by Rose Gordon
She grinned and a burble of laughter passed her pretty pink lips.
“I know I said I'd only help you cast once, but I mean it this time. One fish.”
She sobered. “Very well, one fish. But I get to net him.”
“And would you like to pull the hook out of his mouth, too?”
Emma’s face scrunched up in disgust and she adamantly shook her head. “No, thank you. You can do that. I just want to hook him and scoop him up with the net. You can take the hook out and throw him back.”
“All right, this time I'll have to hold onto your hands the whole time.”
She let him close his hands around hers and leaned her back against his broad chest.
Forcing his concentration on fishing, he brought their hands back and forward three times before letting the line go and watching the fly land in the stream. Praying they'd catch a fish—even if it was only a little minnow—on the first cast, he gently tugged on the line, hoping to entice a fish to bite their fly.
“Can I work the line?” she asked in a voice that made his resolve crumble.
“Of course.” He waited for her to take the fishing line before letting go.
She tugged on the line, and he shoved his hands in his pockets so he wouldn't yank the rod from her. “I’ve got one! I’ve got one!” Her sudden excitement surprised them both.
“Are you sure?” He tried to mask the doubt in his voice, but knew he hadn't done it well enough when she turned her hurt-filled eyes to him.
“I believe so, yes,” she said, inclining her chin an inch.
“Go get the net.” He reached for the pole. He tugged the line and realized what she thought was a fish on her line was actually a large hunk of weeds, or some other non-breathing object. “Emma, it's—”
“Don't worry, I'll get him,” she yelled, hurrying to the bank, waving the net high in the air like a battle flag. “Don't reel him in anymore, Marcus. I want to scoop him right out of the water.”
Why she wanted to do that, he had no idea. “I'll leave the line just where it is,” he said, trying to contain his laughter. She was going to be dreadfully disappointed when she learned her catch of the day wasn't what she thought it was.
Emma stepped ankle deep into the stream and leaned forward with the net. “He must be deeper than I thought. Just hold the pole still, and I'll pull up on the line.”
He bit the inside of his cheek. She wasn’t going to pull that line anywhere. It was stuck. “Emma, darling, I think we should let this one go.”
“Let him go?” Her eyes grew wide and the hand not holding the net went to her hip. “Marcus, this might be my only catch. Ever. I must net him.”
He ducked his head and grinned like an idiot. “He's all yours.”
She stepped further into the water until it came almost to her knees and tugged on the line again. “I need some help.”
“No, I don't think you do.”
“Yes, I’m fairly certain that I do,” she countered with an unfeminine grunt as she impatiently pulled on the line.
Marcus winked at her. “He's all yours.”
“But he's not cooperating.” She yanked on the line so hard he was certain it was about to break any second now. Her face was so full of admirable determination as she struggled to get that elusive fish he couldn’t help but feel a small twinge of compassion for her, knowing her struggles were in vain.
“Be careful or you'll snap it off.”
“Snap it off?” she repeated. Her hands instantly stopped pulling on the line and her worried eyes searched his.
He nodded. Truth was they'd have to snap the line off anyway. But letting her think she’d been fighting the catch of a lifetime and lost the battle rather than telling her the dull, disappointing truth wasn't going to hurt anything, so he stood quietly and watched as she bit her lower lip and struggled once again to yank her wayward fish up out of the water.
“All right, Emma, come out of the water before you get your stitches wet. We'll let him go and get another.”
She shook her head. “No, I've almost got him. I can feel it.”
“Oh? And is he squirming around a lot?” He couldn't resist asking.
She responded, but he couldn't make out her words through her shrieks and grunts.
He stepped closer to the water. “Emma, I think you should come out of the water.”
She looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Not until I get this fish. He's coming with me if I have to dive under the water and scoop him up myself.”
“I wouldn't do that.”
“But you’re not me,” she retorted, clutching the handle of the net so hard her knuckles and fingertips were turning white, then dunking it into the water, presumably trying to blindly net the fish.
Marcus stared at this beautiful and highly unusual woman he loved more than all others. Nobody else he'd ever met was stubborn enough to go this far to catch a phantom fish. Of course she didn't know that. Perhaps it was time for him to be honest. “Emma, there is no fish.”
She stilled. “Yes, there is. Just give me another minute and I'll get him.”
“No, you won't,” he said gently. “Your hook is caught in a tangle of heavy weeds or maybe even a log. I don't really know which, but whatever it’s stuck on isn’t breathing.”
Blinking at him and opening and shutting her mouth like the fish she'd been so eager to net, she dropped the net in the water. “You knew that this whole time?”
He nodded.
“And you still let me get in the water and act like a Bedlamite knowing it was all for naught.”
He nodded again. “If it helps, you're a very beautiful Bedlamite.”
She groaned and shook her head. “What am I going to do with you, Marcus?”
He grinned. “Snap off the line and let me help you catch another fish?”
She shook her head. “No, not today. I have to get inside and bathe before the girls' lessons.”
Disappointment flooded him. He needed to keep his distance and it was unwise to keep helping her fish, but knowing it was for the best did nothing to alleviate his desire to be near her. “I'll put this away if you'd like to go on inside.”
