While they waited for the tea to steep, he squatted on his heels and said, “So, have you come far?”
“Just from the last village.”
“A hot day for walking.”
“Yes, I was pleased to come across that stream.”
The tea being sufficiently steeped, he produced two tin mugs and poured the tea. “Sugar?” He held up a small tin that rattled.
She nodded. “One lump, if you please. And do you have any milk?”
He grimaced. “Sorry. Don’t take it myself, but if I see a cow…” He winked.
He approached her, mug in hand, then put out his free hand as if to touch her head. Zoë flinched, ducked and scuttled backward.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said mildly. “I was just going to remove the leaves from your hair.”
“Leaves?” She ran her fingers through her hair and found several dead leaves. She brushed them free, then sat down again.
His eyes ran over her and she suddenly felt quite self-conscious. “You’re a little sunburned, too.” He passed her the mug. “You don’t have a hat?”
“No, I was wearing a headscarf, but I lost it when— I lost it.” She took the mug, and wrapped her fingers around it, inhaling the fragrance. She sipped the tea slowly. It was glorious even without the milk—hot and strong and sweet, just the way she liked it. French people did drink tea, of course, but not quite like this. They had a preference for coffee, and herbal teas and tisanes, which she enjoyed, but sometimes she just craved plain English-style tea.
He watched her curiously. “In my experience not many French people like tea—at least not the way I make it.”
No doubt the people he met were poor and couldn’t afford it. But all she said was “It’s delicious. Thank you so much.”
While she savored the tea, he produced a loaf of bread and proceeded to cut several slices, to which he added some cheese and a few slices of ham. Zoë’s stomach rumbled. She hoped he hadn’t heard it, but without asking, he passed her a thick slice of bread topped with cheese and ham, saying, “Here. I usually have a bit of something to eat with my tea. No biscuits, I’m afraid.”
“This is wonderful, thank you.” They ate in silence, gazing into the flames of the fire. She kept darting glances at him. He had an interesting face. She wouldn’t mind drawing him. No, painting him. Those eyes…
When he’d finished, he lifted the teapot. “A top-up?”
She nodded and he shared the rest of the tea between them. Once they’d finished, he tossed the dregs onto the fire, which startled Zoë. Was he not going to reuse the tea leaves? Maman had always been very frugal with tea, andhad reused the tea leaves at least once. But this vagabond was oddly extravagant. Wasteful. Generous.
Was it because he was a man and knew no better? Household thrift was usually the province of women. She watched as he used the rest of the water and what remained in the horse’s bucket to put the fire out completely.
He swiftly packed everything away and said, “Now, can I offer you a lift?”
Zoë hesitated.
“Just to the next village if you like,” he said. And then, when she still hesitated, he added, “You’ll be perfectly safe, my word of honor on it.”
That was all very well, but how could she know whether he had any honor to base his word on? A man might be handsome and charming and still be untrustworthy.
But her feet were still aching, the blister was stinging and now that the sun was high in the sky it was even hotter. Besides, he’d been nothing but kind so far. And she still had her stone.
“Thank you,” she said. “It’s very kind of you.”
He smiled. “Then, since we will be fellow travelers, we’d better introduce ourselves.” He gave a funny little bow. “I am Reynard.”
Interesting.Reynardmeant “fox.” It was clearly a made-up name, perhaps a kind of warning. That he was cunning and without scruples?
Two could play at that game. “I am Vita,” she told him.
“That means ‘life,’ does it not?”
She nodded. “From the Latin, I am told.”Zoëalso meant “life,” only it was from the Greek.
