Cullen snatched the blanket from her hands. “How would you know adequate when you’ve never been kissed?”
She opened her mouth to spew out a defense and stopped abruptly, her mouth remaining open.
“Aha! I’m right,” Cullen said, grinning widely. “You have never been kissed.”
“You’re right,” Sara admitted with no reluctance. How could she deny the truth, and why would she want to? “I haven’t ever been kissed.”
“Then how would you know if a kiss was adequate or not?” he challenged.
“Easy,” she said, yanking the blanket out of his hands to finish folding it. “It’s how a kiss makes you feel that determines its potency.” Since her legs had finally stopped trembling, she should be admitting that his kiss near did her in, but that would be surmountable to surrender, which was not an option.
Cullen walked up to her and took firm hold of her chin. “Are you going to stand there and tell me that you felt nothing when I kissed you?”
Sara smiled sweetly, her hazel eyes dancing with merriment. “I felt enough to pinch you.”
Her remark, though actually meant as a compliment, was taken as she had expected. Cullen released her chin as if she’d just pinched him again, while his own chin tightened in an effort to fight his annoyance.
He raised his finger as if to scold her, stopped, turned, then turned back again. “I can certainly understand your father wanting to find you a husband. The poor unlucky soul.”
Her smile grew even sweeter. “It’s unkind to speak of yourself that way.”
He cringed, reached out his hand toward her, stopped midway, grumbled something incoherent, then snapped, “It’s time to go.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” she said, handing the rolled blanket to him. Then, with a lift of her skirt, she hurried past him to her horse.
Afterward, deciding that silence might prove beneficial, she remained quiet for a time, giving him a chance to settle his annoyance. Just when she thought she would go crazy remaining silent any longer, they both jolted to a stop when the ground quaked beneath them from the sound of approaching horses.
Cullen signaled her to take cover in the woods. They had no sooner disappeared amidst the trees than a wagon heavily loaded with barrels came rumbling down the worn road, a skinny friar driving the team.
Something wasn’t right about the scene. The friar was sweating profusely, his thin face splotched red and a nervous glint in his eyes, and he drove as if the devil was chasing him.
Cullen signaled her to stay where she was, and she couldn’t agree more. As the friar disappeared from sight, a troop of soldiers came barreling down the road, their horses’ hard, steady gait like thunder.
Shouts, demands, and pleas split the air, followed by a round of laughter before silence finally ensued.
“It’s not wise to trail the soldiers,” Cullen whispered. “Do you know of another way to reach your home?”
“There’s a less traveled path. Certain areas we will need to walk the horses, but it will bring us to the market, though add several hours to our journey.”
“I would rather be safe.”
“Soldiers hunt you?”
“I can’t be sure,” he said. “I hoped the Earl of Balford believed that I sailed to America with my brother, but he must have gotten word by now that someone has been asking questions regarding the birth of his grandson.”
“Do you think the Abbess will alert the earl to the situation?”
“I’d count on it. The only thing in our favor is that she doesn’t know our destination, doesn’t know my son’s whereabouts. That will give us time, though how much, I can’t be sure, which means we can’t take any chances. We trust no one.”
She nodded, feeling the same. She wanted Cullen to reunite with his son and escape to the safety of America with him. She had kept Alexander from the Earl of Balford once; she’d do it again. Only this time she would also protect the father along with the son.
He signaled her to follow him but remain silent.
As much as she would have loved to chatter with him, she kept a tight rein on her lips. They took it slow, and just as the path divided, they caught a glimpse of where the wagon had been stopped. A couple of barrels lay broken on the ground, wine staining the patches of remaining snow. There was no sign of the skinny friar, and Sara didn’t want to imagine what might have happened to him.
The road they now traveled had been far less traveled, and it impeded their progress to forge a path where there appeared to be none.
They weren’t far along when out of the woods popped the friar, waving his hands, only now he wasn’t wearing friar robes, his garments threadbare and haphazardly patched.