Page 79 of His Forsaken Bride

“But the last scarf you bought was given into my keeping,” explained Fen. “The goldcrest one.”

“Yes,” Oswald agreed simply. “But when that was extracted from you, half a furlong ago, I took it back.”

“Someone took it from me?” gasped Fen, blinking. “But I never…”

Oswald pinched her chin. “I know.”

She clutched the front of his doublet and leant against him a moment. “Do I look like the veriest bumpkin?” she asked bashfully.

“No,” he said and dropped a brief kiss against her mouth, surprising her. “And anyway, it’s my place to look out for you.” His hands rested at her waist. She could feel them even through her cloak. “And my pleasure,” he added softly.

She gazed up at him. Her heart throbbed in her chest, almost alarmingly.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said, ducking her head. “Only, ‘tis rather cold, now I come to notice it.”

He accepted this without comment, merely taking her hand and interlacing his fingers with hers.

They negotiated their way through the rest of the market without further incident. Fen picked up small rose-wood boxes for Orla and Trudy that were cunningly carved and with great skill. She would put sweet sachets of dried herbs and flowers inside for them to store with their linens. She fleetingly thought of buying a gift for Lady Sumner, but deduced that lady would not appreciate so humble a gift. On passing a stall covered in woolen hoods, Fen turned to Oswald and reminded him to buy something for his assistant. He eyed the hoods doubtfully. “Perhaps a book?” he said, picking up a tri-colored hood in blue, yellow and red. “These look rather frivolous. Poor Bryce would not appreciate a long tail or the leaf design edging.”

“But Bryce always dresses like a monk,” Fen reminded him. “I think a warm, fur-lined hood in black or brown would be most acceptable to him. Or perhaps green,” she mused. “Though, certainly no tail.”

The stall-holder, having heard her, popped up with a sage-green hood lined with brown fur and matching buttons to fasten, which he presented to her with a flourish.

“Oh, now can you not see him wearing this?” asked Fen, holding it aloft. “This looks the very thing.”

Oswald rolled his eyes, though he reached for his purse obligingly. “You shall be the one who gives it to him,” he said handing over the payment.

“Happily,” replied Fen, folding the hood. He held the bag out to her and Fen was just stuffing it in with their purchases when she noticed her husband go very still. She straightened up in alarm to find a small, rather wrinkled man standing blinking at them from a few feet away. He had two dead rabbits tucked under one arm which were presumably for his supper. Fen glanced at Oswald and then back to the older man expectantly.

He cleared his throat. “Mr Roberts,” said the man, addressing her husband with some reluctance.

“Carleton,” replied her husband with a nod. “It seems you do recognize me outside your establishment after all.”

The old man’s face creased in what Fen assumed was a smile. “So it would seem, sir. So it would seem.”

He looked curiously toward Fen, but made no comment. Oswald seemed to pause a moment, before continuing: “Allow me to introduce my wife. Mrs Roberts, meet Mr Carleton.”

Fen tried not to react to her new name, but instead extended her hand to shake.

Mr Carleton also struggled not to look surprised, and shook her hand. “Mrs Roberts,” he said, giving her a hard look.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr Carleton.”

The two men bowed again and Mr Carleton disappeared into the throng. Oswald offered his arm and she took it.

“So… not your doxy then,” she joked, glancing up at his profile. He still looked a little stern and for a moment she thought he was angry. His expression relaxed almost immediately, and he raised her hand to kiss her knuckles. “Your hand is cold,” he frowned.

“Nothing to signify,” she hurried to assure him, but he was already glancing around and then tugging her in the direction of the tavern. Fen, who had been enjoying herself, was in no hurry leave the hustle and bustle of the market place. “Which house do the Robertses live in?” she asked, gazing about her.

Oswald cast her a curious look, before falling in with her playful mood. “The biggest one of course.”

Fen laughed appreciatively. “That one?” she pointed to a large timbered monstrosity of a town house, at least four floors high and boasting an impressive courtyard and adjoining stables.

“Naturally,” he inclined his head. “Only the very best for the Robertses.”

“Mr Roberts must be a very successful merchant, I think,” mused Fen aloud. “Perhaps even a town alderman or a councilor?”