Chapter Eight #2
They rounded a bend in the path, where the hedgerow gave way to fencing. A flock of woolly sheep grazed determinedly in the paddock beyond, unbothered by the snow blanketing their meal.
“We can cross here to return to the Bath Road,” Miss Mifford said, gesturing toward a stile.
“Very good,” Gabe answered—until he caught sight of the eaves of Primrose Cottage and realised their walk was nearly at an end.
“Where do you propose we take the investigation from here?” he asked quickly, hoping to postpone their parting a little longer.
“We’ve two suspects,” she said, furrowing her brow. “Perhaps we should take one each. You speak with Mr Cleeve and I’ll tackle Mrs Canards—I daresay I’ve drawn the shortest straw from the rabbit’s hat.”
“Indeed,” Gabe grinned, completely charmed by the expressions she painted.
“I suppose we’d best…” Miss Mifford gestured toward the fence.
“I suppose we must,” Gabe agreed, letting his disappointment colour his tone. He stepped forward, brushed the icing of snow from the fence posts with his gloved hands, and neatly vaulted the stile.
“It’s a bit slippery,” he cautioned, turning to assist her as she mounted the first step.
He reached out to steady her, but at the last moment her boot caught on one of the posts and she pitched forward—straight into Gabe’s arms.
The sudden force of her fall drove him back a step, and for a heartbeat they swayed together—her toes barely brushing the snow, her hands clutching at his shoulders—until his arm tightened, steadying them both.
He drew a slow breath to compose himself and, in doing so, caught the faint, intoxicating scent of her hair. He knew he ought to set her down, yet he lingered, just a moment longer, wondering at the soft warmth of her body pressed against his chest and the uneven rhythm of his heart.
“Oopsie daisy,” he heard her whisper into his coat.
“Oopsie daisy,” he echoed—somewhat stupidly—as he set her down, though his hands remained at her waist. He was fluent in the world’s most romantic of languages, yet in that moment could summon no words except those.
She glanced up at him from beneath the brim of her bonnet, her eyes wide, her mouth softly parted.
They both, he noted, were struggling to breathe at their usual pace.
Their breath mingled in the cold air, rising as mist between them, and Gabe knew he could not resist the sudden, foolish urge to draw her closer and claim her rosebud lips as his own.
He stilled, savouring the anticipation, then leaned forward and—
“Argh!”
He stumbled as something struck the back of his knees. Confused, he glanced round and found a ram standing a few paces behind, head lowered, hoof pawing the ground in challenge.
“Shoo!” Miss Mifford cried, rushing forward to his rescue.
She clapped her hands sharply, and the beast, affronted, turned tail and trotted off—though not without first casting Gabe a final, reproachful glare.
“Are you all right, Comte?” Miss Mifford asked as she hurried to his side.
“I assure you, it’s only my pride that’s bruised,” Gabe replied dryly as he straightened. “My thanks, Charlotte, for coming to my rescue under enemy attack.”
He placed slow, deliberate emphasis on her given name—the ram might have thwarted their kiss, but Gabe would not allow the little monster to ruin the progress they’d made.
“Oh no, it was you who rescued me,” she protested, blushing prettily. “Whatever you must think of me, falling on top of you like that…”
“I think,” Gabe said slowly, unable to form anything but the truth, “That you smell divine.”
She blushed scarlet then, and he wondered if perhaps there might yet be another opportunity to steal a kiss from her. But their dallying angered his woolly adversary, who began bleating loudly again, pawing at the ground a few feet away.
“He’s not happy to share his field with us,” Gabe sighed. “Come—I do not think my knees can take another battering.”
They set off across the field toward the gate at the far side, where Gabe hoped there might be another opportunity to assist Miss Mifford in climbing. Alas, she lifted the creaky latch and slipped through unaided, leaving him no choice but to follow.
“This is me,” she said softly, glancing over her shoulder toward Primrose Cottage. “If you follow the road up, you’ll reach Crabb Hall in no time.”
“Very good.” Gabe inclined his head. “My thanks for your company on the walk—I shall endeavour to investigate Mr Cleeve and report back on what I find. Where do you think might be best to arrange to… bump into him?”
“The pub,” she replied, without missing a beat.
She turned to leave, then let out a small “oh.”
“Your scarf,” she exclaimed, unwinding it from around her neck.
Gabe was about to protest that she keep it, but she was already before him, wrapping it carefully around his shoulders—her eyes wide, uncertain at her own boldness.
“Until we meet again, Charlotte,” he promised, his voice lower than he intended.
“Adieu, Gabriel,” she replied, a smile on her lips as she spoke his name.
She turned then and left him, calling a cheery goodbye over her shoulder as she traipsed through the snow toward Primrose Cottage. Gabe stayed where he was a moment longer, reluctant to lose sight of her.
He had, at least, the small consolation of his scarf—her light, sweet scent clung to it, warming him to his toes. Later, when he went to bed, he knew he would keep it by his pillow, so she might follow him into his dreams.