Read Online Mine Till Midnight by Lisa Kleypas - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lisa Kleypas
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deep, smoking hole. I’ll go back to dig it up later.”
“Yes, we’ll want to see the condition of the casing and the inner core.” Swansea was red-faced with satisfaction. He used a handkerchief to blot his steaming, wrinkled countenance. “It’s been an exciting morning, eh?”
“Perhaps it’s time to return to the manor, Captain,” Westcliff suggested.
“Yes, quite.” Swansea bowed to Amelia. “A pleasure, Miss Hathaway. And may I say, you took it rather well, being the target of a surprise attack.”
“The next time I visit, Captain,” she said, “I’ll remember to bring my white flag.”
He chuckled and bid her farewell.
Before turning to join the captain, Lord Westcliff glanced at Cam Rohan. “I’ll take Swansea back to the manor, if you’ll see to it that Miss Hathaway is delivered home safely.”
“Of course,” came the unhesitating reply.
“Thank you,” Amelia said, “but there’s no need. I know the way, and it isn’t far.”
Her protest was ignored. She was left to stare uneasily at Cam Rohan, while the other two men departed.
“I’m hardly some helpless female,” she said. “I don’t need to be delivered anywhere. Besides, in light of your past behavior, I’d be safer going alone.”
A brief silence. Rohan tilted his head and regarded her curiously. “Past behavior?”
“You know what I—” She broke off, flushing at the memory of the kiss in the darkness. “I’m referring to what happened in London.”
He gave her a look of polite perplexity. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“You’re not going to pretend you don’t remember,” she exclaimed. Perhaps he had kissed so many legions of women, he couldn’t possibly recollect them all. “Are you also going to deny that you stole one of my bonnet ribbons?”
“You have a vivid imagination, Miss Hathaway.” His tone was bland. But there was a flare of provoking laughter in his eyes.
“I have no such thing. The rest of my family is steeped in imagination—I’m the one who clings desperately to reality.” She turned and began to walk at a brisk pace. “I’m going home. There’s no need for you to accompany me.”
Ignoring her statement, Rohan fell easily into step beside her, his relaxed stride accounting for every two of hers. He let her set their pace. In the openness of their surroundings, he seemed even larger than she had remembered. “When you saw my arm,” he murmured, “the tattoo … how did you know it was a pooka?”
Amelia took her time about replying. As they walked, the shadows of nearby branches crossed their faces. A red-tailed hawk glided across the sky and disappeared into the heavy wood. “I’ve read some Irish folklore,” she finally said. “A wicked, dangerous creature, the pooka. Invented to give people nightmares. Why would you adorn yourself with such a design?”
“It was given to me as a child. I don’t remember when it was done.”
“For what purpose? What significance does it have?”
“My family would never explain.” Rohan shrugged. “Perhaps they might now. But it’s been years since I’ve seen them.”
“Could you ever find them again, if you wished?”
“Given enough time.” Casually he fastened his waistcoat and rolled down his sleeves, concealing the heathen symbol. “I remember my grandmother telling me about the pooka. She encouraged me to believe it was real—I think she half believed it herself. She practiced the old magic.”
“What is that? