Forevermore (4 page)

Mary's feet resumed swinging again. "So what happened?"

"The knight rode back and forth and forth and back, all around the kingdom, summoning all the ladies to come try on the shoe." He popped the small berry into his mouth. "When word got out that whoever could fit it would be the prince's bride, you can wager that every lady in the land begged to try it on." As he swallowed, his own shoe met Clarice's beneath the table.

"And did it fit any ladies?"

"Well, not for the longest time. Try as they might, no ladies could fit their feet into the little glass shoe. Even those who prided themselves on their dainty feet went away in tears."

Clarice moved her foot away…and then, very slowly, she slid it back. Not daring to sneak a glance at her, Cameron focused on her daughter instead. "Until one day when the knight came upon a house where a laird had once lived—"

"A laird?" Mary's blue eyes looked puzzled. "What's a laird?"

"A Scottish lord, more or less." When she nodded, he went on. "But the laird had died, and his fortune was gone, so his wife and two daughters worked hard to put food on the table and clothing on their backs."

"Were they beautiful, the daughters? And pleasant, as befits a princess?"

"One of them was bitter and angry at the bad luck that had befallen them. But the younger one was always happy and sang as she went about her hard work. A wee lass she was, a bonnie, sweet thing."

"Like me?" Mary asked.

Clarice stifled a laugh.

Cameron's lips twitched as Mary flung herself back onto the bed so that she stared up at the smoke-stained ceiling. "Aye, very much like you."

"So what happened?"

"When the knight rode into their courtyard holding forth the shoe, the older lass ran forward to try it on. But the younger one didn't."

"Why is that?" Mary queried the ceiling. She raised a hand into the air, squinted up, and traced the path of a distant beam with one wee finger. "Did she not want to be a princess?"

"She guessed her feet were small enough to fit the shoe, but she couldn't imagine herself as the wife of a prince. She thought people would make fun of her and say she wasn't fit to be a princess, so she decided it was better to keep back and not even try on the shoe."

"I wouldn't think that," Mary declared.

Clarice looked up from her work. "No, you wouldn't, poppet. But you should. You should learn your place in the world."

"Nay, she shouldn't," Cam disagreed. "Her place is what she makes it, as is yours. We are none of us born to a single destiny—I'm living proof of that."

Clarice's hands worked faster. "Not all of us are so lucky."

"You might find yourself lucky someday." His fingers reached to trail one busy arm.

She stilled at the touch. "I
am
lucky. I have Mary." She smiled at the wee lass. "That is luck enough for me—I have no dreams of living in castles."

"Well, I do." Mary rose from the trundle and dragged another chair out to sit across from Cameron.

Reluctantly he pulled back his hand. It wouldn't do to court the mother in the daughter's clear sight.

Mary knelt on the chair and laced her little fingers together on the tabletop. "What happened to the daughters?"

"The knight gave the glass shoe to the older lass, who carried it up to her bedchamber. Some time passed, until, to the surprise of all, she came back down the stairs with the shoe on her foot."

"Did it truly fit?"

"Well, not exactly. She walked with a wee limp and her face was white as a puffy summer cloud. But only her little sister noticed, and she kept quiet."

Mary shook her head, clearly disapproving of the little sister.

Cameron shared a smile with Clarice. "The knight was so happy to find a lady who fit the shoe, he jumped on his horse and rode to the castle to tell the prince. The next day, the prince gathered his courtiers, and they all rode together to meet and bring home his bride."

"Did he fancy her?"

"Well, there was some excitement, I expect you'll imagine, when the prince's party arrived. Though they were poor, the mother gathered all the food she could find for a feast. The selfish sister didn't help at all, but went to her chamber to don whatever fine clothes she could find to impress the prince. When all was ready, the younger sister didn't come to the table, but hid herself instead. She knew that her foot was the smallest in the house—aye, maybe in the kingdom—and she worried that if the prince saw her it could ruin her sister's plans."

"But the prince saw her anyway, didn't he?"

"Nay, for she hid herself well, behind an enormous black cauldron in the courtyard. The prince and his courtiers had a merry evening with many toasts to the couple. And when it was all over, the bride-to-be rode away with him on his horse, so full of pride she didn't bother to say her farewells to her sister and their mother."

