Jack sometimes thought the worst days were the ones when Griffith was most aware of the holes where most of his memories and his old skills should be.
“He won’t help with the chores or settle to spillakins or cards,” he reported to Gwen when she emerged from her stillroom. “He refuses to sing, and he makes loud screeches when I try to tell him a story. If you don’t mind, Gwen, I’ll hire a pair of riding horses and take him out for a ride. I can keep him on a leading rein.”
“I’ll come along, if you can make it three horses,” Gwen said. “I am almost done here, and I’ve earned the rest of the day off. Go and fetch the horses, Jack, and I’ll watch Father while I make us some food to take with us.”
Some things, it seemed, Griffith remembered. He easily mounted the steady horse Jack had hired—a large placid cob that the stable master at the inn recommended. Gwen might think she had kept her father’s condition secret, but the stable master knew. Adam’s housekeeper knew. Jack wondered how many other people were aware. If so, they should be ashamed for leaving his poor darling to try to manage father, house and business on her own.
He hastened to mount his own horse. Griffith was anxious to be off, and was becoming frustrated when his horse refused to obey his commands. It wouldn’t ignore the lead reins that tethered it to Gwen’s horse and Jack’s.
“This was a wonderful idea,” Gwen said half an hour later. She had taken them to an idyllic spot by the river. As soon as Jack spread the blanket for their al fresco meal, Griffith had commandeered it to wrap himself in and had gone to sleep. Jack put his coat down for Gwen to use instead.
She sat on one side, her knees and ankles decorously together, her sensible half boots off the edge of the coat. “There’s room, Jack,” she said. “Come and share.”
Jack shook his head. “Not a good idea, Gwen. I cannot sit that close to you and keep my hands to myself.”
She looked puzzled. “Do you mean that you want to touch me? As if…? Jack, what do you mean?”
Perhaps he’d be off to hell in a hand basket, but he could not resist just once telling her how he felt. He would regret it if she sent him packing, as she should, but just once, he wanted her to know.
“I want to touch you.” It was a ravenous growl. “I want to kiss you until you don’t remember anything but my name. I want to devour you, Gwen, and if you have the least sense of self-preservation, you’ll let me sit over here while you sit over there.”
Was that a flare of interest in her eyes? Heaven help them both if it was, for her father was no sort of chaperone at all, sound asleep as he was.
