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Never Kiss a Laird

Page 2

by Byrnes, Tess


  The older woman in grey glanced over, shaking her head slowly, and continued to composedly cord the trunk in place, where the groom had set it on the back of the carriage. The groom moved to the head of the team, apparently deaf to the young woman.

  Hugh, perplexed and intrigued by the lovely young woman railing at him, replied, “I had no intention of assaulting your person, but surely the team was too strong for you to control.”

  “I was doing just fine, I thank you,” she returned icily. Taking a deep breath, the young woman made a valiant effort to swallow her rage. She wrapped her arms about herself, shivering slightly in the frigid wind.

  Hugh could not repress a cynical smile at this statement, but he relented. “My apologies, ma’am,” he bowed.

  She nodded a grudging acceptance of his apology.

  “If you are desirous of being of use, perhaps you would be so good as to tell us how far we are from the village of Thorne, sir,” she snapped after a moment.

  “Certainly,” Hugh replied. “You need only follow this road for another five miles and you will be there.” He scrutinized his companion. She was obviously genteel, her accent was cultured, and her cloak was of excellent cut and cloth, her boots elegantly fashioned. Hugh had purchased just such a pair of kid gloves as she wore for the young daughter of an acquaintance and knew they cost every penny of four pounds. The carriage was a good one, and the girl was accompanied by a groom and a maid. There was no denying she was a genteel young beauty, and she had a temper to boot. His interest definitely piqued, Hugh continued, “Are you visiting someone in the neighborhood?”

  Instead of dropping her gaze under his inspection, the young woman lifted her chin and gave him back his stare. “I cannot imagine that you are interested in our actions, sir,” she said repressively.

  “Why I am always interested in visitors to this part of the country,” Hugh assured her innocently.

  The young woman eyed him with disfavor. “I am not visiting anyone, sir. I thank you for your assistance, even though we didn’t really require it. Good-bye.”

  Her maid tutted at her mistress’s rude behavior, but opened the carriage door and stood aside as the irate young lady climbed in. The older woman looked at Hugh before she followed suit, and once she was seated in the vehicle leaned out and said, “I assure, you sir, we are very grateful for your aid.”

  Hugh bowed from the waist, and watched as the groom climbed onto the box, chirruped to the team, and the equipage moved down the road an out of sight.

  “How very unusual,” he murmured, climbing back into the saddle. He urged Rufus into a trot, his feeling of boredom gone. The girl must be staying with someone locally, and he determined to pay a few morning calls, and find out which one.

  “You were very rude to that gentleman, Miss Sally,”

  Lady Sarah Denham, Sally to her friends and family, chuckled unrepentantly. “I was, wasn’t I?” she agreed. “He made me as mad as fire, shoving me out of the way as if I were a sack of potatoes or something.”

  Her long-suffering maid merely shook her head. “Your temper is exactly what has gotten us in this situation, Miss, and you might consider trying to tamp it down a bit.”

  Sally nodded contritely. “I know you are right, Millie.” She took her maid’s hand and squeezed it gently. “I’ll try harder.” She looked out the window at the green rolling hills they traveled through. They passed first one small holding and then another and after a few more miles, the village of Thorne came into view. Following their written directions, the groom passed through the village, and continued for three more miles until a cross roads was reached. He swung the carriage to the left, and after another mile, a sign post indicated a turn-off. The equipage took the turn-off, and at the end of a long, overgrown carriage way, the groom stopped the team, and jumped down from the box.

  Sally could not wait for him, but threw open the door herself and sprang out. Before her stood a two-story stone cottage with mullioned windows that reflected back the harsh winter sunshine. Sally trod up the path, and pushed against the heavy wooden door.

  It swung open easily and noiselessly, and despite herself Sally laughed. She turned to her maid with her quick smile. “I was expecting it to squeak ominously. How disappointing!”

  Her maid shook her head. “On the contrary, Miss Sally, it is reassuring to find the place in decent repair.”

