He withdrew his hand and coins emerged, curled into the puppet’s body. Mr. Nutbrown shoved the jester and the coins toward her. “For you, Miss Langley.”
She turned over her palm. The money landed with a jingle. Fingering through it, she calculated. Six. Seven. Eight. All that he owed for rent. But why now? Why come back to repay her?
Her brows rose. “Well, I’d say your debt is completely paid off. Thank you.”
“But there’s more where that came from.” The puppet bobbed. “Mr. Nutbrown would like you to share in the riches he’s found.”
She studied his face, wishing she owned the observation skills of Mr. Morton. Whatever Mr. Nutbrown had in mind, it couldn’t be good. The man was a consummate slacker. There was no honest way he could’ve come up with such an amount of money, let alone legitimately offer her a share. She shook her head. “Oh, I really don’t think—”
“Ah-ah-ah! One should always listen to the knocking of opportunity.” Mr. Nutbrown’s arm shot out, and he rapped the jester’s head against the barn door.
Johanna frowned, teetering on the fine edge of how to dismiss the fellow without engaging him.
The puppet popped back into her face. “We would like to invite you to a business meeting this afternoon.”
Business? Right. Likely some shady affair. And if not, something absurd. She glanced at the sky. Already the sun crept on an upward arc. “I am sorry, sir, but I have my own business to attend. If you’ll excuse me.”
The puppet thwacked on the door again. Louder. Longer. Was the man not nervous about cracking the head of his precious little jester?
She sighed, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. Clearly, there’d be no putting him off. “Very well, Mr. Nutbrown. Go on.”
His puppet jerked away from the door, facing her. “Won’t take but an hour of your time later this afternoon, and it pays five guineas.”
Five guineas! Combined with what he’d just given her, that would go a long way toward her upcoming rent payment. At that rate, she might even be able to pay back Mr. Morton. Still, this was Mr. Nutbrown. And a puppet. She looked past the jester, into the man’s eyes. “That seems an inordinate amount for attending a business meeting for a mere hour. What else is required?”
The puppet’s head shot to Mr. Nutbrown’s face. “You were right! She is interested.” Mr. Nutbrown smiled, broadly, his elastic lips hinting of something more than satisfaction. Pride? Possibly. But with somewhat of a darker shade. Something sinister.
Before she could think more on it, the jester’s body waved in front of her. “Here’s the long and short of it. You won’t actually be attending the meeting. Too boorish for a lady such as yourself. No, no. All you need do is stand outside. Above the meeting, actually. Next to a small hole.”
La! And that would pay five guineas? She should’ve known. Why had she wasted her time? She tucked the money he’d given her into a pocket. “As usual, sir, this conversation is taking a ridiculous turn. I bid you good day.”
Mr. Nutbrown planted himself between her and the barn door.
“Oh, very well,” she breathed out. “Finish your proposition so that I may be on my way.”
“As Mr. Nutbrown has said, miss, all you need do is wait outside for the duration of the meeting. If anyone comes near, you simply drop a pebble down the hole and walk away.”
She smirked. Of course. A known smuggling trick. That’s where this instant money had come from. Slowly, her lips flattened. It would be easy, though, and paid the same amount she’d likely earn working for Tanny Needler—but without the pain.
Poor girl. Poor girl. Poor girl. The mourning dove’s wail crawled into the tiny crack of indecision. Should she? It’s not like she’d be committing a crime.
But the smugglers would.
Folding her arms, she set her jaw. “What you choose to do is your own business. I prefer to come by my money honestly, or not at all. Good day to you, sir.”
The ludicrous puppet shot toward the barn wall, on his way to what appeared to be a magnificent knocking session.
Johanna flung out her arm, trapping the little jester’s head against the wood. Mr. Nutbrown’s eyes widened, followed by a sharp intake of breath.
She leaned toward him, emphasizing each word. “I said good day.”