Mary climbed from the chair to hug Clarice around the knees. "Not even to her mother?"

When Clarice bent her head to kiss her daughter's curly blond crown, Cameron was sure he'd never seen as touching a picture as the two of them together.

"Not even to her mother." He paused while Clarice drew Mary up to sit on her lap. "But not long after they set upon the road, a wee bird sang from a tree. He trilled, 'Nippit fit and clippit fit, behind the prince rides, But pretty fit and little fit, ahint the cauldron hides.'"

"Oooh . . ." Mary's blue eyes grew wider. "There is the name of the tale!"

"Aye. And the prince cried, 'What is this that bird doth say?' You can guess he wasn't truly happy with the bride his knight had found for him. He asked, 'Have you a sister, madam?'"

"Did she tell him?"

"To her credit, she didn't lie."

"Mama says I must never lie."

"She is wise, your mama. My aunt used to say, 'Tell the truth an' shame the deil.'"

The lassie cocked her head. "The deil?"

"The devil, aye? It means you should always tell the truth. The older sister didn't lie, but she told the prince in a whisper, 'My sister is only a very wee one.'"

"Did he hear her?"

"Aye, for he was listening hard for the answer he hoped to hear. 'We will go back and find this wee sister,' he told his courtiers, 'for when I sent forth the shoe, I had no mind that the wearer should nip her foot and clip her foot in order to make it fit."

"Ouch!" Mary yanked a stem off a berry, and, making a proper mess of it, stuffed it into her mouth.

"Ouch, indeed." He reached to wipe some berry juice from her chin. "They all turned around and rode back to the house, where the bonnie younger lass was found behind the cauldron. 'Give her the shoe,' the prince told the older sister, and when she took it off, they all gasped to see that she had clipped off part of her toes to get it on."

A grimace on her face, Mary reached beneath the table to grasp her own tiny toes. "Did the shoe fit the little sister?"

"It fit perfectly, and she'd no need to cut her toes, either." He grinned at Mary's giggle. "When the prince saw that it fit, he took the older sister off his horse and put the younger one there instead. And they rode to his castle for the wedding."

"A big castle, and a wedding like yesterday." Mary sighed, her eyes lit with memory. "Was it beautiful?"

"I'm sure it was."

"And did they live happily ever after?"

"Of course they did. For a hundred years and a day."

"A hundred years?" Clarice handed Cameron another strawberry. "You'll put even more dreams in my daughter's head."

The daughter in question hopped down from her mother's lap and made her way around the table to clamber onto Cameron's lap instead. "There's nothing wrong with dreaming," he told Clarice over Mary's curly head.

"I once was a dreamer," Clarice said softly. And her eyes told him that her dreams were long dead.

"You have dreams," Mary disagreed. "In the night, sometimes I hear you dreaming."

"I suspect those are more like nightmares," Cameron said dryly.

A knock came at the door, and Mary jumped from his lap to answer it, squealing with delight when she saw a small, dark-haired girl. "Anne!" She turned to Clarice, her big blue eyes wide with hope. "Mama? Please, can I play? Oh, please?"

"Run along, poppet," Clarice said. "You can finish your chores later."

The door banged shut, and she turned to Cam with a motherly shake of her head. Then she blushed suddenly. "You must leave," she murmured. "It's unseemly for us to be alone."

When he made no move to depart, she bent her head back to her bowl of strawberries. A spell passed where all he could hear was the liquidy sound of her work, the soft sigh of her breath, and the beat of his own heart in the still room.

"You really must leave," she repeated at last. "As it is, I'll be spending all night convincing my daughter she won't be trying on a shoe and ending up in a castle."

"But, Clarice, I live in a castle. Though it's nothing like Cainewood, more's the pity." He raised her hand and kissed it softly, making her eyes widen. Good Lord, he loved her unique combination of straightforwardness and seeming innocence. "I'm wondering if I could persuade you to accompany me home to see it."

She tried to pull her hand away, but he held tight. Her cheeks flushed pink. "You're jesting."

