The Michaelmas Daisies, Among Dede Weeds Bloom For St Michael’s Valorous Deeds. #2
Miss Seymour pushed her satchel aside and began to shuffle her derriere on the hard bench, muttering something about her Aunt Theo.
She endeavoured to sit straight but the low seat made it nigh impossible and finally with another mutter, she settled back into the curved end and held tight to the sides.
As the bearded owner retrieved a clay pipe from his jacket draped over the A-frame, Miles bent over the side. “14th Regiment of Foot, am I right? I know that jacket. A brave company of men.”
Crooked teeth split his beard in a grin. “Light company at Waterloo. And I could tell yer to be an officer from the way yer marched over ’ere.”
“Captain in the 13th Light Dragoons.” Miles bent nearer. “Don’t suppose you could give me and the lady a bit of…privacy. I can manage the rope.” And he pressed three coins into the man’s palm.
“Pleasure to assist the cavalry on a conquest.” With a wink, he passed Miles the rope pull. “I’ll be in the ale tent,” he added, before he strolled around to stand behind Miss Seymour. “Enjoy yourself, Miss,” he called out in hearty voice.
Her eyes grew wide as copper pennies.
And the boat was given a mild push.
“Oh. Well, this is quite…pleasant an amusement.” Miss Seymour cleared her throat, avoided his eyes and flung her head back to watch the clouds as the boat swung back and forth.
“It is indeed.” He shifted lower, booted feet brushing hers. Knew he had to get on with it. “Verity…if I may call you that? After all, we were once such close…friends.”
Her head dropped back from the clouds. “Er…”
“And as such, can you tell me more of this…Mr Locksley.”
“Locksley?” She blinked. “Why do you keep asking about him?”
Miles paused, considering how best to proceed. “It’s just sometimes…sometimes your recollections of him seem so vague.” And he gently pulled the rope that connected with the pulley above so that the boat moved a little faster and a little higher.
Verity narrowed her eyes. “It was all such a long time ago, my lord. In truth, my recollections of you are also somewhat…vague.”
Ouch.
“Just so. But tell me again the reason you didn’t marry Locksley? Or even go to Devon… Or was it Cornwall?”
She crossed her arms. “Bad breath, bad teeth, then he died.”
Miles lightly pulled once more. “Unfortunate fellow.”
“You’ll be an unfortunate fellow if you pull that rope again.”
He smirked. “This rope?” And he waggled it in front of–
Verity lunged, endeavoured to grab it, but she’d not considered the added momentum of the boat and she tumbled on top of him, all cotton-clad woman – breasts crushing and legs tangling.
With far too much grappling, she endeavoured to shove herself up and Miles failed to prevent a groan as her hips wiggled against his groin, hands on his chest as she rose to–
The boat swung back and she tumbled into him again, lips brushing the bared skin above his cravat.
“Hell and damnation,” he muttered as her perfume of orange blossom besieged his senses with memories of old – searing kisses and youthful frustration. “Stay still, woman.”
This time she merely raised her head. “Miles, I…”
“Ah, hell.” And before he could stop himself, he placed a hand to her nape, tugged her near and kissed her.
Not tentative or sweet but with fervour and abandon as he ravished her mouth.
He’d thought all the self-control forged in the dragoons over the years akin to a fortress wall – impenetrable – but instead, the passion that still bound them struck like cannon fire at a wall made of plaster.
Yet he was not alone, her lips opening to his as his hand clenched and unclenched at her spine, then lower at her derriere, the boat’s movement a steady push and pull, bringing their bodies together in a rhythm as ingrained as breathing.
Lips travelled to her cheek, her neck and, damn her, but she arched into him…
A little interrogation, that was all this was meant to be, to make sense of the past.
Miles groaned low as her hips merged with his. “Why, Verity?” He bit at her earlobe and she shivered. “Why are you lying?”
Verity stilled.
Then abruptly dug her fingers into Miles’ chest and, with the momentum of the boat, flung herself backwards, landing in a heap at the far end.
For she had to nip this…this desire in the bud.
No good could come of it. The past a shadow, such a dark shadow.
Nothing had changed. It was all for the best.
And no wonder Aunt had warned her about swingboats.
“You mauling bottle-headed oaf,” she cried, straightening her shoulders. “How dare you!”
The oaf smirked. “Er, you were on top of me, Verity.”
Irrelevant. “Stop this infernal contraption. I wish to return to my cousin.”
For a moment, she thought he’d deny her request but then after a heavy sigh, he placed two fingers to his lips and whistled with quite some force.