Removing her hand, she retreated a step. The puppet dashed for cover inside Mr. Nutbrown’s fine coat. The puppeteer straightened his sleeves, his lapel, and finally gave each shoulder a brisk brushing off. A peacock couldn’t have looked more ruffled of feather. At last, he pivoted and stalked off.
Johanna watched the silly man until he disappeared through the gate in the side of the wall, her shoulders sinking with each of his steps. That would have been easy money, much easier than what she was about to undertake. But it wouldn’t have been honest.
Would it?
She took a step toward the gate. It wasn’t like she’d be doing any actual smuggling herself. Besides, she didn’t really know if smugglers were involved. Maybe she should have at least checked further into it.
Sweet mercy. What was she thinking?
She turned her back on the temptation and bent to heave the broken barn door. Using every muscle, she lifted. She groaned. She sweated and strained and even jiggled. The door did not budge. Not a smidgeon.
Poor girl. Poor girl. Poor girl.
Frustration nearly choked her. “Be quiet!”
“I’ve not said anything yet.”
A deep voice wrapped around her from behind, and she shot to her feet.
Though she stood at full height, Mr. Morton smiled down into her face, so imposing was his figure—and so near that on the inhale, she smelled his freshly washed scent of sandalwood and strength. His gaze held her, pulling her close without any outward movement. How could the man command such a thing without a word?
“Oh, Mr. Morton, I didn’t mean … I mean, I didn’t … I wasn’t—” She forced her mouth shut, well aware she sounded more preposterous than Mr. Nutbrown. When Alexander Morton stood this near, combining words was impossible—yet wholly necessary. She’d hoped to corner him this morn for a bit of a chewing out over his teaching Thomas cards the day before.
She lifted her chin. “Actually I was hoping to run into you this morning.”
“Are you?” Sunshine sparkled brilliant in the twinkle of his eyes.
Eyes she shouldn’t be so admiring of. She frowned. “Yes, I was hoping for a few words with you. I would appreciate it in the future if you would refrain from showing Thomas any more card games. Gambling is not a virtue.”
“I beg to differ.”
Her jaw dropped, so stunning the conviction of his claim. “But there is nothing honest about it. You may wish to lose your money in such a fashion, but pray do not teach Thomas to do the same.”
“While I yield to your point that gaming can and oft’ times is dangerous for those lured by money, at the same time, it is valuable in teaching control and self-discipline—something I think we can both agree Thomas would benefit from. As in all of life, Miss Langley, no risk, no gain, right? The key is to never wager something you cannot afford to lose.” The blue in his eyes danced a merry jig. “Now then, would you like more help with the barn door?”
Her mouth dried to sawdust, and suddenly she could drink two full mugs of cider. Not only had the man whittled her mountain-sized concerns over gambling to naught but an anthill, he did it all with a grin and a glimmer. The knack he possessed for calming her worries was positively breathtaking.
And so was the man. She clenched her hands to keep from fanning herself as she stared at him. No one should look this fine so early in the day. How could she help but notice the slope of his nose, the shape of his lips? His clean-shaven jaw was a contradiction of smoothness and hard lines. His shoulders were wide enough to block out the sun. He gazed at her as if she were the only one in the world that mattered. Her. Johanna Langley. She no longer heard the keening of the mourning dove, only the thrumming of her pulse in
her ears.
“—the door?”
A jolt shot through her, and she licked her lips. How long had he been speaking? “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I said”—he cocked his head, his eyes looking into hers—“did you want to continue your hand-to-hand combat, or shall I assist you with the door?”
“Oh, I …” She swallowed. What was wrong with her this morning? This man was a patron. She, an innkeeper. This was business, nothing more. “Yes, truly, I wouldn’t mind your help. I tried to lift it exactly as you did last time, but apparently I’m doing something wrong.”
“Indeed.” He laughed. “Remember what I said?”