"Maybe." She looked so pretty when flustered, he couldn't resist teasing her a wee bit more. "But one never knows what the future may bring."

Her mouth dropped open, and she gave a little huff of disbelief. Taking pity on her, he set her hand on the table and patted it comfortingly. "May I see you again tomorrow, Clarice?"

"Tomorrow?" she echoed, looking dazed.

He nodded and stood. "I won't put your reputation at jeopardy by staying here with you alone," he said, making his way toward the door. "But I'll come tomorrow, and together we'll decide if I'm jesting or not."

Without waiting to see her reaction, he slipped outside, letting loose a resounding sneeze as he made his way through her garden. Whistling tunelessly as he walked back to the castle, he wondered if he'd been jesting at all.

The next day, Clarice returned from her morning errands to find Cameron sitting on the low stone wall in front of her cottage, looking altogether too good for her comfort.

Beneath a jaunty brown hat, his hair ruffled in the breeze. Her husband's hair had been a coarse gray, but Cameron's was a silky mixture of blonds and browns. As she imagined running her fingers through it, her hand tightened around Mary's, and she realized she'd thought about him all the night and morning.

Whatever was happening to her? It had to stop.

Her daughter broke from her grasp and went skipping down the lane, straight into Cameron's arms. He stood and swung her in a wide circle, clearly delighting in her high-pitched squeal. Holding a basket heaped with strawberries, Clarice couldn't help smiling as she came near.

It wasn't stopping.

He stilled and held Mary close, his nose in her blond curls, and Clarice guessed he was enjoying her daughter's charming, childish scent. She'd never imagined a man would appreciate a thing like that.

"I've a mind to go rowing on the river," he told Clarice.

"Oh." She looked down at the toes of her neat black shoes. "I hope you'll enjoy yourself."

"I meant with you," he said, making her glance up.

His lopsided grin displayed those dimples that made a giggle want to bubble out of her. But Clarice Bradford didn't giggle.

"And Mary, of course," he added as he set her on her feet.

"I want to play with Anne," Mary said. "I told her I would bring my doll over this morning. Mama made me a most lovely doll," she told Cameron.

"Did you truly tell Anne such a thing?" Clarice started toward her door. "You knew that today you're to salt and mold the butter."

Mary's cheeks went pink. "I forgot." Cam sneezed as he followed them through the garden. "Please, Mama?" she asked, shutting the door behind them.

Cameron would never have found it in him to deny the wee lass, but Clarice looked resolute. Mary turned to him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Would you mind very much taking Mama rowing without me? Only because I promised Anne."

Was the little minx plotting to get him and Clarice alone together? "I'll miss you," he told Mary with a broad smile, "but nay, I wouldn't mind. It's important to keep your promises."

"The butter—" Clarice started.

"I'll do it later, Mama. I promise, like I promised Anne. She's waiting." The blue eyes begged. "Please?" she repeated.

Cameron saw Clarice's features soften. "Very well. I'll walk you to the cookshop." She put the basket on the table. "But as for going rowing alone with Sir—"

"We'll be out in the open for the world to see," he rushed to reassure her. "There's nothing unseemly about that."

While Mary skipped to her trundle to fetch her doll, Clarice lifted an enormous pile of colorfully decorated throw blankets, holding them before her as though she hoped they were armor Cam couldn't pierce.

"May I see one?" he asked.

"Certainly." She lifted her chin from the top of the stack and he took one and shook it out. "Crewel work," she explained. "They fetch a pretty penny in London."

"You're very talented with a needle." The designs were lovely. "Were you thinking to take them to London now?"

Musical laughter filled the room, lifting his heart. "I've never been to London. Martinson—the village blacksmith—he visits his sister there twice a year and sells them for me." She replaced her chin on the pile. "I heard he's leaving next week, so I thought to bring them by. The smithy is beside the cookshop."

"Anne's mama owns the cookshop," Mary put in.

"Ah, I see." Cameron followed them to the door. "Do you mind if I walk along with you? I could carry some for you."

"As you wish." Clarice visibly relaxed when he relieved her of more than half the pile. "But I'm not going rowing."