Tempting Fate

by Alissa Johnson

  Whit stood where he was and frowned. “I’m uncertain as to whether I’m pleased or unnerved by how quickly you just did that.”

  She rolled her eyes, but didn’t take offense. “It’s not as if I’d let just any man see my ankles, Whit.”

  “That’s reassuring.” He stepped forward to kneel at her feet and press his fingers against the tender skin. It hurt, just as it had when she moved so quickly to extend it to him, but she was determined not to let on.

  “But as we very nearly grew up together,” she continued after forcing her teeth to unclench, “and you’ve seen them a dozen times or more in the past—including only yesterday, I’d like to point out—I think it’s only sensible to let you take a look if need be.”

  “I see.”

  “And the physician, of course.”

  “Naturally.”

  “And Alex, if it were absolutely necessary.”

  His gaze shot up to hers. “Alex doesn’t need to be looking at your bare ankles.”

  “Not at the moment, of course not, but if the situation arose in which—”

  “Ever,” Whit qualified and pulled down her skirts.

  “Have I passed your inspection? May I go?”

  “Grab your cane,” was his somewhat gruff reply.

  He had a curricle ready. The spot chosen for the picnic wasn’t far, just on the other side of the lake, and the others would be making the short trip on foot. With her ankle injured, however, it would have been an arduous journey for Mirabelle. She’d have managed it, she was certain, but the curricle made everything so much simpler.

  “It’ll take some time,” Whit informed her as he helped her up. “As the road veers away from the water before it cuts back again.”

  “It’s perfect weather for a drive,” Mirabelle replied.

  It was perfect weather to be doing anything outside.

  The fresh air and sunshine did more for her than all the other medicine and rest combined. Once they were both settled and the curricle moving, she let out a long heartfelt sigh.

  “This is lovely. Absolutely lovely. Thank you, Whit.”

  He tossed a quick smile at her and adjusted his grip on the reins. “My pleasure.”

  She very much doubted it, as her behavior so far had been decidedly less than pleasant. She didn’t mind a show of temper as a rule—hers or others—but an explanation and an apology were in order if one didn’t have a good reason for the outburst. Two days ago, she wouldn’t have troubled to offer them to Whit—she’d always felt he was reason enough for a good show of temper—but things, she was all too aware, had changed.

  Still, she waited until they were a considerable distance from the house before working up the courage to turn her face in his general direction and speak.

  “I should like…” She cleared her throat and fixed her gaze over his shoulder. “I should like to…to…” She cleared her throat again and had Whit frowning at her.

  “Are you coming down with a cold, imp?”

  “Am I…?” She blinked at him. “Oh. Oh, no. I just…” She managed, barely, to keep from clearing her throat again. “It’s only that I…”

  “Because you sound as if you are.”

  “No, no—”

  “Have Cook fix you a pot of her special tea—the one for head colds—when we return. It does wonders with a sore throat.”

  “I’m perfectly well, Whit, honestly.”

  But she wouldn’t be, she knew, if the family and staff developed the impression that she was both injured and ill. And because Whit was looking at her as if seriously considering the possibility of consumption, she took a deep breath and—God help her, she just couldn’t stop herself—cleared her throat for the fourth time.

  “I want to apologize for my behavior in the library,” she began in a rush. “You were—have been—very kind to me, and rather than thank you as I should have, I”—threatened to do you bodily harm with your great-great-grandmother’s cane, she thought with a wince—“I was inexcusably antagonistic. Being uncomfortable makes me testy, and I’ll admit my ankle does give me some pain. I don’t mean to use that as a justification, I—”

  “It’s all right, imp. Apology accepted.”

  She waited a beat before asking, “That’s it?”

  “What more were you expecting?”

  “Well, I rather thought you might milk it a bit,” she replied, a trifle surprised.

  “I might have, a few days ago,” he admitted. “But we made an agreement, if you recall. Any particular reason you waited to tell me this?”

