It was a struggle, but she set her fork and knife aside and stood up from the couch, then immediately fell back into the cushioned protection from the floor. Her feet were raw and blistered. It hurt to walk. She'd need to ask her hostess about some sort of shoes if she were going to be staying here.
The food left an odd taste in her mouth, though it did little to put off her appetite. It was enough to make her wonder, though. What was she tasting?
As she started trying to guess little things—garlic, no. Onion, no. What, then? She started to think harder, racking her brain. None of them were right. It tasted strangely like…
Rose? The taste was fading in her mouth and her memory must have been mistaken. No one would put rose in food. Yet another mouth-watering bite of the sweet roll confirmed it. The tiniest hint, but it lingered in the mouth. Honey and rose.
Her eyes narrowed. She'd heard that before somewhere. Some concoction that had slipped her mind. Something she would never have needed, so it wasn't worth memorizing. But Brigid had insisted that she be able to recite every recipe in her little book, so she'd learned it despite her reservations.
She'd already rose again, ignoring the pain in her feet. It felt as if she were hobbling around like an old woman, at first. As she walked, she felt the pain fading, felt herself returning to looking more-or-less normal. What on earth was she forgetting? Roses and honey. A strange combination. Roses were more suited to perfume than eating.
Where had her hostess gotten herself off to? Deirdre stepped through the door into the kitchen. It was large, a wall full of spices and dried herbs in small glass bottles. Each of them was clearly labeled with what they included, and most were only half-full.
A pair of skillets hung from hooks on the wall, and the entire place smelled very much of food, reminding her of what she'd left behind. But Brigid had always been very fond of saying that you shouldn't eat anything if you don't know what's in it. That went double when you knew that it wasn't merely for flavor…
There were stairs up in the front room, but she ignored them. An exterior door in the kitchen led out the back. Then there was the room in the rear, where the maid had ducked. That was an idea.
Deirdre peeked her head around, looking around while trying to stay casual. It was important to make sure that she wouldn't draw any attention. She was just looking around, after all. The question kept coming into her mind. Roses and honey. Think. Think!
She opened a door that turned out to be exterior as well, spied the paddock, and shut the door again when it hit her.
Roses and honey—a love potion? She tried to recall the book, but it had been so long. Roses, honey, a bit of wine, and silver. The effects were not nearly so promising as some hoped, but to soften someone up, to make them think you're swell—it worked well.
Yet, every sign had pointed to Amelia as both a friend and a lady of substance. There was no reason for her to doubt the woman… but that didn't change anything. Deirdre shut her eyes and tried to think. That would explain how a woman who seemingly had no family would have made such a fine living for herself.
How hard would it be to convince people that you were a-ok, and that your little potions were effective, than to force them to like you? And whatever she wanted from Deirdre, the girl didn't want to know. She walked out to the stable, her head on a swivel. She needed to make sure no one found her until it was too late. That would be the only way she could manage.
She slipped in the front, and a young man sat with his hat pulled low over his eyes. He was slumped back and Deirdre had a strong suspicion that he'd been sleeping when she came in. He jerked awake and pushed the hat back.
"Can I help you, miss?"
"Mrs. Amelia, she said I could take one of the ponies for a ride around the yard. I've never been on a horse before, and I thought it sounded very exciting."
He chewed on that for a moment before standing up. "Take a seat, I'll get the blue ready for you."
"Thank you very much," she said, letting herself settle in.
He went off, fussing with a saddle and so on. She hadn't exactly lied—she didn't know a whole lot about horses, but she had to hope Amelia didn't catch on before she could get out of here. Once she was on the horse…
After a few minutes, the boy came around with a steel-gray horse that stood nearly as tall at the shoulder as she did. "This is Blue—she's a sweet heart. Shouldn't be much trouble. Let me help you up."
He stood beside the horse and held his hand out. Such a nice boy, she thought. He helped her up. As Deirdre settled her weight into the saddle a woman's voice called out. "Mark, have you seen my guest?"
"She's right out here," he called back, then turned back, already starting a spiel about how to work the reins. But Deirdre had already taken off, and as the pretty blonde lady watched, she set the horse straight out of town.
Valdemar was wrong. That much was obvious. Deirdre had been nothing but sincere with him. He'd seen her, seen how panicked she was. How mad she was to get away from that place. Well, he'd gotten her away, sure enough.
But he'd done it on his own terms. He'd done it after forcing her to wait twice, which he certainly felt bad about—but he couldn't exactly turn back on it now. What's done was done.
The real question, the question that bothered him most of all, was who left the trail. It seemed obvious now that it wasn't necessarily for him, but for some English reinforcements. But if the English had a scout trailing behind, then why hadn't Gunnar rode straight into him?
No, it couldn't have been that easy. It was someone in the camp, he knew that. Likely someone sitting in this very room, because if they were going to work with the English they'd do it for a reason. Not simply to be killed in the next fight. He blinked, tried to think.
Unless it was her, but… that made no sense at all. Why would she run away, why would she kill an English soldier, if they were there to pick her up? She hadn't known he was watching. Couldn't have, unless he assumed that her powers of clairvoyance were that much more impressive than she had pretended them to be.
He turned to face the circle of men, each and every one of them a trusted adviser of his or Valdemar's. There was no need to speak quietly; after all, they were in English territory. One man in a million might speak their tongue, and certainly not the oaf that guarded them.
He had a soft body, the sort of body that a man get