Page 69 of A Problem Princess

“Do you need this?” He took one of the pistols from beneath his jacket and laid it on the table.

Her smile vanished. “Not at all,” she repeated in a whisper.

“Knowing Madame, there are probably a dozen night rails in the dresser or armoire to change into.” He grimaced. “On second thought, knowing Madame, the ones you find won’t do much to keep you warm.”

She couldn’t find the strength to muster even a faint smile at his teasing. He was rejecting her—again—and they both knew it. All the jokes in the world couldn’t hide the prick of it. “I’ll be fine.”

He nodded and made his way to the settee where he would spend the night, removing his jacket as he went. “Good night then, Your Highness.”

Not trusting herself to speak for fear of what she might tell him about where he could shove his Your Highnesses, she turned away without a word and climbed the stairs to the bedroom. She undressed, easily undoing the short row of buttons between her shoulder blades, but even then she foolishly hoped he would come to her.

But he didn’t. He remained downstairs and a world away.

She put out the lantern and crawled into bed.

Twenty-One

Cordelia held tight to Clayton’s hand and gazed in wonder at the sight before them in the heart of Mersea. “Is that…a fair?”

He grinned down at her. Her excitement was contagious. “Unfortunately, just a weekly market.”

“Oh.” Her face fell with disappointment.

“But we still need to visit it for food and supplies.” He squeezed her hand reassuringly. “What do you say, Princess? Is your ankle sound enough to do some shopping?”

She nodded and tightened her hold on his hand, speechless yet with eager anticipation.

He led her forward onto the village green. It was only a tiny market, not at all as grand as the ones in London or Edinburgh, but the rapidly changing expressions of joy and curiosity on her face couldn’t have been more special if he’d led her through the Khan el-Khalili bazaar in Cairo. But then, the cultural divide between her and the fishermen and farmers who sold their goods here was just as wide.

She held on to him to keep from stumbling because her wide eyes weren’t looking where she was going. She was too busy taking in the busy activities around them, the calls of the merchants, the music, the quick bartering, and the exchange of coins for goods.

When she passed a stack of wooden cages, one of the roosters within let out a loud cock-a-doodle-doo. She jumped, startled.

“Chickens,” he explained.

Her lips formed a round O. “They’re for sale?”

At the gleam in her eyes, he said firmly, “We arenotbuying you a pet chicken.”

She laughed at the idea, the sound light and lovely on the warm spring air. Of course, though, they had to stop so she could peer into each cage at the chickens. There were piglets, too, that she made him stop to look at and lambs she couldn’t resist petting, including one she cuddled in her arms.

The whole market fascinated her, and what should have taken them fifteen minutes to explore soon stretched to over two hours.

Clayton didn’t mind. He’d never seen her so happy and curious, and she practically glowed beneath the warm afternoon sun. No one here might ever suspect she was a princess, but one look would convince anyone that she certainly wasn’t one of them.

“Come on.” He took her elbow to lead her away from the large griddle of cockles frying over a fire that had snagged her attention. “We need to buy food.”

She gestured at the griddle as she glanced over her shoulder. “But that’s—”

“Too close to snails. We need real food.”

She laughed at him but tightly held his arm. “Don’t let the French hear you say that! Some of the most delicious dishes I’ve ever had were at the French court, including snails.”

“Well, thank God you’re in England, and here we eat good, hearty food.” He winked at her. “Black pudding and kidney pie.”

She wrinkled up her nose in disgust. “I’d rather have snails!”

He couldn’t help but laugh at her expression. Or keep himself from leaning closer just so he could smell the light fragrance of her perfume on the soft spring air. “Then how about a basket of boring old picnic food and wine?” He gestured toward the last stall and handed her a few coins. “Buy whatever you’d like. They might just have chocolate and orange biscuits.”