Quentin brought them to a stop beside a burn, where a copse of trees formed a sheltering hood over the bank and clumps of flowers grew among the grasses. Cracked stone thrust up here and there from the ground. Quentin tethered his mount to a tree and did the same for Cassidy’s mare. He unpacked the blanket and food and laid them out between two of the stones.
“The remains of a Roman camp,” he said, “from another age. Some of our ancestors were here before the conquerors came—but the conquerors are gone, and we remain.” He rolled his eyes. “How dreadfully poetical of me. God forbid that I should ever aspire to become a poet. Its far too much work.” He flopped down onto the grassy bank, lying flat on his back. “I trust you won’t find me too ungallant if I allow you to help yourself to Cook’s luncheon.”
Absurd as he was, Cassidy couldn’t help but enjoy his company. He made the world seem a little ridiculous, and all fears as insubstantial as the wispy clouds overhead. She reached for a slice of cold chicken.
“Good. I do like a woman who eats.” He leaned up on his elbow long enough to pull a flask from under his coat. “Would you care for some brandy, Cousin?”
Cassidy caught a whiff of the stuff and wrinkled her noise. “No, thank you.”
“Then I suppose I shall be forced to drink in solitude.” He took a deep swallow, wiped his mouth, and lay down again, humming tunelessly.
“Rowena told me something else,” Cassidy said. “She said that Braden was married.”
Quentin choked and sat up. His face was slightly flushed. “It’s hardly a secret.”
“I saw Milena’s portrait,” Cassidy said wistfully. “She was so perfect. Rowena told me how much everyone loved her.”
“Oh, yes. She had every man, woman, and child at Greyburn in her thrall while she was alive.”
“How long has it been since she—”
“Departed this mortal coil, so to speak? Three years.”
Only three years. “But no one ever talks about her,” Cassidy said. “Not even Braden.”
Quentin gazed up at the drifting clouds. “It is a difficult subject.”
“They didn’t have any children?”
Quentin’s face twisted and just as quickly smoothed out again. “No—though Braden wanted them badly enough, for the Cause.”
Only for the Cause? “How… how did she die?” Cassidy asked.
He took another drink from the flask. “An accident.” With a sharp motion he capped the flask and plucked up a blade of grass. “She fell.”
The short, clipped phrases were completely unlike Quentin. “I’m sorry,” she said, swallowing a slice of bread that had turned to dust on her tongue. “Braden must have suffered very much.”
“Yes.” He jammed the blade of grass into his mouth.
For some reason Quentin did not want to talk about Milena. Had her death been so terrible a loss that everyone at Greyburn still mourned her—Braden most of all? Another cruel sacrifice added to the ruin of his sight…
Troubled, she abandoned her meal and went to Cleopatra, uncoiling the rope she’d hung from her saddle. She shaped a lasso, twirling it in air. The familiar motion calmed her.
“Nicely done,” Quentin commented. “I presume you learned that skill in New Mexico. Where did you come by the rope?”
“I picked it up on the docks when we first arrived in England,” she said. “I guess this must look funny, here.”
“I find it fascinating.”
She ducked her head. “Did Braden become blind before or after Milena died?”
Quentin bit the stem of his grass in two and tossed it away. “What a morbid conversation, my dear.” He rolled to his side. “You have no cause to even think about Milena. You, little cousin, outshine her as the sun does a candle.”
He had a peculiar light in his spice-colored eyes. Cassidy put the rope away and began to pack the remains of lunch.
“Let’s not waste our breath discussing Milena, or Braden,” Quentin said, coming to his knees. “Not when we can talk about you.”
It was pointless trying to keep Quentin on a subject he wanted to avoid. “We came here so that I could learn how to Change. Maybe we should start—”