  She wanted, badly, to shift in her seat. “I didn’t want to give you an excuse to leave me behind.”

  “I’m not in the habit of reacting to an apology with spite,” he said a little indignantly.

  “Of course not,” she was quick to agree. “But I wasn’t certain you’d react to my admission of pain by letting me come along either.”

  “And made the decision to postpone your conscience until we were safely away from Haldon?”

  This time she did shift in her seat. “Essentially.”

  He nodded. “I thought as much.”

  She risked a glance at him. “You’re not angry, then?”

  “No, I’m not. In fact, I’m delighted you behaved in such a way as to require an apology.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ve one of my own to make,” he began by way of explanation. “And after having your own so generously, so selflessly, so—”

  “I believe I grasp the general idea, Whit.”

  “—charitably accepted,” he finished. “You really have no other choice but to do the same in return, or else run the risk of appearing petty and vindictive by comparison.”

  “That’s a twisted bit of logic.”

  “But sound if one takes the time to follow it.”

  “And equally irrefutable if one doesn’t care to be bothered—which, I confess, I don’t.” She twisted further in her seat to look at him. Now that she’d finished with her apology, it didn’t seem so hard a thing to catch his eye. “What could you possibly have to apologize for?”

  “For maneuvering you into spying on Kate,” he said, suddenly serious. “It was ill done of me.”

  “Yes,” she agreed without the heat of anger. “It certainly was.”

  “I’m sorry for it.”

  A corner of her mouth quirked up. “Are you only sorry now that it’s become apparent that spying was unnecessary?”

  “I don’t recall asking you to qualify your apology,” he evaded, suddenly paying much closer attention to his driving.

  “You asked why I waited to offer it,” she pointed out.

  “Only after accepting it to start.”

  “You’re right,” she laughed and sat back against the cushions. “And it hardly matters now anyway. Apology accepted, Whit. Although, I don’t think it will do for us to start expressing regret for every past misdeed. We’d never speak of anything else.”

  “You have a point.” He gave the matter some thought. “Perhaps we should agree not to extend any more apologies for crimes committed against each other before the house party.”

  “Will I have to apologize for getting you into trouble with your mother, then?” She grinned at him. “Because I’m not sorry I did it.”

  “You would have been,” he promised her, looking quite smug. “Once I enacted my revenge.”

  “Well if you’re certain of it, there’s really no reason for me to tell you I’m sorry. It would be redundant.” She tapped a gloved hand against her leg. “What was your revenge going to be?”

  Whit shook his head. “I don’t think you should know. There’s no guessing how long our truce will last, and I’d just as soon keep it in reserve.”

  Mirabelle had always found it aggravating to be kept out of a secret—which was only natural to her mind—and as this particular secret pertained directly to her, she found its continuing secrecy twice as aggravating. This would require, she decided, twice the
usual tenacity in finding it out.

  “How’s this,” she tried, “I’ll say I’m sorry—”

  “Only you’re not.”

  “True, but you’re certain I would have been, and that amounts to the same thing, really,” she explained reasonably. “But you first have to agree to tell me what you had planned.”

  “I’ve done more agreeing in the last two days than I typically do in a year,” Whit chuckled.

  “Can’t be helped,” she said dismissively. “What do you say to my offer?”

  He thought about it—which she found perfectly reasonable—and thought about it—which she could forgive him for—and thought about it some more—which was a little annoying—and then finally decided.

  “No. No, I don’t think I will.”

  Which was entirely unacceptable.

  “Why ever not?” she demanded.

  “I don’t wish to,” he answered with a roll of his shoulders.

  “You’re being stubborn, Whit. I don’t think that’s allowed under the terms of our agreement.”

  “Of course it is. You’re just not allowed to criticize me for it.”

  “That”—is probably true, she conceded, but only to herself—“is ridiculous,” was what she said to him.