Faith! She could barely remember to breathe. Retreating a few steps from his invisible pull, she scoured every memory she owned. Aah, yes. She smiled up into his face, satisfied that her faulty senses had returned to normal. “Assess the situation first. The easiest way to manage a difficulty is to think before acting.”
His grin widened. “I am pleased you remembered, but did you understand?”
“Of course, I—”
He stalked away before she finished speaking.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
He held up a hand as he bypassed the stuck door and strode beyond, to the smaller side door at the other end of the barn. Shoving it open with his shoulder, he vanished for a moment. A few scrapes and a knocking noise later, he shoved open the bay door from the inside, grasping a hay rake in one hand.
Johanna frowned. How had he known to do that?
His laughter once again rang out, warm as the early summer morn. “Don’t look so vexed. You merely forgot to assess. The wheels hadn’t fallen from the track this time. This rake had toppled over on the inside, keeping the door from opening. Tell me, Miss Langley, what will you do when I am no longer here to save you in such situations?”
A sudden sadness tightened her throat. Of course the man would leave when he concluded his business in Dover, but a dark knowledge that the Blue Hedge Inn would no longer be as merry settled deep in her chest. She forced a pleasant tone to her voice, but even in the trying, it came out as soulful as the mourning dove’s cry. “I suppose I shall continue the battle of the barn door on my own, yet I thank you for helping me today.”
He shrugged. “My pleasure.”
“But why? Why take such pleasure in helping my family and me so often?” The questions flew out before she could snatch them back, and she slapped her fingers against her lips. For shame. No wonder he spent his time at the viscount’s, surrounded by ladies who likely weren’t as bold.
Alex eased the rake against the outside of the barn wall, well away from the door. Sunlight pooled on his shoulders as he strode to stand in front of her, making him appear a being of light. “As I’ve said, you’re good people. Is that so hard to believe?”
She lowered her hand from her mouth. Mam and Thomas—mostly—were good, but herself? No, she’d never believe that. Lifting her face, she met his stare. “Surely there’s more to it. There are plenty of good people in the world. Why us in particular?”
“Your brother reminds me of myself when I was a lad. Your mother, well, my own would be about her age now, had she lived. And as for you …” He leaned toward her, his hand reaching toward her cheek. The air between them charged like the sizzle before a lightning strike.
If she moved, just a little, she’d feel the strength of this man against her skin. His warmth. His touch. Is that what she wanted? Her breath hitched with a sudden realization. She did. More than anything. To lean into his embrace and forget debt and want and loneliness.
A whinny carried from inside the barn, pulling her back to the stark reality of an aging mare, a rickety pony cart, and the upcoming trek to Tanny Needler’s—a fate the perfectly tailored Mr. Morton would have no experience with. Of course he wasn’t interested in her. Not like that. He was a gentleman—and she was as outlandish as Mr. Nutbrown.
She retreated a step. “Let me guess, I remind you of your sister.”
He shook his head. “I don’t have a sister, though I would have liked one as attentive as you. Thomas is fortunate. What you have here, with your mother and brother, your strong ties … would that I’d have known such as a lad.”
“Surely you and your father share such a bond, else he would not trust you to manage his winery.”
“My father?” A shadow darkened his face, though the sun went unchallenged in a cloud-free sky. “Of course.”
Aah. Maybe she didn’t corner the market on loneliness, for there was a hollow edge to his voice. Clearly the man missed his family. “How long has it been since you’ve been home?”
“I scarcely know what home is anymore.” His voice faded for a moment, then picked up, as intense as the blue in his eyes. “But trust me when I say I am in no hurry to go back.”
Her lips parted as she struggled for air. Surely he didn’t mean because of her.
But everything in her wished that he did.
The early summer sun burned Alex’s back, scorching the fabric of his dress coat. Was it the sun that heated him—or the fire in Johanna’s gaze? Grace and mercy! He could get lost in those eyes. Dive in. Swim deep. Never surface for air. Johanna stood so close, so vulnerable, his bones ached to sweep her up in his arms, abandon duty and honor, all that was right and good.
