Chapter 7 #2
Clara stared at him in confusion. Lord, but he was ridiculous on her aunt’s front doorstep.
He was the kind of man who ought to be dressed in armour, leading thousands of men into battle.
The rousing speech from Shakespeare’s Henry V flashed into her mind, and she could just imagine him ‘imitating the action of the tiger.’ Inwardly, she recited ‘stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage. Then lend the eye a terrible aspect.’ A somewhat hysterical giggle rose in her throat and she forced it down with difficulty.
“I hope you are well?” he added stiffly.
Clara glanced towards the stairs, relieved her aunt was hard of hearing and praying the reverend kept her occupied as he’d promised.
Stepping hurriedly outside, she pulled the door closed, having no intention of inviting his grace inside.
How dreadfully rude, she thought frantically, and swallowed another absurd desire to laugh.
A look of frustration crossed the man’s face, but he ploughed on. “It occurred to me after the, er, incident yesterday, that you might not have brandy in the house. Howard, that is, my grandmother’s butler, led me to believe you live with your maiden aunt, and so… here.”
He thrust a bottle towards her.
Clara stared at it, bemused.
“You’ve brought me brandy?” she said, wondering if she’d fallen asleep in her chair and this was some manner of peculiar dream.
“I worried that you might have caught a chill after your walk home yesterday,” he said, looking increasingly aggravated.
He sounded almost annoyed as he added, “You were so out of sorts I felt an irrational amount of concern that your wits had been addled by the confrontation. My valet recommends adding hot water, honey, and lemon.”
He clearly supposed it was her fault he had been forced to act upon his gentlemanly instincts. No doubt they were buried deep.
“Lemon?” Clara repeated, wondering if he supposed she had an orangery in the back of the cottage.
“Oh, that reminds me.” With this, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a lemon. “Courtesy of her grace. She hopes you make a swift recovery and expects to see you at the hall the moment you do. She demanded I tell you not to faint.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Clara said, indignant.
“That’s what I said. She seems to have the most peculiar notion that you are shy and retiring.”
Clara’s lips quirked. “I can’t imagine why,” she said faintly.
“Neither can I.” He studied her with an air of deep irritation.
“Well. I am glad to see you are none the worse for your ordeal. I have written to the parents of both girls, reprimanding them for allowing two such ill-mannered creatures out in public. I hope they will not trouble you again, but I will thank you to inform me if they do.”
“Will you have them sent to the Tower?” The words escaped her before she could think better of them and she held her breath wondering what he might say.
Hawkney glowered at her. “Good day, Miss Halfpenny.”
“Your grace,” Clara said, cursing her inappropriate and ill-advised desire to tease the man as she sank into a low curtsey.
Unable to look away, she watched him mount his horse, all long legs and powerful physique, and experienced an odd thrill of pleasure at the sight. He gave her a curt nod before riding away, leaving Clara standing with the lemon in one hand and the bottle of brandy in the other.
Little Valentine, 18th January 1816
Having walked from Willow Cottage, Izzy now stood at the crossroads.
She ought to take the longer route, back past the church and over the bridge to get to The Mermaid.
Glancing up at the sky, which was a brooding tumble of grey clouds, she calculated the risk of getting soaked.
She’d probably just make it if she hurried.
On the other hand, she could take the much shorter road through the woods, the one that ran close to The Dog and Duke.
The pub was notorious for being frequented by smugglers, but during the day it ought to be safe enough, surely?
She knew which one she ought to choose.
Inevitably, she decided on the path through the woods, a decision she thought better of a little over five minutes later as the back of her neck prickled.
Dead leaves skittered over the path, dancing in the icy wind that tugged at her bonnet.
Stopping in her tracks, Izzy turned around, staring up and down the path and into the gloomy, overgrown tangle of woodland.
The skeletal branches of the trees creaked and clattered, one against the other, but otherwise she saw nothing. All the same.
“Who’s there?”
No answer. Well, of course there was no answer, she thought crossly, gazing along the path she’d just walked down. It had probably just been a deer or a rabbit, alarmed by her passing by. Muttering about her own stupidity, she turned to carry on her journey and let out a shriek of alarm.
There was a man standing directly in front of her.
Izzy’s heart gave several panicked thuds before she realised she was looking at the man they called Boreas.
