Cursing herself for not planning this better, she brightened when she heard the sound of water nearby. Pushing through the long grass and weeds that lined the road, she came across a little stream, burbling clear and fast over a bed of smooth stones.
She scooped up a few mouthfuls of the water, then splashed some on her face and carefully washed her scratched arms. She pulled off her boots and stockings and plunged her aching feet into the blissfully cool water. Shelay back, her eyes closed, enjoying the sunshine now that her thirst was quenched and her feet were cooling.
“Blisters, eh?” The deep voice startled her. She snatched up her boots and stockings, ready to run.
In careful French the man said, “Your feet, they are sore, mademoiselle,n’est-ce pas?”
He stood a dozen yards away, tall, lean and tanned, his jaw dark with several days’ worth of whiskers. He wore no hat. His nose was bold, his hair dark brown, untidy and overlong. He was dressed simply in worn trousers and a faded blue shirt, open at the neck to reveal a strong column of tanned throat. His eyes were the color of his shirt—no, the color of the sea, the Mediterranean Sea.
Gerald had taken her and Lucy to the South of France one summer, and Zoë had been amazed and entranced by the color of the sea there. When she’d last seen it, the English Channel had been gray and sullen, like tarnished silver, but the Mediterranean had sparkled between green and turquoise.
She’d never seen eyes that color.
She was hard put to place him. He was English, she could tell by his accent, not to mention his initial comment, which she hadn’t noticed at first was in English, and he carried himself with unconscious assurance, but he didn’t look like a gentleman, or even a farmer. Romany, perhaps? Though he didn’t look or sound like any of the Romany she’d seen. He was English, surely.
He smiled, a slash of brilliant white in his tanned face, and she swallowed. He was very good-looking. “Don’t worry,” he said in his accented French, “I did not intend to um,disturber? no,dérangeryou. I just came to fetch water for my horse and me.” He held up a small blackened pot and a bucket. “I’m making tea.”
Tea? She would kill for a cup of tea.
He swished the bucket and the pot through the clear water, and lifted them, dripping. He turned to leave, then said,“Perhaps you’d care to join me for a cup of tea, mademoiselle?” And then he added to himself in English, “Probably not. You French don’t much care for tea, do you?”
Zoë hesitated—he was an unshaven, shabbily dressed stranger and they were all alone in the middle of nowhere. And after what had happened earlier, she ought to avoid him, but he was just one man, and for some reason she didn’t feel threatened by him. Perhaps it was his Englishness, or maybe that smile of his. Or his blue—sea-blue eyes. Or the offer of tea. It seemed somehow…civilized.
Nevertheless, she would not be foolish: caution must prevail. She would love a cup of tea, but she would keep her distance. And she would not confess her own Englishness—that might spark awkward questions. In French she said, “Merci, monsieur, it is very kind of you.”
He smiled again, and again she swallowed. “Excellent. I will be over there”—he gestured—“with my horse and wagon.”
Zoë dried her feet and put her stockings and boots back on. She picked up a large stone—it would be a weapon of sorts if she needed one—then went to find him. A thin column of smoke guided her to a shady overhang in a small clearing beside the road. She reached the edge of the clearing and halted at the sound of someone talking.
A rawboned old horse stood beside a covered wagon that had once been painted in bright colors, but which were now faded. She almost laughed aloud at the sight of his horse. An unprepossessing creature, it wore a battered straw hat decorated with faded old fabric flowers. Its ears poked through two holes in the hat. The animal was old and bony, but its coat was clean and seemed well groomed.
She couldn’t see anyone else, and she quickly realized that the man was talking to his horse. He’d placed the bucket of water in front of it, but the animal showed no inclination to drink. “Not good enough for you, is it?” He addressed it in English. “Or are you demonstrating anadherence to that irritating proverb? But I didn’t lead you to water, I brought the water toyou! At great personal effort. And good sparkling, clear water it is, too, so why would you turn your nose up at it? Perverse and ungrateful, that’s what you are, my lady.”
The horse tossed its head then nudged his pocket.
“Oh-ho, like that, is it? You want more oats? Cupboard love, that’s what it is.” He scratched the horse’s long nose. “And don’t bat those preposterously long lashes at me, I’m impervious to your wiles. You know perfectly well that you’ve already had your oats for the day. It’s grass for you now, my girl.”
The horse nudged him again, and the man rubbed the animal’s nose, saying, “You are aware, I suppose, that most women would kill for lashes like that, aren’t you? You certainly make good use of them. But are you grateful? Not in the least. Shameless, that’s what you are, as well as perverse and greedy.”
Zoë stifled a giggle. It was quite charming, the one-sided conversation with the ancient, rawboned horse in the silly hat. But he spoke with no particular regional accent, which gave her no clue as to where in England he came from. Another reason to hide her Englishness from him.
The horse nudged him again, and he said severely, “Oh very well, you insatiable female.” He pulled a handful of grain from his pocket and fed it to the horse.
Somehow the silly hat on the old horse and the way the man talked to it made her feel safer. And it was all in English, so presumably he didn’t expect anyone overhearing it to understand, so he wasn’t putting on a show.
He left the horse and checked the fire. The small pot he’d filled earlier hung from a metal tripod set up over the flames. Steam rose from it.
She moved closer, still keeping the stone hidden in the folds of her skirt, though she no longer expected to have need of it. Nevertheless, caution prevailed.
He turned his head, saw her and smiled. That smile again. It was irresistible: she found herself smiling back. He gestured to the steaming pot and said in French, “Not long now. Come and sit down.” He patted the grass beside him.
She sat down opposite him, keeping the fire between them. She gestured to the wagon. “You are Romany?”
“No, I bought it from them, though. The horse, too. Paid too much for them both, but still, it gets me from place to place in comfort, if not in style. Ah, there we are, it’s boiling.” He carefully unhooked the little pot from the tripod, poured a little water into a battered enamel teapot and swished it around. Warming the pot. His hands were shapely but strong and deft.
Then he spooned three generous spoonfuls of tea into the pot.
Zoë blinked. Three heaped spoonfuls? Tea was expensive. He poured boiling water into the teapot. She caught a whiff of tea. It smelled wonderful.
