Julia London (59 page)

“I can certainly understand why,” he smiled.

Those simple words caused another rush of heat to her face. Bewildered, she proceeded into the kitchen, not daring to see if he followed. Incredibly, he did. She asked Lydia to show him where he might wash and had to nudge the young girl to move, as she was gaping in awe at the handsome stranger. The moment Mr. Christian left the room, Lauren whirled to Mrs. Peterman. “Please,
please
tell me Ethan is not here!” she moaned, sinking onto a stool.

Mrs. Peterman did not deign to look up from the stove. “He is not here, and you should thank the stars he is not! What are you thinking, dragging a perfect stranger home from the fields?” she snapped.

“His horse was injured! Should I have left him wandering about?”

Mrs. Peterman gave her a stern look as she thrust a large bowl of stew at her. Lauren ignored it; she could not explain to herself, much less to Mrs. Peterman, that she might very well have escorted him to hell and back for one of his warm smiles. Or that her heart pounded at the sight of those powerful legs moving in those
very
tight buckskins. She marched to the dining area set up for the children and placed the bowl rather loudly on the old scarred table. It startled Theodore, whose nose was buried in a book. Just ten years old, he devoured every book brought into the house. Next to him was Sally, Theodore’s charge for the day. Sally was only four, so her supervision was a responsibility shared by the older children.

“Leonard said you brought a pirate to dinner,” Theodore remarked hopefully.

Lauren smiled and handed several wooden bowls to him, motioning for him to set the table. “Leonard is mistaken,
darling. Mr. Christian is a gentleman with a lame horse. I rather doubt he has ever been on a boat.”

Theodore pondered that as he carefully placed the bowls around the table, then brightened. “Sometimes pirates
act
as if they are gentlemen. Perhaps he just
said
that so as not to frighten you.”

“I assure you, he is not a pirate, but a man in search of a good horse doctor.”

“Yes, but maybe he was riding for his ship when his horse was hurt!”

“We are many, many miles from the sea, darling,” Lauren said, running her hand over the boy’s blond locks.

“But he
had
to go that way, Miss Lauren!” Horace shouted from the door, then ran to take a seat at the table. “Leonard said the constable would find him if he took the main road!”

“The constable?” She laughed. “And what do you suppose the constable would do if he found Mr. Christian? Without the booty of a raid, he should have no grounds to detain him. I am afraid Leonard is filling your head with tales from his own imagination.”

“I hardly think your story is much improvement,” Mrs. Peterman huffed from the kitchen door. She placed two freshly baked loaves of bread on the table, which Lauren promptly began to slice.

“It is not a
story
, Mrs. Peterman,” she said with cheerful patience. “It is fact!”

“Oh, he is a pirate,” Leonard said with great authority as he came into the small dining area. “He is wearing pirate boots. Very
fine
pirate boots.”

“These boots,” Mr. Christian drawled, “would not suit the lowest of pirates, I assure you.” Lauren looked up; her country gentleman filled the narrow doorway with his athletic physique, and smiling at the children as he was, started the giddiness in her all over again. She looked down and noticed she had cut a chunk of bread the size of brick. She
hastily made three slices of it, then smiled broadly at Mr. Christian, helplessly aware that she was on the verge of making a complete cake of herself.

She motioned to a chair. “Please be seated, Mr. Christian. And I pray you, do not fault these boys overmuch. Since Paul began reading fantastic stories of pirates to them each night, they believe every grown man is potentially a marauder of the high seas.” Lydia was still standing in the door, still staring at Mr. Christian. “Lydia,” Lauren said softly, and the young girl slowly walked to the table, no more able to tear her eyes from him than Lauren could. Usually, Lydia could talk of little else than Ramsey Baines, with whom she was desperately in love, but she sat across from Mr. Christian, gawking at him with such awe that Lauren wanted to laugh. She knew
exactly
how she felt.

“I am
not
a pirate,” he informed the children, “nor have I been a pirate in at least five years. I was forced to stop that practice several years ago. Constable Richards…” he paused and glanced slyly at the children. With the exception of Sally, who was molding a slice of bread into a doll shape, the children’s faces were filled with expectant terror. He shrugged carelessly. “Forgive me. I would not bore you with the details,” he said, and helped himself to a generous portion of stew.

