by Darcy Burke
Fox glanced at the bank where the children were collected and then to the opposite shore. It would be easier to carry her from the water on the shallow side. “I’m going to take you to the other bank. Just hold on to my arm.” He positioned her on her back and secured his right arm across her chest and under her arms. She clung to his arm with the strength of five children. As he swam, he saw Miranda circuiting the pond to meet them on the other bank.
His feet met the ground. He swept Clara into his arms and walked the last several feet.
“Mrs. Gates!” Miranda waved her arms wildly. Fox turned to see the older woman hurrying along the side of the pond with a bundle of toweling.
Nearly to shore, Fox struck something solid. Pain sliced into his left ankle and he slipped. Clara shrieked, Miranda dove forward to catch her, and he fell to his knees.
Miranda, now calf-deep in water, clutched Clara before directing her concerned gaze at Fox. “Are you all right?”
Fox nodded despite the excruciating pain in his leg. Mrs. Gates rushed to the edge of the water. Miranda waded out with Clara and delivered her to the fussing headmistress who wrapped the small child in a blanket. “Good heavens, Fox. Thank the Lord you heard them.”
Miranda held out her hand to him. Fox accepted her solicitation and got to his feet. They made their way to dry land, her fingers never leaving his.
She pointed to the ground and, much to his disappointment, dropped his hand. “Sit.” Then she turned to Mrs. Gates. “Go ahead and take Clara back to the manor. I’ll help Fox.”
Fox sat down next to where Mrs. Gates had dropped the toweling. The headmistress’s face was drawn, her expression somewhere between fury and extreme relief. She glanced at Fox’s ankle. “I’ll see about a poultice for the cut on your leg.” Still clutching Clara to her chest, Mrs. Gates hurried away, pausing only to herd the rest of the children toward the house.
Miranda knelt beside him. “Let me see.”
He stretched out his left leg, his ankle throbbing. She gently pulled his stocking off, her fingers grazing his flesh. He watched her closely, almost forgetting the pain in his ankle amidst her devoted attention.
She gingerly dabbed at his wound with a square of toweling. “Philip told me what happened. He and Bernard tied a rope—I’m guessing the rope from the well—to a tree branch over there and were taking turns swinging into the water.”
Fox turned back to look at the other bank. He saw the telltale rope. Yes, it was from the well. He leaned back, putting his hands palm down behind him. “And they let Clara have a turn.”
“Not exactly. Lisette explained that the other children were wading on this side of the pond. No one noticed Clara going to the rope until she fell into the water.” Miranda sat flat on the ground, still holding the toweling to his leg. “She got out quite far, as you saw.”
Fox remembered the hot summer days of his own childhood. “The little ones always do.”
Miranda raised her brow in that half inquisitive, half challenging way of hers. “You speak from experience?”
He looked at her intently, enjoying this intimate moment. “Yes. Did you have a place to swim? Next to the big oak tree you fell out of perhaps?”
She nodded. “Benfield—my father’s estate outside London—has a large lake. My brother loves to fish.” A shadow flickered in her eyes, just as it had done last night when she’d spoken of her family. She peeked under the toweling at his leg. “We should get this properly cleaned. Can you walk?”
He smiled, enjoying her ministrations. “It’s not so bad.”
Her gaze met his. Sunlight filtered through the still branches of the apple trees and turned her hair to golden silk. Her chignon had come loose, probably as she’d run to the pond, and long waves caressed her shoulders.
“I’m sorry you were hurt. You were wonderful saving Clara.” Her eyes were soft, her mouth set into a sweet smile just for him. “Let me help you up.”
She stood then offered him her hand. He considered pulling her down to sprawl on top of him and kissing her senseless. Damn, he couldn’t think about that, not with wet clothing that would surely advertise his state of arousal. Willing himself to think of something else—which was bloody impossible—he took her hand and used his other palm to push himself up.
She tugged him up until he was standing. In fact, she continued to pull so that he almost crashed into her. He grabbed her waist lest she go tumbling backward.