She nodded and reached down for what he assumed was the net. But when her hand came back up, it was filled with thick, slimy, dark brown mud. Without so much as a slight pause, she flung it all over him—his eyes growing wide with shock. “That was for making me look a fool,” she said sweetly.
He used his thumb and forefinger to wipe the mud from his lips and stared at her, determined to keep a straight face. “Is that so?” he drawled, walking closer to her. “Don't worry, Emma. I'm not going to sling mud on you. I'm just here to snap off the line.” He grabbed the clear line and gave it yank hard enough to break the fly off the end. He smiled at her worried face. It appeared as though she was rethinking her boldness.
“I must be off,” she announced airily, walking toward the bank.
His hand snaked out and caught her about the waist. “Before you go, could you hand me the net?”
“Of course.” She turned around to grab it and sighed. “Perhaps not.”
He hummed a merry tune and walked out of the water, pretending not to hear her. “I'll just be over here taking apart the poles.”
“Marcus, I can't reach the net.”
“Sure you can. Just lean over those low branches and grab it. It shouldn't be too tangled.”
With a slight groan, Emma leaned over and, like he knew she would, leaned over too far. Her chemise got caught in the low-lying cluster of branches which had an uncommonly large number of sticks and twigs growing off of them, almost like a nest of sorts. He stood and enjoyed the view of her derriere swishing as she twisted and turned, trying in vain to free herself but only managing to get more tangled.
“Marcus,” she hollered.
“Yes, sweet? Is something the matter?”
“Come help me.”
“I’m afraid I can’t come just now. I seem to be struggling with my
own problem.”
Emma grunted and wiggled again, only catching more of her gown on the spiky twigs and branches. “Put down the pole, Marcus, and help me.”
“What was that?” he called, winding the reel right next to his ear so he purposely couldn’t hear very well over all the clicking noise his reel was making from him spinning it.
“I said, you’d better get over here and help me out or I’ll—I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” he cut in. “I don’t believe there’s a single thing you can do to me in this situation. I, on the other hand, can stand here and enjoy this view all day if I wish.”
A sound of agitation accompanied her frenzied wiggles. “I mean it. I have to go teach Drake’s girls. Please come help me.”
“And what do I get?”
“Whatever you want. You can have whatever you want. Just come help me, please.”
“Oh, all right.” He dropped what was in his hands, and waded out to her. “You’re more tangled than I thought,” he mused as his eyes did a sweep of her snagged chemise.
“Just get me free,” she said through clenched teeth.
Snapping the sticks and pulling them off her as quickly as he could, Marcus murmured, “I’m sorry, Emma. I didn’t mean for you to get this stuck.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I meant for you to get stuck, just not quite like this,” he corrected. “I didn’t realize there were stickers here, too. If I’d known that, I would have waited until later to exact my revenge.” He pulled off what he thought was enough to free her without ripping her chemise or scratching her skin and put his hands on her hips. “All right, I’m going to lift you straight up. Try to stay still.” Very slowly, Marcus lifted her away from the tangle of branches and sticks.
“Thank you,” she mumbled, brushing a broken twig off her shoulder. Her back was still facing him, and he grabbed her shoulders to turn her around.
“Emma, I’m sorry,” he said honestly. “I hope you’re not hurt.”
“Just a scratch or two. I’m sure I’ll live.”
“Good.” He scratched his jaw and looked over her shoulder for the missing net.
“Is something amiss?” Emma asked, sidestepping him and walking toward the bank.
“Just looking for th—” His words stopped abruptly as a net full of thick weeds, mud, and who knew what other kind of sludge suddenly came down on his head.
“Thank you for taking me fishing,” Emma called, running out of the water as fast as her bare feet could take her.
Mud dripped from Marcus’ hair and down his face as he lifted the net-acting-as-hat off his head and grinned at her retreating form. She may have gotten the better of him this morning, but the day was still young.
Chapter 16
Emma spent the rest of the day peering over her shoulder. Marcus wasn’t one to let the mud incident of the morning pass, and she didn’t want him to. She was rather looking forward to whatever he thought was suitable punishment. Within reason, of course.
But he never sought retribution.
Not that day, nor the next, nor the day after that.
Several times throughout the rest of the week, she thought he was up to something only to discover he wasn’t. That was when she realized that was what he was about. He was trying to make her paranoid. Or was he? She sighed. She had no idea what he was or wasn’t up to.
Accepting help from Molly, she dressed in the blue gown Marcus had commissioned for her and went downstairs to rehearse once again for the dreaded musical performance they were to put on for Drake. Why Marcus insisted they do this, she’d never know. Those girls were awful. Even after an entire week of patient instruction, they were still awful.
Repressing a groan and contemplating sneaking a little sip of laudanum, she walked down the hall and to the stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, Marcus’ big frame leaned against the doorjamb of his room.
“Everything all right?”
He nodded and smiled. “Yes. The girls are in the kitchen with Cook making something special for Drake.”