Lauren stifled a delighted giggle as she nudged Lydia to take a piece of bread. “Constable Richards? How very ironic,” she said as she pushed a bowl in front of Sally. “They say he pursued a ruthless pirate for many years.” She paused and glanced thoughtfully at the window. “He never caught him—they say it haunts him to this day. But surely he is not the
same
Constable Richards.”

She glanced at Mr. Christian, who returned her gaze with a mischievous smile. Incredulous, the children all paused, their attention riveted on Mr. Christian’s anticipated answer. “Surely not,” he agreed slowly, and the children’s shoulders sagged almost as one with disappointment. “Unless, of
course, you refer to
Robert
Richards?” The children suddenly sat forward, their spoons freezing between bowl and mouth as they jerked their gazes to Lauren.

“Why,
yes
, I do indeed! Do you know him?” Of course he did, and Mr. Christian began to weave a fantastic tale of adventure on the seas, sprinkled with exciting and very close encounters with the imaginary Constable Richards. The children were spellbound, hardly tasting their stew. Lauren was hardly immune to his charm, either. She wanted to hug him for treating the children with respect and dignity. She wanted to cry that he did not seem to notice Leonard’s horrid birthmark. Her admiration of Mr. Christian, already dangerously high, grew with alarming leaps and bounds during the course of that meal.

Unfortunately for them all, with the notable exception of Mrs. Peterman, dinner was over far too soon. Lauren reluctantly sent the children to their chores, kissing the tops of their heads as she firmly sent them off. They all wanted to stay with Mr. Christian—so did she.

And she might have contrived a way to do it had Mr. Goldthwaite not picked that very inopportune time to call. The banging on the front door came just as she poured tea. A moment later, the apothecary marched into the small dining room carrying a large bunch of wilting daisies, his apple cheeks flushed. If there was anything worse than Ethan, it was Fastidious Thadeus. Why did he have to call
today
? “Good afternoon, Mr. Goldthwaite,” she said wearily.

“Afternoon Miss Hill.” He sniffed. “I have taken the liberty of bringing you some daisies. They are quite the rage just now, and I thought they should brighten your dressing table nicely,” he said, his small brown eyes sliding to Mr. Christian.

“Thank you, Mr. Goldthwaite,” she said evenly, “but I do not have a dressing table.” She stood politely to receive the blasted flowers and brought them quickly to her face to hide her mortification. Oh God, she could not bear to imagine
what Mr. Christian must be thinking! “Mr. Goldthwaite, may I present Mr. Christian?” she said coolly, and hearing Mrs. Peterman behind her, turned and thrust the daisies into her hands, for which she received another disapproving frown.

“How do you do, Mr. Goldthwaite.”

“I do very well, sir. I have not seen you here before. Are you a benefactor?”

Lauren groaned.

Mr. Christian politely ignored the indecorum of such a question. “Miss Hill very kindly brought me here after my horse went lame. I am off to Pemberheath now in search of help,” he said, coming to his feet.

Lauren felt a moment of panic, and rushed too eagerly, she damn well knew it, to his side. “Rupert has not yet returned, Mr. Christian, but I am certain he shall be along shortly—”

“Nonsense! I should be happy to take Mr. Christian to Pemberheath! But I pray you, sir, we must leave at once. I should not have stopped as it is, but as I had the daisies, it would not do to let them wilt,” Mr. Goldthwaite said, and started immediately for the door.

“I should be most obliged, sir.” Mr. Christian turned and smiled warmly at Lauren. “Miss Hill, I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality. Good day, Mrs. Peterman,” he nodded to the unsmiling housekeeper, and followed Mr. Goldthwaite as he waddled quickly from the room. Unbalanced by a surge of unfamiliar emotion, Lauren looked helplessly to Mrs. Peterman, receiving a hapless shrug in response. Knowing she should do
nothing
but bid the gentleman a good day, Lauren grabbed his forgotten hat from a wall peg and rushed after him.

“Mr. Christian!” she called as she stepped out onto the drive. He turned, his green eyes sparkling with his smile. She thrust the hat at him. He grasped it with one hand and pulled lightly, but she did not let go. “Ah … thank you,
sir, for helping me out of a rather peculiar predicament,” she said nervously. What in heaven’s name was she
doing
?

He chuckled softly. “I was hardly any help, Miss Hill.”