She blushed a bit. Utterly charming. Then her gaze met his, and he saw a curiosity in her blue-green eyes that matched his own. Her lips parted. He inched forward and lowered his head.
Her breath gusted over his lips as she stepped back. “You can’t kiss me.”
He couldn’t keep the frown from his mouth. “Why not?”
“It isn’t appropriate.”
God, how he wanted to argue that kissing him was far more appropriate than kissing a highwayman! “Why not?”
She pressed her lips together and tilted her head. “You know why not.”
“Then marry me and make it appropriate.”
She laughed unsteadily and gave his upper arm a light tap. “Fox!”
He reached for her, clasping her waist between his hands. “I’m serious. Marry me.”
She stared at him a moment. “I can’t.”
“You absolutely can. I’ll have the banns read on Sunday.”
She shook her head. “My parents would never allow it.” He opened his mouth to interrupt, but she spoke over him. “Nor do I want to. You’re a…friend. That’s all.”
Anger sparked in his belly. He’d wager Stipple’s End and Bassett Manor she’d been about to kiss him. “Tell me you didn’t want me to kiss you.” He leaned forward and brought his cheek a hair’s breadth from hers. “Tell me to leave you alone, and I will. Or, ask me to kiss you, and I’ll make all your dreams come true.”
She was still a moment, and then he felt something stir inside of her, the echo of a sigh, perhaps. Her cheek grazed his. He turned his head to claim her mouth. Her hands closed over his… And pushed them away.
She stepped back once more. Her eyes took on a frigidity quite at odds with the steamy afternoon, and she donned an air of arrogant detachment he hadn’t seen since her first day at Stipple’s End. Alone, her icy stare would have been as effective as another dunk in the pond, but then she spoke and drove the knife in deeper. “What dreams of mine could you possibly bring to pass?”
And there it was. She didn’t remotely consider him as a potential mate. Hell, she didn’t even consider him as a potential lover. The highwayman had one up on him there.
Her refusal cut to the quick, but was it because he needed her money so desperately or because she’d sliced some buried emotion?
He ached to kiss her anyway, show her how good they’d be together, but pride kept him rooted to the ground. Instead, he gave her a lazy, sardonic smile and said, “Looks like you’ll never know.”
Chapter Seven
RAIN battered the windows facing the drive to Stipple’s End. In mute boredom, Miranda focused on the water running down the glass as she awaited the Carmodys’ carriage to fetch her to Birch House.
Her gaze traveled to the clock on the mantel. The Carmodys were at the vicarage today for tea, which is why they even bothered to stop and retrieve her. She could only guess how long she would have to wait.
Ah well, at least she could bide her time in the library.
Miranda took herself to the book-lined room in the back corner of the manor. Tall, diamond-paned windows provided an expansive view of the yard and orchard beyond. One could just make out the watering hole amidst the apple trees.
She tried not to think of the disastrous day over three weeks ago when Fox had nearly kissed her and then proposed marriage. And since Fox now rarely spoke to her—seemed to avoid her company altogether actually—it appeared he had chosen to ignore the occasion as well.
Except if they were truly ignoring it, they would be going on as they ha
d before—as friends. Now awkwardness passed between them, and little else save banalities such as, “Good day” or “Dismal weather we’re having.”
Miranda was sorry for it. She’d come to like Fox. He possessed something that drew her—and almost everyone else—to him. He was attentive, kind, and from what she could tell at the orphanage, fiercely loyal and dedicated to those who depended upon him.
Plus, she constantly wondered what it would have been like to kiss him. And whether he might try again. And if he didn’t, if she might conjure the nerve she never seemed to have trouble summoning with other gentlemen and kiss him.
Where had that daring gone? She’d suffered no qualm about kissing a common highwayman, for goodness sake. But there’d been nothing common about that kiss. A thrill shot up from her toes and spread through her abdomen. Surprisingly, she was almost certain kissing Fox would’ve provoked the same response. Whereas Darleigh had scarcely aroused more than curiosity, both a thief and then a farmer—he was more than that, but she wasn’t feeling particularly charitable at the moment—had actually induced…lust.