  “That might also be the case, but again, you’re not allowed to mention it.” He transferred the reins to one hand and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his blue eyes dancing. “In fact, now that I think of it, I can say or do near to anything now—as long as it’s not insulting to you—and you can’t disparage me in any way.”

  “There’s always later.”

  “Yes, but I’m a man who lives for the present.”

  “You’re a braggart is what you are—and I mean that in the nicest way possible,” she was quick to assure him.

  “I don’t think it is possible to call someone a ‘braggart’ without being insulting,” he scoffed.

  “Of course it is. I’ve my own—and entirely uninsulting—definition for the word.”

  He blinked at her. “That’s…”

  “Yes? Go on, Whit,” she prompted with a silly grin. “Is it ridiculous? Absurd? Is it—”

  “I’m at a loss for words,” he admitted with a laugh. “And it’s for the best, as it seems we’ve arrived.”

  And so they had. Mirabelle craned her neck to see through the small line of trees that separated the road from the field beyond. The lake path they’d taken the day before may have been her favorite place to walk, but there wasn’t a spot on the Haldon grounds more ideally suited for a picnic. It had a wonderful feeling of seclusion about it, with the road hidden from view and the forest closing in on three other sides.

  The occasional oak and maple had been allowed to thrive in the midst of the green and even now servants were spreading out blankets and depositing baskets of food under the shading branches.

  The first guests were beginning to arrive, mostly the very young who had no doubt grown impatient with the adults’ leisurely pace and scampered ahead, but a few others were there as well—Kate and Evie among them.

  “We abandoned poor Sophie to the wolves,” Evie informed them as Mirabelle and Whit made their way into the field. “But Alex wouldn’t let her walk any faster, and I couldn’t stand another second of Miss Willory’s tittering.”

  “Do you know,” Kate said as they chose a blanket and sat, “that before I met her, I hadn’t known a person outside of a book could titter?”

  “It’s a rare skill,” Mirabelle replied. “With any luck, we’ll never meet another who’s acquired it.”

  Luck, as it happened, was on their side that morning. By the time Miss Willory arrived, the spaces on their two blankets had been filled. Perhaps not with their favorite guests, as the pompous Mrs. Jarles and silly Miss Sullivan numbered among them—the latter of whom received a very nasty look from the isolated Miss Willory—but it was a more pleasant group than might have been expected. Alex and Sophie failed to arrive in time to claim a space, but Miss Heins had.

  The topic on everyone’s mind, of course, was Mirabelle’s unfortunate—and, in her opinion, embarrassing—tumble down the hill and subsequent—and even more embarrassing—rescue.

  “It’s not like you to pay so little attention,” Kate commented. “It’s really more something I would do.”

  “Perhaps the hermit McAlistair was hiding behind a tree and snuck up behind to give you a push,” Miss Sullivan breathed. “I shall be terrified to go into the woods alone again.”

  Mirabelle couldn’t imagine the pampered Miss Sullivan ever having had the urge, or the occasion, to go into the woods alone, but knew better than to voice that opinion out loud.

  “McAlistair is no threat to you,” Whit assured the group. “And as he hasn’t seen fit to show himself to guests for the past eight years, I can’t imagine why he would suddenly choose to do so now.”

  “McAlistair isn’t even real,” Kate said with an eye roll. “Whit made him up years ago with the express purpose of frightening three poor unsuspecting little girls.”

  Whit snorted at the image. “The two of you were already out of the nursery,” he pointed out to Mirabelle and Evie. “And you—” he continued, looking at Kate, “—may have been a little girl, but you were neither poor nor unsuspecting. You’ve refused to believe it from the start.”

  “I was rather clever for my age,” Kate conceded.

  “If Whit had wanted to f…frighten us,” Evie said softly, her discomfort with being the center of attention manifesting in a stammer, “it seems to me he’d have made McAlistair more…well, frightening.”

  “Never say you believe in such rubbish, Miss Cole,” Mrs. Jarles admonished.