  Sally crossed the threshold and found herself in a dingy hallway. To her left, there was a small sitting room, furnished simply but quite acceptably. On the right of the hall was a dining room, and straight back was a door that led to the kitchens. The small hallway also included a staircase that led to the upper level where, if the renter’s agreement was correct, there would be chambers for herself and her maid, and a bath chamber. Miles, her groom, would occupy the room off the kitchen. Sally looked at the sparsely furnished rooms, and hoped that she had brought everything she would need. The trunks that threatened the balance of the carriage had been packed perforce surreptitiously, and with no very clear idea of what the little group of travelers would need.

  Sally turned in a slow circle, and found herself facing the disapproving face of her maid. “Don’t frown, Millie,” she exclaimed reassuringly, coming forward to pull Millie into the hallway. “This will do very well.”

  Millie sniffed, and straightened her shoulders. “We shall do, Miss,” she agreed stolidly. “But I can’t help wondering if you’ve made the right choice.”

  “I made the only choice,” Sally assured her, thinking back over the series of events that had landed her in a small, rented cottage in the wilds of Scotland.

  It had all started on a stormy night, two months before. Sally had been spending the fall, along with her parents and the youngest of her brothers at Denham Park, their principal seat, preparing for the Season, and Sally’s come-out. One evening, while her parents attended what promised to be a very dull party at a neighboring house, Sally had cried off and gone instead to visit with her best friend. On the drive home, the barouche had come to a lurching stop, almost throwing Sally from her seat.

  A few moments later her groom, Miles, pulled the door open. “I’m afraid Beau has injured his fore-leg, Miss Sally. He must have stepped into a rabbit-hole or summat, but I swear I never saw a thing until he pulled up lame.”

  Sally sprang from the barouche, and stood watching the groom’s skillful examination of the horse’s leg. A bitter wind whistled through the trees, whipping the blue kerseymere cloak around her slim form huddled against the cold.

  “I think it’s just a strain, Miss,” the groom called out, his voice barely audible over the blowing wind. As the horse quieted under the groom’s skillful handling, the slim girl in the blue cloak stepped forward to place a calming hand on the steed’s silky neck.

  “There, Beau,” she crooned soothingly, “There’s a good boy.” The animal, seeming to respond to her voice, turned and lowered his head, pushing a velvet nose into her side, and a low, musical laugh broke from the girl.

  The groom ran expert hands over the horse’s slim legs, and then heaved a heartfelt sigh.

  “I don’t like the feel of this fetlock, Miss, but nothing is broken.”

  “Thank God, Miles,” was the earnest reply. “My father will not be best pleased as it is, but a serious injury to Beau and we would have really been in the suds!”

  ”Which to my mind is exactly where we are, Miss Sally.”

  Sarah Denham cast a rueful glance at the groom who had set her upon her first horse when she was only four years of age. “It could be considerably better, Miles, I’ll grant you. But the horse is mostly unhurt, as are we. And we are not a mile from the village.” The evening sky was darkening fast, and as she pulled the cloak more firmly around her shoulders, Sally noticed the dark clouds that were starting to move across the inky sky. She realized that she was shivering violently; it was cold enough for snow.

  “I shall perish from the cold if I stand here any longer,” she informed he
r groom, stamping her small feet in their kid boots in an attempt to keep warm.

  “Miss, I dare not set you on Beau’s back with that fetlock swelling, but I can tie him up here and walk back with you to the Saracen’s Head. It’s more than five miles to the Manor from where we stand, and you’d be frozen long before we got there, but it’s just a step back to the village,” Miles offered.

  “I would not have you leave him here for anything!” the redoubtable Sally insisted. “I am more than capable of walking less than a mile back to the village myself. And in turn, you can send the gig for me once you get back to the Manor. If you leave Beau standing here in this weather his leg will stiffen.”

  “I don’t know, Miss,” Miles hesitated between the desire to get the horse back safely, which his Master would expect, and the knowledge that his Mistress would be wroth with him for letting Miss Denham walk through the gathering gloom to the Posting House alone. The knowledge that Lord Denham’s anger would take a more painful and physical form than that of his lady, made up his mind for him. “Right, Miss. As soon as I get back to the Manor I’ll send Tom for you in the gig.”