Not a moment later, the owner of said infernal contraption hastened from the ale tent, wiping his mouth, and Verity straightened her coiffure as best she could, deeming the swingboat less of a pleasant amusement and more a test of one’s moral fibre.
She heard some sort of device lowered from the bottom of the boat and it clattered into a hefty board bringing them to a rather abrupt halt, but Verity had the measure of it now and had held tight to the sides.
A small flame of anger was burning within her as she was coming to believe that she and Sephi had been the victims of a plan to divide them.
But why did Miles even want answers? Clearly, he still disdained her for breaking his heart all those years ago.
Though that kiss hadn’t felt in the least disdainful. “Why did you kiss me?” she could not help but ask.
He brushed a thumb over his bottom lip, eyes now cold as emeralds when before they’d burned. “I did not intend to kiss you.”
“Oh,” she responded feebly.
“But now that I have…” A faint smile. “The truth will come to light, Verity.”
She swallowed. “W-what do you mean? I don’t…” The door to the swingboat was opened and without waiting for Miles’ hand or for the short ladder to be brought forth, Verity grabbed her satchel and jumped down. To escape any truth that Miles might wish to know.
This side of the fair was a little less boisterous, mainly because all and sundry were in the ale tent, so she refused to wait for Miles and marched off across the grass, now positive that she and Sephi had been divided for nefarious reasons.
She stomped past the raucous ale tent and that silly whirligig, hoping Mr Alasdair Firth had behaved himself with her cousin, and that Mrs Tait had remained with them.
As head of their household, it was up to Verity to protect them all.
And Sephi, for all her spirit, was also fragile, like a cracked porcelain vase stapled back together with defiance.
“Verity! Wait!”
Harrumph.
But she turned nevertheless, hands on hip to say–
“Miles! No!” And she screamed as two huge beer barrels crashed off a cart not three yards from him.
He flung himself to the side but one clipped his boot and he thudded to the ground, rolled.
Verity ran to him, kneeled, roamed hands over his motionless chest and shoulders. “Miles, Miles!” Couldn’t bear if he was…
A groan and he gingerly opened one eye. “I’m well, Verity,” he rasped. “Just a knock to the head as I fell.”
“No, you’re not well. There’s blood,” she sobbed, opening her satchel, grabbing her shawl and holding it to his temple as he sat up.
“Ah.” Miles’ eyes settled on the ground. “Must have hit that tent weight.”
The barrels meanwhile had trundled harmlessly onwards, children pointing as they tottered over the bankside reeds and into Hogsmill River.
And besides being a little pale, Miles did seem well, his eyes clear as he watched her pathetic ministrations with her shawl.
Their gazes met.
He reached out to–
“Sir! Sir! Forgive me,” came a gruff shout, and they both looked up to a leather-aproned aleman approaching. “I dunno how it happened. Truly I don’t.”
Miles nodded. “No harm done, my friend. Was it rope?”
A shake of head. “Nah, they’re leather. I strapped them barrels on meself.” He turned for the cart and headed to the far side. Scratched his nape. “The bloody leather’s torn. Must’ve been brittle.”
Verity saw Miles’ eyes narrow. Then scan the area. “Did you see anyone near the cart?”
The chap fiddled with his cap. “Nah. I was in there.” And he nodded to the ale tent. “But I saw ’em fall.”
With a grimace, Miles got to his feet, holding onto her arm for support. He waggled his booted ankle. “Well, I hope those barrels weren’t full of fine ale?”
“Nah, the empties. But they’re mighty heavy with all them iron hoops. Yer were lucky.”
“Well, as I said, no harm done. But if this lady hadn’t called out, well…”
The aleman nodded his apologies once mor–
“Miles!” Mr Firth was striding towards them, ice-blue eyes grim and fists clenched. “What the hell happened?”
“Those barrels,” Verity said, voice still rather aquiver. “They came off that cart and nigh hit Miles, I mean, Lord Stonewold.”
Mr Firth put hands to Miles’ shoulder. “Are you well? I know you’re tough as old boots but…”
“Fine. Truly.” Yet deep creases marred his brow. “Where is everyone?”
Verity’s gaze sharpened. “And where’s my cousin, Mr Firth?”
He held his palms aloft. “I left Miss Nash and the Taits taking tea in the marquee and thought I’d come find you.
The whole day has turned into a complete bumblebroth: Mother is in high dudgeon as Jeremy disappeared for an hour – she believes he was in the tent with the Soiled Doves.
Mrs Tait got bitten at the flea circus. Miss Tait was pestered by some scruffy lad with wilting daisies, and Kane’s daughter became bilious whilst watching the revolving trapeze artists.
” He shook his head. “Shall we all go home?”