AN HOUR LATER, Caithren dismounted at the Haycock Hotel and followed Jason into a charming courtyard with stone archways and mullioned windows. “A hat?”
“Yes, a hat. While you were busy provoking the boar, I checked on the map, and this is the only sizable village between here and Stilton. Should we ride all that way on a day like today with but a single hat between us, one of us will end up sunburned and suffering.” He nodded at his hat, which was perched atop her plaits. “I’d as soon it not be me, though common decency dictates it will be.”
“Oh.” She slowly drew off the hat and held it out to him.
He took it from her and set it back on her head. “The shops are closed on a Sunday, but I’m hoping to persuade someone here to part with a hat in exchange for a generous payment.” They both scanned the patrons in the inn’s sunny courtyard, well-off ladies and gentlemen sharing conversation or lingering over news sheets. “Perhaps a more feminine design would suit you?” he added, tilting the hat’s brim up with a finger.
Since their sojourn by the burn, she’d acted cold as a Scottish winter—and he repaid her by being thoughtful. Flustered, she tucked his handkerchief deeper into her neckline. “Sometimes you’re too nice.”
“I’m not nice.” He drew back his shoulders. “I’m doing what I have to do. No more, no less. I’m responsible for you, and for everything you lost due to my actions.”
“For my things, yes. But how many times do I have to tell you you’re not responsible for me? I can take care of myself.”
His mouth opened, closed, then he turned on a heel and strode into the cool, shadowed lobby to make inquiries at the desk.
Cait trailed behind him and stared at his back while he explained his problem to the innkeeper. Her legs were aching again, and her brain felt muddled.
She went closer and tapped Jason on the shoulder. “I’m away for a wee dander.”
He stopped mid-sentence and turned. “A wee what?”
“A walk.” She gestured toward the door. “Down the street a bit, to stretch my legs.”
“Stay on the High Street,” he told her.
Wansford boasted only the High Street, so far as she could tell. She wandered down it, enjoying the sunshine and the solitude she’d lacked the past few days. Her irritation with Jason melted away as her feet put distance between them.
Charming stone cottages with tiny gardens lined the road, bees buzzing around carefully tended flowers. There was one other inn, the small Cross Keys. Farther down the street, a little kirk sat with its door open.
A service was in progress. Cait sidled closer to listen. The murmur of the vicar’s sermon sounded peaceful and familiar. It was comforting to find that Sunday rituals, at least, were the same here as in Scotland. She slipped inside and into the back pew, feeling at home for the first time since she’d stepped onto the coach in Edinburgh.