  Sally gave Beau one last pat, and then turned in the direction of the village. The sky was midnight blue, and the fast-gathering clouds were not yet obscuring the myriad bright stars. A full moon cast a glow over the country lane. Long shadows fell across the path, and Sally could hear rustling in the bushes, as small nocturnal animals foraged and hunted. Pulling her hood securely over her bright curls, she crossed her arms against the harsh wind and trod purposefully back towards the village and the Saracen’s Head. She could have walked this path blindfolded, she thought with a smile, having spent her entire youth playing in this countryside. As the youngest of three children, and the only girl among them, Sally had tagged after her brothers and their friends, begging to be allowed to be included in their games. She was usually allowed the role of fetching the cricket ball, or creating a diversion while they engaged in some prank.

  Twenty minutes later, with hands and feet thoroughly chilled, Sally was greatly relieved to see the lights of the posting house ahead. The moon had more than once passed behind a dark cloud, forcing her to slow down to avoid tripping, and the short walk had taken her longer than she had expected. Her pace quickened, and as she approached the front door she looked around the yard to see if she recognized any of the carriages. It was too much to hope that one of the local gentry might be here and able to transport her to Denham Park, she thought. And indeed, the only conveyance in the yard was the cart that Barrow used when he was hired occasionally as a carrier. As she stood there scanning the yard, the first small hard snowflakes started to fall, and, shivering violently in her thin cloak, Sarah hurried toward the low building.

  “Barrow?” she called as she pushed the door open and entered the warm musty hallway. She stood for a moment, grateful for the warmth, listening to the sounds of someone banging pots around in the recesses of the kitchen. A door swung open and a short, stout man in knee breeches and a stained white apron toddled down the hallway. He stopped in surprise as he recognized the slim girl who stood in his doorway.

  “Miss Denham?” he exclaimed in tones of surprise. “I didn’t even hear your carriage approach.” He glanced around expectantly. “You’re never here alone, Miss?”

  “I am, Barrow,” Sally informed him ruefully. “Beau strained his fetlock and cannot pull the barouche. Miles is walking him back to Denham Park, and will send Tom for me.” She pulled off her tan york gloves as she spoke, and rubbed her ice-cold fingers together briskly.

  “Eh, Miss, but you do look chilled.” Barrow hesitated for a moment, trying to decide what hospitality to offer a single female, even one he had known since she was a child.

  “I am, Barrow, to the bone,” Sally smiled, her teeth chattering slightly. “May I stay by your fire until Tom comes for me in the gig?”

  “Certainly, Miss,” Barrow assured her making a quick decision. The Denhams were the most important family in the neighborhood, and he would not turn their only daughter away on a night like this. In fact there might be some gelt in it for him from a grateful father. “There’s not anyone likely to come in tonight, with the snow beginning to fall. You’ll be snug in the taproom, and I’ll bring you a glass of hot cider to warm you.”

  “That would be heavenly, Barrow,” Sally sighed gratefully. She passed through the heavy oaken door held open for her, into a low-ceilinged room. A long table surrounded by benches, a pair of horsehair chairs and a lamp that was smoking slightly met her eyes, but she was drawn to the smoldering fire in the grate. Barrow threw several pieces of firewood onto the embers, and flames sprang to life.

  “There you are, Miss Denham. I’ll be back with that hot drink for you.”

  Sally pushed the blue kerseymere hood back and shook out her bright red-gold curls. She glanced in the heavy mirror that hung over the fireplace. Her reflection showed a tall, slim girl with a profusion of wind-blown curls. Even a nose red-tipped from the cold could not disguise her delicate beauty. As the result of a lifetime of being referred to by her brothers as carrots, Sally, however, had no love for her red-gold hair. While the neighborhood beaus composed poems referring to her as ‘ethereal’ and ‘nymph-like’, Sally just shook her head and ignored them. She would have much rather have been a sturdier girl, so she could have given her brothers a run for their money in their many cricket games.

  A sharp, tingly feeling was just starting to return to her fingers and toes when Barrow returned with a pitcher of hot cider. She wrapped her hands gratefully around the mug he poured out for her, and sank into one of the horsehair chairs.

