward Gareth, of course there was. He was the son of the old lord. He was perhaps the next one. But there was friendly interest, too, and an acceptance past earls had never received.
Gareth, for his part, lost a little more of his reserve with each basket they delivered. At the Nolans’, he stood stiffly inside the door while she delivered the basket and chatted with the family. At the Whites’, he graciously accepted the offer of a cup of cider and seat at the scarred table. And in the midst of the chaos that was the MacNeils’, he crouched in the dirt yard for a few minutes to play mumblety-peg with three of the couple’s sons, then joined the adults inside for eggnog and a plate of Mrs. MacNeil’s gingerbread.