Emma’s eyes narrowed. Marcus’ eyes were full of mischief. “You’re scheming something naughty, aren’t you?”
“Of course not.” He gestured for her to come closer.
She walked over to him and came up on her toes to plant a kiss on his lips. “All right, Marcus, what’s going on?”
“Nothing.” One corner of his scarred lips tipped up, belying his innocent statement.
“Mmmhmmm.” She pursed her lips and looked at him thoughtfully. “I know you’re scheming when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“What you’re doing right now.”
“And what am I doing right now?” He leaned closer to her and pressed his forehead against hers. “Furthermore, what, pray tell, would I be ‘scheming’ about anyway? You seem to have been a bit preoccupied with my plans these past few days.”
“Well, wouldn’t you be?” she demanded, trying not to laugh.
Marcus brought his hand up to cup her cheek and pulled his face away so he could look down on her. “What has you so out of sorts?” he asked soothingly, stroking her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb.
“Oh, stop the act,” she scolded playfully. “Something’s off here, I can feel it.”
He brought his hand back to her cheek to stroke it again. “What makes you so sure?”
“Because all week you’ve been—you’ve been—I don’t know, I can’t explain it. You’ve been something.”
Marcus chuckled. “Yes, I’ve been something all right.”
Emma groaned. “You know what I’m talking about. Quit playacting like you don’t. You’re up to some sort of mischief, Lord Sinclair. I may not know exactly what you’re about, but I do know you’ve something up your sleeve.”
Marcus’ hand dropped from her face and he used the fingers of one hand to unbutton the cuff of the other sleeve before looking up, then repeated the process with the other. “No, nothing up there except my arm.”
“You’re ridiculous,” she said with a snort. “You’ve been up to something since I dumped that mud on your head earlier this week. I just know it.”
“Don’t you think if that were true, I’d have already done something?” he wondered, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her close to him.
She looked up at his impassive face. “I suppose so.” She cocked her head to the side. “But I don’t know for sure. I mean, you’ve had several days and haven’t done anything. But you couldn’t, either. Not with the girls around all the time, that is.” She frowned. “Oh, I don’t know what to think of you right now, Marcus.”
He shrugged. “Think what you will.”
“You’re impossible. But I love you anyway.”
“Good,” he said before pressing a quick kiss on her lips. “After Patrick leaves with his clan this afternoon, I’d like to talk to you in the drawing room.”
Emma nodded and tried not to let her excitement show. Two days ago, Marcus had left before breakfast and hadn’t returned until well after dinner. Everyone in the house had been speculating on where he’d gone and what he’d gone for. The most common opinion was that he’d made a trip to London to select a betrothal ring. Emma wanted to ask him about it, but assumed he wanted to keep it a surprise and did her best to hold in her excitement. But now that the time was so close, she could hardly contain herself.
“Miss Green, Lord Sinclair, we’re ready for you,” Celia called, walking down to the hall to them.
Marcus let go of Emma’s waist and took out his pocket watch. “You’re papa should be here in fifteen minutes. Let’s go get ready for him.”
Celia giggled and grabbed both Emma’s and Marcus’ hands. The trio walked down the hall and into the drawing room where the other two girls were already waiting. Four chairs had been set up in a semicircle with another chair about ten feet away facing the small cluster of chairs.
“Was all this necessary?” Emma asked Marcus.
&
nbsp; “Absolutely,” he said with an excited nod. “Now, girls, take your seats and let’s get ready for when your papa gets here.”
The three girls took their seats and grabbed the instruments they had finally decided upon. One had an out of tune three-stringed banjo his father had brought home for Olivia after traveling to Africa, another had a cracked flute, and the last piece to this band was a tambourine. At least Marcus, who had what appeared to be the loudest instrument, could actually play, and with any luck, he could drown out the other three. Once again Emma was in charge of keeping beat by clapping her hands, just like every day during practice.
“Presenting his lordship, Viscount Drakely,” Chapman said from the doorway, an unusual look on his face.
Drake waltzed in and waved to his three girls who were bouncing in their seats at seeing him. They stood up to greet him, and Marcus put on the sternest face he could and told them to stay seated.
Emma smiled. He was truly intent on torturing poor Drake.
“All right, Miss Green, we’re ready when you are.”
Emma took her place behind the quartet to set the beat and count them off.
Marcus reached for her wrist. “Not so fast. You’re the conductor. You need to be in front conducting.”
“I think not,” she said with a horrified glance at Drake. She wasn’t going to stand with her bottom directly in front of him and conduct those four while they played horrible music.
“What do you think, girls? Shouldn’t Miss Green stand in front and conduct?” Marcus asked, grinning when the three girls squealed in agreement.
Resigned, Emma sighed before murmuring a quick apology to Drake then took her spot in front of the musicians, ready to conduct. Clapping her hands together in a somewhat steady beat, she said, “One, and two, and here we go now.”
As soon as the word “now” escaped Emma’s lips, four very eager musicians began tooting, strumming, banging, or blowing their instruments, resulting in an outrageous amount of noise filling the air and causing anything that wasn’t nailed down to bang and clatter, only adding to the fracas.