  “Ahh, Barrow, I just might survive after all,” she sighed contentedly, sipping at the warm, fragrant liquid.

  “Not once your Papa finds out that you’re alone in my taproom at ten of the clock in the evening,” Barrow commented cynically as he stoked up the fire.

  “With a bit of luck that knowledge will remain between the two of us,” Sally shuddered at the thought of her very careful Papa’s reaction to her current situation. “If Tom makes haste with the gig, I should be home long before Mama and Papa return from the Cartherson’s rout party.”

  “If they don’t leave early with the snow and all,” her Job’s comforter continued in his pessimistic strain.

  “Oh, Barrow,” Sally exclaimed on a delicious peal of laughter. “I am finally warm for the first time all night, and I won’t allow such thoughts to intrude. You must have duties to attend to, so I will just sit here with this revivifying drink until Tom arrives.”

  “Yes, Miss,” Barrow took his cue and headed for the doorway. “As you wish. I’ve a large party arriving in the morning, so I wouldn’t mind getting back to my work. Safe passage home, Miss Sally.” And with those words, the stout man bustled back towards the kitchen.

  Sally took another sip of her cider and watched the dancing flames in the fireplace. The warmth seeped back into her bones, and with a contented sigh, Sally pulled the cloak around her, and tucked her feet up under her on the chair.

  “I will just savor this moment,” she told herself. “And not think about the moment when I face my father with the tale of his favorite horse’s injury.”

  It seemed like mere moments later when Sally opened her eyes. She stretched cramped, cold limbs, and realized that the fire was now just cold ash. Wintry sunlight streamed in through a dusty window.

  “Oh, no,” Sally started up guiltily. “Heavens, what time is it?” She stood and straightened her dress, put a hasty hand up to her hair and grabbed up her cloak. As she strode briskly towards the door, she became aware of the sounds of a horse-drawn vehicle pulling into the posting yard.

  “Tom and the gig!” she thought with relief. Miles must have run into trouble, to be so delayed in sending Tom, she worried, fearing that Beau must have been seriously injured after all. Footsteps sounded in the hallway and a short moment later the door was thrown open. Framed in the doorway stood a very handsome
young man, a many-caped greatcoat dusted with snowflakes flung back from his broad shoulders. He held a curly brimmed beaver hat, a cane and a pair of gloves in one hand. His blonde hair was in disarray from the weather, and although his nose was red from the cold, it was also straight, beautiful in profile, and his blue eyes had caused many a young girl to wish that he would look at her much as he was now regarding Sally. A pleased and surprised smile was curling his shapely lips.

  “Miss Sarah Denham!” he exclaimed in surprise. His voice was deep, and held a note of mischief. “Were you waiting for me?” He looked around the room in an exaggerated pantomime, as if looking for her attendants. “And all alone? How delightful!”

  Sally’s eyes darkened. “Good morning, Mr. Atherly,” she said coldly, uncomfortably aware of her tousled hair and crumpled dress.

  “But you haven’t answered my question,” he chided her gently, advancing into the room and slipping his many-caped greatcoat from his shoulders. He tossed this remarkable garment onto a bench, and stood before her in his superbly fitted long-tailed coat of superfine, pale yellow pantaloons and shiny Hessian boots. But instead of looking at Sally, his eyes strayed to the heavy mirror over the fireplace, and he absently brushed his hair back into order, and put a hand up to straighten a cravat in slight disarray.

  Sally surveyed this self-absorption with pursed lips. She had known Simon Atherly her whole life, and had watched him grow from a selfish young boy into an entirely self-centered young man. Her older brothers had admired him for his natural athleticism, and horsemanship. He was extraordinarily handsome, and most of the girls in the neighborhood were madly in love with him. As Sally watched him carefully adjusting his cravat, entirely absorbed with his own reflection, her lip curled and she was reminded again of why she had never succumbed to his admittedly very attractive physical attributes.

  Simon looked away from his compelling reflection, caught the look of derision in Sally’s eyes, and burst out laughing. “Well? Would you have me present myself to you in disorder?” he enquired, shooting her a look of impish appeal through his thick lashes.

 

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