Read Online An Unmistakable Rogue by Annette Blair - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Annette Blair
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fondness.”
Luke’s smile acknowledged this shared bond of theirs, and Reed felt another tug at the granite center of his chest. He cleared his throat. “Here, forget his life and take a look at his inventions. Can you read?”
Luke nodded. “Me ‘n Matt ‘n Mark, but not Bekah. Ma taught us, but she said I was best.”
“Congratulations.” Reed stifled an urge to ruffle the lad’s hair. “I made a catapult like this once.” Reed tapped the drawing. “One of the boys used it to shoot a goose into the pigsty.” Luke laughed while Reed remembered the old man strapping him for putting ideas into the lad’s head. He handed the book back, with less regret for his rotten childhood than for Luke’s churning in his gut. “But my favorites of DaVinci’s inventions were his flying machines.”
“I want to build a flying machine,” Luke said.
“Yes, well, if you do, please do not tell Chastity where you got the idea.” Reed returned to his own book, to hide a grin, of all things. Half a page later, a bit of foot shuffling distracted him. Again.
On the other side of the desk stood Matt. Beside Matt, barely cresting the desktop, Reed saw a tiny pert nose, wide, solemn azure eyes, and a thatch of curly blonde hair. ‘Twas none other than the wild she-child, who now raised Luke’s horn like a declaration of war.
“Do not blow that infernal thing,” Reed said.
“When can we?” Luke asked.
“When I find what I’m looking for, you can blow it.”
“How will I know when that is?”
“I’ll tell you.”
Reed regarded his book but he did not bother to read, as another imminent interruption seemed inevitable.
When it did not come, he regarded the enemy with suspicion. This was worse than the interminable wait for the first cannon shot at Waterloo. Matt and Bekah stood there, in sight, unmoving—feisty little urchins feigning innocence, but Reed knew better. “Did you want something?”
Two blonde heads shook, two pairs of blue eyes watched. Luke continued reading, and Reed swallowed an urge to tell them all to get lost. Besides, if he gave into the impulse, they would take him up on his suggestion, and Chastity would strangle him.
Mark returned, his demeanor militant as he took his place beside Matt and Bekah. “You’re to fix that door this instant or there will be no soup for you!”
Look at the brigands, wearing his shirts, because their provoking protector could not clothe them. Who the devil did she think she was, giving him orders? “If not for me, there would be no soup, and you can tell Sister High and Holy that,” he all but shouted.
Rebekah wailed and ran, Matt followed. Reed was shaken by the look of disappointment Luke threw his way before he left as well. Mark remained, staring him down.
Reed remembered giving just such a look, as if it were yesterday. He could feel the pain that went with it. He should say something. Something. But what? Before he could figure it out, Mark left too.
Reed slumped into his chair, hating himself as much for not helping Mark, as he used to for being in the same place as Mark—angry at everyone for not loving him, while understanding exactly why no one could.
Matt, Reed suspected, had a serious problem; Mark, he knew, was in deep soul-searing pain; the she-devil uttered not a word; and if those three had not gotten to him, then Luke, with his trusting smile and infectious giggle, sure as hell had. Reed fled his chair to look for a family bible. To the devil with pacts; he wanted them out of here, fast, and the only way to accomplish that was to find the proof he sought.
In due course, he found a family history, bound and dusty, recounting who built, re-built, and destroyed what portions of Sunnyledge, and when. The book also gave a brief overview of the family’s titles, which were impressive, but he found nothing remotely resembling a clue to his past. “And if finding the answer was as simple as looking in a book,” he said to himself,
Luke’s smile acknowledged this shared bond of theirs, and Reed felt another tug at the granite center of his chest. He cleared his throat. “Here, forget his life and take a look at his inventions. Can you read?”
Luke nodded. “Me ‘n Matt ‘n Mark, but not Bekah. Ma taught us, but she said I was best.”
“Congratulations.” Reed stifled an urge to ruffle the lad’s hair. “I made a catapult like this once.” Reed tapped the drawing. “One of the boys used it to shoot a goose into the pigsty.” Luke laughed while Reed remembered the old man strapping him for putting ideas into the lad’s head. He handed the book back, with less regret for his rotten childhood than for Luke’s churning in his gut. “But my favorites of DaVinci’s inventions were his flying machines.”
“I want to build a flying machine,” Luke said.
“Yes, well, if you do, please do not tell Chastity where you got the idea.” Reed returned to his own book, to hide a grin, of all things. Half a page later, a bit of foot shuffling distracted him. Again.
On the other side of the desk stood Matt. Beside Matt, barely cresting the desktop, Reed saw a tiny pert nose, wide, solemn azure eyes, and a thatch of curly blonde hair. ‘Twas none other than the wild she-child, who now raised Luke’s horn like a declaration of war.
“Do not blow that infernal thing,” Reed said.
“When can we?” Luke asked.
“When I find what I’m looking for, you can blow it.”
“How will I know when that is?”
“I’ll tell you.”
Reed regarded his book but he did not bother to read, as another imminent interruption seemed inevitable.
When it did not come, he regarded the enemy with suspicion. This was worse than the interminable wait for the first cannon shot at Waterloo. Matt and Bekah stood there, in sight, unmoving—feisty little urchins feigning innocence, but Reed knew better. “Did you want something?”
Two blonde heads shook, two pairs of blue eyes watched. Luke continued reading, and Reed swallowed an urge to tell them all to get lost. Besides, if he gave into the impulse, they would take him up on his suggestion, and Chastity would strangle him.
Mark returned, his demeanor militant as he took his place beside Matt and Bekah. “You’re to fix that door this instant or there will be no soup for you!”
Look at the brigands, wearing his shirts, because their provoking protector could not clothe them. Who the devil did she think she was, giving him orders? “If not for me, there would be no soup, and you can tell Sister High and Holy that,” he all but shouted.
Rebekah wailed and ran, Matt followed. Reed was shaken by the look of disappointment Luke threw his way before he left as well. Mark remained, staring him down.
Reed remembered giving just such a look, as if it were yesterday. He could feel the pain that went with it. He should say something. Something. But what? Before he could figure it out, Mark left too.
Reed slumped into his chair, hating himself as much for not helping Mark, as he used to for being in the same place as Mark—angry at everyone for not loving him, while understanding exactly why no one could.
Matt, Reed suspected, had a serious problem; Mark, he knew, was in deep soul-searing pain; the she-devil uttered not a word; and if those three had not gotten to him, then Luke, with his trusting smile and infectious giggle, sure as hell had. Reed fled his chair to look for a family bible. To the devil with pacts; he wanted them out of here, fast, and the only way to accomplish that was to find the proof he sought.
In due course, he found a family history, bound and dusty, recounting who built, re-built, and destroyed what portions of Sunnyledge, and when. The book also gave a brief overview of the family’s titles, which were impressive, but he found nothing remotely resembling a clue to his past. “And if finding the answer was as simple as looking in a book,” he said to himself,
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