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Authors: Jane Jackson
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imperative.
After hiding the bucket and cooking pot out of sight with his blanket and spare clothes, he set off for the yard. Once on the path, the sights, smells, and sounds of the summer morning were lost on him as his desperate barriers were demolished by a rushing torrent of vivid memory. Images flooded his mind: no helpless, frightened girl, but a strong, athletic young woman, her face aglow with pleasure and hair flying like a flag as her horse had hurtled round the bend. Though she had cried out a startled warning, she had not panicked, and her reactions had been lightning fast.
His own move to seize the bridle in case the alarmed animal threw her off had been instinctive, though unwise. A person of his supposed low class would have been more likely to stumble back out of the way. The suddenness of the encounter meant his impressions had necessarily been brief. But her trim waist belied her undoubted strength, for her mount was a huge brute that even he, in his former life, would not have scorned. Her open-skirted riding dress of garnet red revealed a white petticoat. And a rippling cascade of dark hair framed her face, pale above the fluted cambric covering her full bosom.
But when he had stilled the fractious horse and glanced up, seeing her properly had stopped his breath. As he looked into those magnificent emerald eyes his heart had turned over. He had watched her gaze widen and swift colour warm her cheeks as she caught her breath. Immediately looking away, his heart racing as it had not done since his capture, he had cursed himself for a fool. Was he not in enough danger? He sensed – knew – the attraction was mutual, profound. And hopeless. The best thing, the only thing, was to ignore it, forget it, and pretend it had never happened.
Keeping his gaze lowered, he had knuckled his forehead in time-honoured fashion, then bent to gather up the dropped canvas. But, as she kicked her mount on, he had not been able to resist lifting his head to watch her go.
Now, as he walked, he searched his memory for every tiny detail, recalling the light dusting of freckles across her nose and the golden tint beneath her rosy blush. Few women of his acquaintance would be so careless of their complexion. But then, few women he knew could have handled the big thoroughbred with such gentle expertise. The beast must have stood a good 18 hands. So how tall was she?
As for the rest of her features, he seemed to remember a neat, straight nose, a generous mouth too wide for classical beauty, and a firm, resolute chin. Slashing in frustration at a stand of nettles, he hurled the stick away. Why torment himself? As Lord Roland Stratton he could have asked friends to arrange an introduction, for she was obviously a gentleman’s daughter, but as Gabriel Ennis, his inferior station in life put her far beyond his reach.
The boatyard was below him. Knowing he would provoke at best curiosity, at worst suspicion, were he to arrive from the beach, he remained on the path and followed it to the village, as he had done the other night.
Approaching the big wooden gates, now open and fastened back, he caught the sound of voices just inside. ‘… Only food? You sure?’
‘That’s what I heard. Don’t make no sense, do it? Who’d break into an inn and not help hisself to a drink?’
‘A bleddy fool, that’s who. More hair than brains. Lest he’s a Methodist, of course. Right, come on, pick ’n up.’
The realisation that the two men were discussing him broke Gabriel’s stride, but only for an instant. He had, in every sense, come too far to turn back. Also, it was more than likely they had heard his footsteps. Though the arrival of a stranger in this small backwater was bound to arouse interest, there was nothing to connect him directly to the theft. It was to be hoped the villagers would find it impossible to conceive of a thief bold enough, or stupid enough, to return in broad daylight and ask for a job.
Subtly altering
After hiding the bucket and cooking pot out of sight with his blanket and spare clothes, he set off for the yard. Once on the path, the sights, smells, and sounds of the summer morning were lost on him as his desperate barriers were demolished by a rushing torrent of vivid memory. Images flooded his mind: no helpless, frightened girl, but a strong, athletic young woman, her face aglow with pleasure and hair flying like a flag as her horse had hurtled round the bend. Though she had cried out a startled warning, she had not panicked, and her reactions had been lightning fast.
His own move to seize the bridle in case the alarmed animal threw her off had been instinctive, though unwise. A person of his supposed low class would have been more likely to stumble back out of the way. The suddenness of the encounter meant his impressions had necessarily been brief. But her trim waist belied her undoubted strength, for her mount was a huge brute that even he, in his former life, would not have scorned. Her open-skirted riding dress of garnet red revealed a white petticoat. And a rippling cascade of dark hair framed her face, pale above the fluted cambric covering her full bosom.
But when he had stilled the fractious horse and glanced up, seeing her properly had stopped his breath. As he looked into those magnificent emerald eyes his heart had turned over. He had watched her gaze widen and swift colour warm her cheeks as she caught her breath. Immediately looking away, his heart racing as it had not done since his capture, he had cursed himself for a fool. Was he not in enough danger? He sensed – knew – the attraction was mutual, profound. And hopeless. The best thing, the only thing, was to ignore it, forget it, and pretend it had never happened.
Keeping his gaze lowered, he had knuckled his forehead in time-honoured fashion, then bent to gather up the dropped canvas. But, as she kicked her mount on, he had not been able to resist lifting his head to watch her go.
Now, as he walked, he searched his memory for every tiny detail, recalling the light dusting of freckles across her nose and the golden tint beneath her rosy blush. Few women of his acquaintance would be so careless of their complexion. But then, few women he knew could have handled the big thoroughbred with such gentle expertise. The beast must have stood a good 18 hands. So how tall was she?
As for the rest of her features, he seemed to remember a neat, straight nose, a generous mouth too wide for classical beauty, and a firm, resolute chin. Slashing in frustration at a stand of nettles, he hurled the stick away. Why torment himself? As Lord Roland Stratton he could have asked friends to arrange an introduction, for she was obviously a gentleman’s daughter, but as Gabriel Ennis, his inferior station in life put her far beyond his reach.
The boatyard was below him. Knowing he would provoke at best curiosity, at worst suspicion, were he to arrive from the beach, he remained on the path and followed it to the village, as he had done the other night.
Approaching the big wooden gates, now open and fastened back, he caught the sound of voices just inside. ‘… Only food? You sure?’
‘That’s what I heard. Don’t make no sense, do it? Who’d break into an inn and not help hisself to a drink?’
‘A bleddy fool, that’s who. More hair than brains. Lest he’s a Methodist, of course. Right, come on, pick ’n up.’
The realisation that the two men were discussing him broke Gabriel’s stride, but only for an instant. He had, in every sense, come too far to turn back. Also, it was more than likely they had heard his footsteps. Though the arrival of a stranger in this small backwater was bound to arouse interest, there was nothing to connect him directly to the theft. It was to be hoped the villagers would find it impossible to conceive of a thief bold enough, or stupid enough, to return in broad daylight and ask for a job.
Subtly altering
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