A Match Made in Bed (Spinster Heiresses #2)(60)

Cass stirred. “Exotic?”

“Being an interpreter is man’s work. She didn’t hesitate to take her rightful place. I told you the Lenape were matriarchal.”

“To the point they’d let their women roam freely?”

“Her father trusted our commander. We valued our native allies and knew our boundaries. Mary was treated with respect.”

Her head returned to his shoulder. “I can’t imagine having such freedom. Or purpose.” Her voice was wistful.

Soren found her hand and laced their fingers together. “You will have freedom in Cornwall,” he said, wanting to make his point. “You will be the lady of Pentreath. You may do as you wish.”

“But what will there be to do?” She paused and then added, “Besides pleasing you?”

“Cassandra, there will be plenty. Were you raised on a pillow to be carried everywhere?”

“I was chaperoned and escorted and watched everywhere I went,” she said in her defense. “My father insisted on approving who I saw and what I did . . . while he was stealing what had been rightfully mine. It was all a ruse.”

“Then live a real life,” Soren answered. “Find what gives you meaning.”

“It is easy for you to say those words. You are male. You can do whatever you wish.”

“That is nonsense. We all have restrictions. Mary had more liberty to make her own choices than I had as an officer. They told me I couldn’t marry her. They were set against it. I made the decision to choose my own path.”

“And now you are back in this world.”

“By my choice. And for a strong reason.” He leaned back in the seat. “This is not the journey I thought I wanted. However, good things have come to me.”

“Such as?”

“You.” He couldn’t believe she had to ask. “I have you now.”

And I love you, he could have added, but he didn’t. She’d not believe him. Her heart was too busy mourning for what she believed she had lost. There was no room for him right now. A humbling truth. But she would rise above her disappointments, and when she did, he planned on being right beside her.

Cass was quiet for a long time. Her head rested on his chest, directly over his heart.

“I wish I did have a new dream,” she said at last.

“You will, love. You will.”



He’d done it again. Called her “love.” Was it just an easy word for him?

Did he know how wary it made her feel? And how vulnerable? She knew he wanted her to trust him, but she didn’t dare. After all, she was on the way to Cornwall.

Cassandra sat up. The time had come to quit moping. She looked out the window and took in the sight of the driver riding the lead horse. This would be her view for days.

Soren pulled a pack of cards from his jacket. “Do you wish to pass the time?”

“I’m not a good card player.”

“Then let me teach you.” He waved a hand for her to scoot over to her side of the seat so they could use the space between them for their cards.

Playing games turned out to be a good idea. It did shake Cassandra loose from thoughts that were dangerously full of self-pity. Both she and Soren knew it.

His mind was quick with math and numbers. He remembered the cards.

As for herself, she was hopeless at piquet. She rather enjoyed a form of faro that they designed for themselves, but she lost more than she won. They played with imaginary money, and she was soon deeply in debt to him.

“I’d rather be reading,” she grumbled as she lost again.

“Is that how you usually travel?”

“Always with a book,” she answered. “I had been looking for a book the night I ended up in your room.” The incident seemed ages ago.

“Then I am blessed you like to read.” He gathered the cards to shuffle.

She sat back in her corner of the vehicle. “If you keep speaking this way, Soren, there will be those who will think we are a love match.”

Her words had been spoken lightly, but once they were in the air between them, they took on a deeper meaning.

Gray eyes met hers. His lips parted as if he was going to say something, and her breath caught, waiting, hoping . . .

He looked away, focusing his attention from her to the cards he deftly shuffled.

She could have cursed. She shouldn’t have used those words. And yet, she believed Soren valued her for more than the money she was supposed to have brought to the marriage, and found herself yearning for words from him of what he truly thought of her. After all, in poetry, it was the gentleman who made the grand declarations. It seemed safer to her that way.

“I’m tired of cards,” she murmured.

“Then I will tell you stories,” he answered, and he did. He spoke about his adventures in Canada. Cassandra didn’t know that she wanted to listen to him. She leaned against the door so that she could look out the window at the passing scenery. It would take them days to travel to Pentreath.

Against her initial desires, she found herself caught up in his narrative of native tribes and soldiers, of an untamed country, and of the foolhardy souls who were bent on seeking their fortune. Soren could tell a story. In fact, listening to him was better than reading.

And at some point, her sense of the world righted, just a little.