“Ah, here you are, Lady Miranda!” Stratham entered, carrying his ivory-tipped walking stick in the air like a staff.
She dragged her focus from Fox to Stratham and was surprised to feel a crest of disappointment in her chest. Because she was raised to be polite, she offered him a smile and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Stratham. Did you enjoy a successful trip to London?”
He took her hand and floated a kiss above her glove. “Indeed. Though I’ll be traveling again soon, I’m afraid. Which is why I’ve come today so I may spend a bit of time with you while I am in Wootton Bassett.” He looked from side to side and raised a brow, giving the appearance he was about to impart some dire secret. “In truth, I came straightaway from the vicarage after determining the Carmodys would visit for another half hour at least. I knew we would not be interrupted.” He finished with a grin and a tap of his stick on the polished oak floor.
Miranda wondered who had let Mr. Stratham into the manor. Another notion crept up her spine. One that went quite along with his furtive manner. Perhaps he’d snuck in. It reminded her of London, and how she and her friends threw caution over a cliff at nearly every opportunity. Such behavior seemed a bit hazardous now. Perhaps her banishment was altering her behavior after all. Oh, perish that thought.
“Come, sit with me.” Mr. Stratham took her hand and led her to a settee facing the fireplace. “I understand it has rained almost incessantly since I left.”
“Indeed.” She sat down and retracted her hand from his to smooth her skirts. “Everyone is quite worried about the harvest. Apparently it is several weeks behind schedule.”
Mr. Stratham set his walking stick against the end of the settee. “I’m sure it will catch up.”
Miranda turned toward him. “You don’t seem concerned.”
“Not really.” He stretched his arm along the back of the settee. “Things have a way of working out.” He winked at her, and she couldn’t decide if he was incredibly optimistic or purposely obtuse.
Her eye caught the door over his shoulder, and she noted it stood half closed. Since she’d left it wide open, she had to conclude Mr. Stratham planned some kind of impropriety. She should put a stop to his scheme. Unlike with the highwayman and, to her astonishment, Fox, her body didn’t quiver with anticipation in Stratham’s presence.
Although perhaps she hadn’t given him the opportunity. Now was the time to prove she was above common thieves and impoverished country bumpkins.
Mr. Stratham moved his fingers from the back of the settee to lightly graze her shoulder. “Lady Miranda, your beauty steals my breath.”
So he wasn’t a poet. She wasn’t interested in poetry. She leaned a bit closer, willing a spark to tingle along her shoulder blade, up her neck, anything.
He responded in kind, his head angling toward her, his lips parted. His pupils were dilated. At least someone was affected.
He touched his lips to hers, and Miranda strove to find the thrill that ought to accompany his kiss. The thrill that had accompanied the highwayman’s kiss. Instead, nothing.
A loud crash jolted them apart as surely as if Mr. Carmody had put his skinny arms between them. Miranda looked over Mr. Stratham’s shoulder, saw the door shuddering as it bounced back from the wall where Fox had thrown it.
Fox.
He looked as if he might tear Mr. Stratham’s head from his shoulders and then mount it on the wall.
Miranda leapt to her feet. She swallowed the large ball of guilt lodged in her throat. “Ahem. Ah, well. Good afternoon, Fox.”
Fox glared at her, his eyes dark and slitted. “The Carmodys are here. I suggest you be on your way.”
“Yes, thank you.” Miranda wanted to say something else, but words would not come. What could she say to mitigate this disaster?
Mr. Stratham rose, walking stick in hand. “I’ll see you to your carriage.”
There were so many reasons he could not walk her to the Carmodys’ carriage, not the least of which was that Mr. Carmody would likely become apoplectic at the knowledge Mr. Stratham had paid her a social call. And really, why else would he be at the orphanage he’d steadfastly avoided until she’d begun working there? And what if Mr. Carmody assumed the worst? Given what her parents had told him, he only waited for her ruination. Oh no, she could not be seen with Mr. Stratham…never mind Fox had witnessed their ill-conceived kiss.
Fox continued to glower in their direction. “I will escort her.”
The way in which he delivered his pronouncement brooked no argument. With her head high, Miranda walked from the room, her pulse racing even faster as she passed Fox in the doorway.