  Evie ducked her head and made a small movement of her shoulders. “I don’t c…care to discount things before they’ve been proven one way or the other.”

  “Which goes to prove one needn’t always grow out of their childhood cleverness,” Whit commented with a smile and a gentle tug on Kate’s bonnet ribbon.

  “The woods are safe enough,” he continued. “But I’ll have to ask you ladies to stay away from the far north pasture for the remainder of the party.”

  “That pasture is more than three miles away,” Kate murmured. “Why…Oh! Have the Rom returned, then?”

  “Just this morning, I was informed.”

  “Gypsies! Here?” Mrs. Jarles spun her head about as if expecting one to pop out from behind the nearest tree.

  “Not here,” Whit assured her. “Not at the moment.”

  “But on your land! You’ve allowed them on your land?”

  “I have, as I do every spring and fall when this particular clan passes through. As they keep to themselves, I see no harm in it.”

  “No harm in it?” Mrs. Jarles very nearly screeched. “We could all be murdered! Murdered in our own beds!”

  “Would you prefer the parlor?” Whit inquired with a politely interested tone.

  Mirabelle covered a surprised laugh with a cough, but even over the distraction she could clearly hear Mrs. Jarles wheeze out a loud breath.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Whit shrugged and reached for another piece of cake. “You seemed so set against the deed being performed in your bed, I thought you must have someplace else in mind.”

  “I…I…” Mrs. Jarles stammered and blinked rapidly.

  “Personally, I’d just as soon be asleep,” Whit said nonchalantly. “If one must be cut open by a drove of murderous gypsies, one would probably be better off being unaware of the whole nasty business.”

  Evie and Kate turned bright red with suppressed laughter, while Mirabelle debated whether she could contain her own mirth long enough to see how the conversation—such as it was—played out.

  Mrs. Jarles drew herself up as far as her position on the blanket, and sadly inconsequential height, allowed. “The indignity—” she began, and in such a way that Mirabelle was uncertain whether she was referring to Whit’s comments or her possible death at the h
ands of the gypsies.

  “Would hardly signify,” Whit assured her easily. “As you and everyone you know would be dead.”

  “Scattered about the house in their literal and figurative deathbeds of choice,” Evie spluttered out in one quick breath before turning a brighter shade of red and gaining her feet. “Excuse me, I need to…I need…”

  The remainder of her sentence was drowned out with a coughing fit and the sound of her quickly retreating steps.

  “I’ll just go see if she’s all right,” Kate mumbled and followed her friend’s retreat with a coughing fit of her own.

  “How odd,” Whit commented, biting into his cake. “I wonder if perhaps the cook used a heavier hand than usual with the spice. Between the marauding locals and poor food, I shan’t take offense, Mrs. Jarles, if you choose to cut your visit short.”

  He sent a wicked glance at Mirabelle. “You look a little peckish yourself, Mirabelle. Do you need to follow Kate and Evie?”

  Mirabelle bit her lip, hard, and shook her head. Then nodded, grabbed her cane, and made a stumbling escape.

  Mrs. Jarles would not have been surprised to discover that there was a man hiding in the cover of the trees. A man who was no stranger to murder. A man who knew all too well what it felt like to steal life from a sleeping form.

  But he hadn’t come today to kill.

  He’d come to watch, as he always watched.

  And to yearn, as he always yearned.

  No, Mrs. Jarles would not have been surprised to see the dark form crouching in the woods. She would have been very surprised, however, to learn that someone else knew the man was there.

  Eleven

  The picnic ran later than expected—as all successful outings do—and the sun was making its golden descent by the time Whit again helped Mirabelle into the curricle.

  “What are you looking for, Whit?”

  “Hmm?” Whit turned his attention from the trees and started the horses forward with a soft flick of the reins. “Nothing. Thought I saw a deer, a buck.”

  “Why didn’t you say something? The children would have loved to have seen a buck.”