He ran the smuggling gang in these parts, and she had seen him once before when in company with her father.
Now, as then, he wore all black, leather belts that held pistols slung around his narrow hips and broad shoulders lurking beneath the heavy black cloak, the hood of which almost covered his face.
“Boreas,” Izzy said, rather impressed that her voice only trembled a little.
“You remember me.” There was amusement in his voice.
Izzy snorted. “I’m hardly likely to forget.”
At that, he pushed back the hood, and Izzy’s breath snagged in her throat.
Lord, but she had forgotten how handsome he was.
His icy blue eyes were startling, penetrating, giving her the impression he saw through her and could read her thoughts.
It was not the least bit comfortable. Especially not as their last meeting had been the inspiration of far too many romantic daydreams.
Amusement flickered in that cool blue, making the situation increasingly awkward.
“Unforgettable, am I?”
As her discomfort multiplied tenfold, Izzy felt her cheeks turn a dull red. Indignation came to the rescue. “Well, leaping out at unsuspecting people from the woods is bound to leave an impression,” she replied tartly.
He laughed at that, and to her chagrin she found herself charmed by the sound, deep and merry. It seemed genuine and he appeared honestly pleased by her scolding.
“Quite so, Miss Honey. I beg you will forgive my rag manners. I rarely speak with nice young ladies.”
“Miss Honeywell,” Izzy corrected, though she felt certain he knew her name well enough. “What kind of ladies do you speak with, then?”
She winced the moment the words left her mouth. When would she learn to curb her unruly tongue?
He grinned, even white teeth gleaming. “I have a message for your father, if you would be so good as to deliver it for me?”
“Certainly.”
She knew her father had dealings with the smugglers and saw no reason why she ought not.
He nodded approvingly. “Captain Underwood has been making life very difficult. The good captain and his men seem to be everywhere, all at once. He has been given a tip off, however, to ensure he is where we wish him to be on the twenty-first of the month.”
“And where might that be?” Izzy wondered if he would say, or if she was an idiot for even asking, but he only smiled at her.
“Winsham Woods, which is why I am telling you, as the vicarage is close by. Tell your father not to be alarmed if he hears a disturbance. It will only be me, leading our fine captain a merry dance.”
Izzy’s heart, already in a state of anxiety, lurched at this information. She did not like the idea of Captain Underwood hunting this man through the woods. It would not just be the captain and Boreas either. Underwood had dozens of men at his back, whereas it seemed Boreas would be alone.
“You? Just you? But… isn’t that dangerous? He means to see you dead, sir.”
He regarded her with interest, rubbing absently at his chin as Izzy noted the number of rings on his long fingers, the jewels sparkling even on such a dull day. “Ah, my dear Miss Honey, many have tried, some even believe they succeeded, but as yet I still live and breathe.”
Izzy clutched her arms about her middle, suddenly feeling a chill of foreboding at his blithe disregard for his own safety.
“Yes, and for how much longer if you do such reckless things? Underwood is said to be an excellent shot.”
He took a step closer, and Izzy’s breath caught.
Though he loomed over her, this man who was an outlaw, who carried pistols and was undoubtedly dangerous, she did not feel threatened nor afraid.
Well, not precisely afraid. There was something fizzing in her blood, a sensation in her stomach that fluttered and made heat surge beneath her skin, but she did not think it was fear.
“Are you worried for me, Miss Honey?”
“Honeywell,” Izzy repeated, aware she sounded breathless, hypnotised by his bright blue eyes as he stared down at her, by the warm, mischievous tenor of his deep voice.
His fingers touched her chin, lifting her face to his. “I like your glasses. They make you look like a sweet little owl. Wise and solemn.”
Izzy blinked. He must be teasing her. No gentlemen liked glasses. Yet there was sincerity in his gaze, this strange man who evaded the law.
“Yes,” Izzy said, belatedly remembering his question, which was a marvel really, as her brain had turned to treacle under the intensity of his gaze.
The wind picked up again, stirring his fair hair, and she breathed in the scent of him, horses and the sea, the scent of cold air and the musky tang of a vigorous male body.
“Don’t worry, pet. I’ll be fine. Run along now, and next time take the longer path. There’s all sorts of dangerous fellows about near The Dog and Duck.”