He turned and fell into step beside her. Anger resonated in the heat from his body. His hair and clothing were damp as if he’d been working in the rain without a hat. That errant lock had fallen over his forehead making him appear dashing, careless. He looked as if he couldn’t be contained. Primal.
She hated what she’d seen in his eyes when he’d barged into the library. “I’m sorry.” The words sounded pathetic.
“What for? I’m not your guardian.” He slid her an acidic glance. “Or your husband.”
If he’d slapped her, she would have felt better. Instead, her stomach threatened to shrivel up and disappear.
“I would counsel you to beware of your choices. You’ve made it clear Wootton Bassett is not to your liking. With him, you might spend a decent portion of the year in London, but he’ll always come home.”
Another person who sought to know what was best for her! “I’d thank you to keep your counsel to yourself.” They were passing through the main hall. Fox walked ahead to open the door.
“As you wish.” He swept his hand in a grand gesture, ushering her outside.
She plucked her bonnet from a table and shoved it on her head, not bothering to tie the ribbons. With a final glare of her own, she stalked out into the rain.
And flinched as the door slammed behind her.
FOX turned from the trembling door and balled his fists at the sight of Stratham twirling his walking stick and grinning like an imbecile. Fox wanted to shove the stick up his—
“Fox, you look peevish. Something else around here fall apart?”
With supreme effort, Fox flattened his palms against the sides of his thighs and willed himself to relax. There was no point pounding Stratham, much as he’d like to. “We still need to fix the roof. Thanks to generosity like yours, we haven’t been able to afford the proper repairs.” Fox sneered, unable to keep his emotions in check.
Stratham pressed his lips together. “You’re always so disagreeable. I don’t understand why you blame me for Jane. At least I assume that’s the reason for your behavior. She made her choice and risked condemnation by the entire district for it.”
She’d risked nothing. “Who would dare slur the MP’s wife? Especially one who wields such power.” Fox stepped toward the smaller man. “Sh
ouldn’t you be out collecting ‘tributes’ or whatever you call the money you extort from northern Wiltshire?”
Stratham clenched his walking stick in both hands before his chest as if it were a shield. “Watch what you say, Foxcroft.”
“Are you threatening me?” Fox took another step forward. “After everything my father did for you? After everything he gave?”
Stratham looked to the side and threw his shoulders back. “Your father was a good man.”
“My father was as morally deficient as you. I’m sure that’s why you got on so well.” The anger Fox had conquered moments before reared its head once more. “You’ll have to excuse me, I need to get on the roof.” They’d installed the canvas a few weeks ago, but a drip had started again that morning, meaning the covering must’ve come loose.
“In this weather? Even you aren’t that daft.” Stratham paused. “Are you?”
Fox pushed past the little rat. “Get the hell out of my orphanage, and don’t come back unless you’re invited.”
A few moments later, Fox walked out into the gray day and approached Rob stationed at the base of a ladder. “Are you ready?”
“Aye.” Rob inclined his head toward the front of the house. “Was that Stratham’s carriage in the drive?”
Fox nodded. The idiot certainly wasn’t surreptitious about his unauthorized visit. Fox assumed Stratham was still prohibited from calling on Miranda. Else, why would he have come here?
Because he stood a better chance of finding her unchaperoned.
Fox’s mood darkened to the color of the storm moving from the west. “Caught him kissing Miranda in the library.” He started up the ladder.
“Son of a bitch. Suppose he’s proposed yet?” Rob called the last.
Fox couldn’t answer Rob’s question and be heard. He climbed onto the roof so Rob could follow. Carefully, he made his way to the corner. As expected, the canvas had blown back, exposing part of the hole.
When Rob stopped beside him, Fox responded, “If he has, she’s given him the same answer she gave me.” This thought gave him a modicum of relief. And if she’d turned Stratham down as well, what was he doing kissing her? Trying to compromise her? Christ, he basically just had. If anyone other than Fox had walked in… Fury built again. Dammit, if anyone was going to compromise her, it should be him, not that slimy Stratham.