But then he’d be no better than the brigands he brought to justice. And honestly, was he? To have offered for one woman, and fraudulently at that, yet stand here longing for another?
He withdrew a step, yet couldn’t resist the temptation to make her cheeks deepen in colour. “Are you warm, Miss Langley? You look a bit flushed.”
Her fingertips flew to her face. Too late. Scarlet spread well past what her gloves could cover.
Laughter welled up from his belly. “You are altogether too much fun to tease.”
The colour crept down her neck, but in the space of a blink, before mortification gave way to anger, he’d seen it. A flash of desire. For him. What was he to do with that? He didn’t have time for a woman, a relationship, a family. Blast! Why did he even entertain such thoughts whenever she was near?
And what would flash in Johanna’s eyes when she heard he was betrothed to Louisa Coburn? The urge to tell Johanna the truth here and now welled to his lips, but he pressed them tight. She abhorred liars—and he was the biggest one of all.
He nodded toward the gaping barn door, shaking free of such an unprofitable line of thinking. He could no more marry Johanna Langley than he would Louisa Coburn. “I assume you’re in need of a certain pony cart?”
“Please, don’t trouble yourself any further.” She marched past him.
He followed. “I believe we’ve had this conversation before. Do we really need to repeat it?”
She stopped at the cart and pivoted, gradations of light accentuating every curve. “You are a most determined man.”
And you are most beautiful. He bit back the sentiment before it launched from his tongue. “You make it sound as if that’s a crime.”
“I can see there’ll be no putting you off.” She swept a hand toward the little mare. “Be my guest.”
He went through the same motions as a few days before, though familiar now with the lay of the stable, his movements were more rote than anything.
Johanna watched, quietly at first, then she finally broke the silence. “Our friend Mr. Nutbrown was here, just a bit ago.”
“Was he, now?” Alex looked up from checking Posey’s buckles. “For what reason?”
“He paid all his back rent.”
Alex straightened. “I wonder who suddenly sprouted morals, him or his puppet?”
A sweet smile lifted Johanna’s lips. “Neither. I suspect it was naught but an enticement to ensnare me in his latest wealth-gathering scheme.”
Next to him, the horse snorted. Alex stifled one of his own. “Did it work?”
“Really, Mr. Morton, do I look like I’d join a band of smugglers?”
&
nbsp; Standing there, caught in a web of sun rays reaching in from all angles, she looked more an angel than a woman. He bent, finishing up the buckles on Posey. Better that than gaping at her like a lovesick sailor. “What makes you think that’s his game now?”
“Only smugglers and highwaymen fear gathering together without aid of a lookout.”
Satisfied with the tightness of the harness, he faced her. “And when was this gathering to be?”
“This afternoon.”
“Do you know where?” Not that he had the time nor inclination to attend, still, intelligence was power—and one never knew when power must be wielded.
An endearing little wrinkle creased her brow. “I did not entertain the idea, and so did not ask questions, unlike you.”
“Lives are won and lost in details, Miss Langley. You’d do well to remember that.”
Her mouth opened, but the stomp of feet entering the barn cut her off. He wheeled about. Five men—large men—blocked the entry.
One stepped forward. “You Morton? Alexander Morton?”
“I am.” As he answered, he recalculated the paces it took to reach the side door. Ten. Could he make it before they flanked him?
“What is this about?” Fear wobbled in Johanna’s voice.
And stopped him cold. If he made a run for it, would the men give chase—or leave one behind to torment her?
Two of the brutes stalked forward, one pulling out a pair of wrist shackles from inside his great coat. Alex’s muscles tensed. Flight having been abandoned, he was left with but two choices. Fight or submit.
Johanna stepped next to him, the fabric of her skirt shivering around her. “Mr. Morton?”
His name from her lips sounded jagged. He glanced down at her and—bah! A fight with these men, with her standing so close, would put her in danger.
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