Morning had dawned, and the carriage had been readied, and she’d been loaded within, but only after she’d broken a fast on bread and sausage and an apple brought to her upon a tray by his butler, Jenkins.

Restless to give her fingers something to do—to give herself something to do—Myrtle chipped away at the frost formed on the inside of the window, dusting the remnants away with her palm. She searched outside, looking for a hint of him.

And then she spied him.

Riding alongside but just behind the carriage.

Myrtle tossed the window open and arched her neck back so she might better see him.

Val instantly rode forward. “What is it?”

“It is cold.”

“Then you should close the window.”

Had those words been spoken by any other man, they would have been rude.

Val, however, was only matter-of-factly blunt in every word he spoke, and she couldn’t contain a smile. “I was more remarking it for you,” she called loudly enough to make her voice heard over the noisy clatter of the wheels and the thundering of his horse’s hooves mixed with the rhythmic thump of the team pulling the carriage.

“I’m perfectly fine.”

She pointed outside. “Your nose is red.”

“I don’t feel it,” he said, his gaze directed on the road ahead.

“Well, it is no wonder because it is so cold.”

He blinked slowly, and then his gaze landed on hers; he gave her a peculiar look. “You should close the window.”

His meaning couldn’t be clearer. He didn’t want her company or her talking. He was content—nay, happy—with his own company.

Myrtle clasped the sides and leaned farther out and inhaled deeply. “I love the wint—”

“You’re going to fall out,” he said sharply, and she would have been touched by his concern if he hadn’t sounded so deuced annoyed.

“I have quite a good grip, and I’m firmly planted on my seat.” Cupping her hands around her mouth, she yelled up to him, “I thought we might talk.”

“What do you need to talk about?”

He was endearingly bad with this conversation stuff.

“Not need to. Want to.”

“All right,” he said, speaking through gritted teeth. “What do you want to talk about?”

“If you could have any meal for the Christmastide dinner, which would you choose?”

He eyed her like she’d sprung a second head. “That is what you want to talk about?”

She nodded.

“Whyyyy?”

And by the several extra syllables he’d managed to squeeze into that single word, she may as well have popped another head out.

“Because I’m curious.”

“About what I like to eat.”

About him.

It was both the same and different, all at the same time.

“Indulge me,” she called.

“I . . .” He shook his head.

“Nothing?” she asked incredulously, leaning out a fraction more. “I find that—”