Page 46 of Rose
Chapter Seventeen
Rose took off her slippers before she climbed from the dinghy and sank her toes in the wet sand. It felt wonderful to be on shore. Thick fog made the air heavy and lent the landscape an otherworldly feel.
Tristan offered her his arm. “Are you ready to see the cottage?”
“Indeed, I am,” she answered, weaving her arm through his.
They trudged through the soft sand, following a path lined with tufts of stiff seagrass. After climbing up a gentle slope, the cottage came into view.
She chuckled at his side.
He glanced down at her. “What is so funny,”
She shook her head at him. “Ye are, and no mistake. Yer small cottage is more than three times the size of the home I grew up in with my parents, five brothers and wee sister.”
He scratched his head. “Well, all right. Then it is somewhat modest.”
She laughed before racing ahead to admire the grounds. Flat, white stones marked the path to the cottage door, and running along both sides were hedges dotted with pink sea roses. Coming up behind her, he clasped her hand and swung open the door. When she saw the inside, she gasped with delight.
There was just one large room with a bed like she had only heard about in stories with four intricately carved posters and blankets that begged for her touch. A long table was pushed up against the wall beneath a wide casement with a single bench that stretched its full length. Along the back wall towered a large stone hearth and two high back chairs.
“What do you think?”
“’Tis amazing,” she gasped the instant before she pressed her cheek to the soft, wool blanket covering the bed.
“Make yourself comfortable while I start a fire.”
“If ye insist,” she laughed and scurried on top of the bed and buried her head in the pillows. “This is what it must feel like to sleep on a cloud.”
“Have you never slept on a real bed?”
She shook her head at him once more. “We were born to different worlds, Tristan.”
He looked at her curiously. “Soon you will see my world up close. Tomorrow is the feast of Saint Peter, and we will be sailing to England.
She froze and grew pale.
“What is it?” he asked. “What did I say?”
Tears glistened in her eyes. She slid from the bed and went to stand by the window. Pulling back the shutters, she gazed out at the seagrass bending in the breeze.
“Are you all right?” he asked, coming to her side.
She looked up at him with clear eyes. “I’m fine,” she said. Then with a deep breath, she crossed to the hearth and peered into the empty iron pot. “Ye told me there is a neighbor who takes care of this place for ye.”
“Yes, he’s an old codger named Abram. He lives just over the first hill.”
She gazed about the room with an expression of wonder on her face. “It seems a sad and amazing thing to have so many homes.”
“Why sad?” he asked.
She shrugged. “’Tis just that this lovely place must stay empty most of the time.”
He nodded. “My parents have reached an age where travel is now uncomfortable. And I seldom come here.”
Her eyes brightened. “Let us fill it with a little life then. Would Abram have some fresh meat and cabbage he might be willing to part with, mayhap a game bird or two?” she said with a wink.
“I’m certain of it. What do you intend?”