“Mr. Christian, if you please!” Thadeus shouted from his curricle. Lauren scowled mightily at him then turned a winsome smile to her gentleman.

“If you should ever have reason to be in the area, it would please the children enormously if you would call,” she said, and instantly ashamed at her brazenness, nervously averted her gaze. “I, ah … they so enjoyed your tale.”

“Miss Hill—”

“
Mr. Christian!
I really must be going!” Mr. Goldthwaite bellowed from the carriage. Good
God
, she would have liked to have knocked that stout little peacock from his perch and stuff him full of daisies!

“Thank you again, Miss Hill,” Mr. Christian said. Yet he remained standing in front of her, his eyes crinkling in the corners with his smile.

“You are very welcome, Mr. Christian,” she sighed, gazing up at him.

His smile turned into a charming grin. “Miss Hill … the hat?” Lauren looked down; she was still clutching the hat. Horrified, she let go of it so quickly that he took a step backward. Chuckling, he turned toward the carriage.

Oh, how very
grand
! She had succeeded in making a complete blockhead of herself! Mr. Christian looked at her again when he had settled onto the narrow little seat next to Mr. Goldthwaite. With a jaunty wave she hoped looked very carefree, Lauren pretended to be examining a tattered vine that had attached itself to the stone exterior of the house. When she heard the carriage pull away, she wished for a thousand deaths. For herself
and
Fastidious Thadeus.

Alex managed one last look behind him as the carriage raced away from the shabby manor house. His initial assessment was correct—she was an angel, and a very provocative one at that. As Mr. Goldthwaite sent the carriage careening
around a bend in the road, Alex grabbed his hat and the seat at the same time. “In something of a hurry, are you?” he asked dryly as the carriage righted itself.

“I have
many
pressing matters,” the little man fairly spat out. “I should never have called today!”

“Have you known Miss Hill long?” Alex asked, knowing full well that she was the cause of Mr. Goldthwaite’s angst. He could hardly blame the poor man. She was as captivatingly beautiful as she was kind, the sort of woman that could bring a man to a state of blind devotion.

“I have been very well acquainted with Miss Hill for most of her life.”

“I am sure she is a good friend,” Alex remarked for wont of anything better to say.

Mr. Goldthwaite snorted loudly. “
Friend?
We are practically
betrothed
, sir!” he snapped angrily.

Alex had no idea what the understanding was between the two of them, but in his humble estimation, Mr. Goldthwaite had a better chance of marrying Lucy than Lauren Hill.

With his feet propped upon a footstool, Ethan was sitting directly in front of the fire when Lauren marched into the drawing room carrying a tray of medicinal soup. The unusually warm weather had turned unusually cold, and Ethan had not stopped complaining since the first gray clouds had appeared. Kicking the door shut, Lauren marched to where her uncle sat and placed the tray down with such force as to spill the soup.

“Don’t be slamming that door, lass. I have a headache,” he grumbled. Lauren said nothing as she poured him a cup of tea. “What, are you still sulking over Rupert?” he sighed, and reached for his brandy, ignoring the tea.

“You promised me, Uncle Ethan,” she reminded him sharply.

Ethan moaned his exasperation. “He is a grown
man
, Lauren. If he wants an ale, who am I to deny him?”

“Putting aside, for the moment, that the two of you could have been
killed
driving that old wagon in such a state, you
know Rupert cannot absorb spirits like other men! It has taken him two full days to recover!”

“Do not bother me with that now,” Ethan groaned. “My gout is flaring up again.”

Lauren sighed loudly. There was no reasoning with Ethan. She supposed she should be grateful that as he so rarely left the drawing room, he was no real threat to Rupert’s safety. Bless Rupert, but he thought Ethan had practically hung the moon. How his simple mind had concluded
that
was the biggest mystery of all. “Please eat your soup, Uncle. Mr. Goldthwaite gave me some herbs that should help ease your pain,” she said, and bent to retrieve a discarded weekly paper.

“Goldthwaite! I do not like him sniffing around your skirts, do you hear me? The pillows, child…”

“Mr. Goldthwaite understands I do not return his affections,” she lied, adjusting the pillows behind Ethan’s back. Apparently, there was
nothing
she could say to convince Fastidious Thadeus
or
Mrs. Peterman of that. “But he is so terribly generous to us, I cannot ask him to stay away.”