With Matthew at her side, Daisy browsed the row of wooden stalls that had been erected along High Street, filled with fabrics, toys, millinery, silver jewelry, and glassware. She was determined to see and do as much as possible in a short time, for Westcliff had strongly advised them to return to the manor well before midnight.

“The later the hour, the more unrestrained the merrymaking tends to become,” the earl had said meaningfully. “Under the influence of wine—and behind the concealment of masks—people tend to do things they would never think of doing in the light of day.”

“Oh, what’s a little fertility ritual here or there?” Daisy had scoffed cheerfully. “I’m not so innocent that I—”

“We’ll be back early,” Matthew had told the earl.

Now as they made their way through the exuberantly crowded village, Daisy understood what Westcliff had meant. It was still early evening, and already it appeared that copiously flowing wine had loosened inhibitions. People were embracing, arguing, laughing and playing. Some were laying floral wreaths at the base of the oldest oak trees, or pouring wine at the roots, or…

“Good Lord,” Daisy said, her attention caught by a perplexing sight in the distance, “what are they doing to that poor tree?”

Matthew’s hands clasped her head and firmly aimed her face in another direction. “Don’t look.”

“Was it some form of tree-worship or—”

“Let’s go watch the rope-dancers,” he said with sudden enthusiasm, guiding her to the other side of the green.

They walked slowly past fire-swallowers, conjurors and tumblers, pausing to purchase a skin of new wine. Daisy drank carefully from the wineskin, but a drop escaped from the corner of her lips. Matthew smiled and began to reach into his pocket for a handkerchief, then appeared to think better of it. Instead he ducked his head and kissed away the wine droplet.

“You’re supposed to be protecting me from impropriety,” she said with a grin, “and instead you’re leading me astray.”

The backs of his knuckles stroked gently against the side of her face. “I’d like to lead you astray,” he murmured. “In fact, I’d like to lead you straight into those woods and…” He seemed to lose his train of thought as he stared into her soft, dark eyes. “Daisy Bowman,” he whispered. “I wish—”

But she was never to find out what his wish was, because she was abruptly pushed into him as a crowd jostled past. Everyone was bent on obtaining a view of a pair of jugglers who had clubs and hoops spinning in the air between them. In the rush the wineskin was knocked from Daisy’s hands and trampled underfoot. Matthew put his arms around her protectively.

“I dropped the wine,” Daisy said regretfully.

“Just as well.” His mouth lowered to her ear, his lips brushing the delicate outer rim. “It might have gone to my head. And then you might have taken advantage of me.”

Daisy smiled and snuggled against his hard form, her senses delighting in the reassuring warmth of his embrace. “Are my designs on you that obvious?” she asked in a muffled voice.

He nuzzled into the soft space beneath her earlobe. “I’m afraid so.”

Tucking her against his side, Matthew guided her through the crush of bodies until they reached the open space beside the booths. He bought her a paper cone of roasted nuts…a marzipan rabbit…a silver rattle for baby Merritt, and a painted cloth doll for Annabelle’s daughter. As they walked the length of High Street toward the waiting carriage, Daisy was stopped by a gaudily dressed woman wearing scarves shot with metallic thread, and jewelry made of beaten gold.

The woman’s face reminded Daisy exactly of the apple dolls she and Lillian had made when they were children. They had carved faces in the sides of the peeled fruit and let them dry into brown, charmingly furrowed heads. Black beads for eyes and soft tufts of carded wool for the hair…yes, this woman looked exactly the same.

“A fortune for the lady, sir?” the woman asked Matthew.

Glancing at Daisy, Matthew raised a sardonic brow.

She grinned, knowing full well he had no patience with mysticism, superstitions, or anything to do with the supernatural. He was far too practical to believe in things that couldn’t be proved by empirical evidence.

“Just because you don’t believe in magic,” Daisy told him playfully, “doesn’t mean it can’t happen. Don’t you want a little peek into the future?”

“I’d prefer to wait until it gets here,” came his dour reply.

“Only a shilling, sir,” the fortune-teller pressed.

Matthew heaved a sigh as he shifted his packages and reached inside his pocket. “This shilling,” he told Daisy, “would be better spent at the booths, on a hair ribbon or a smoked chub.”

“Coming from someone who threw a five-dollar piece into the wishing well—”

“Making a wish had nothing to do with it,” he said. “I only did that to get your attention.”

Daisy laughed. “And so you did. But—” she glanced at him significantly, “—your wish came true, didn’t it?” Taking the shilling, she transferred it to the fortune-teller. “What is your method of divination?” she asked the woman blithely. “Do you have a crystal ball? Do you use tarot cards or read palms?”

For an answer, the woman took a silver-backed looking glass from the waist of her skirts and handed it to Daisy. “Look at your reflection,” she intoned solemnly. “It is the gateway to the world of spirits. Keep staring—don’t look away.”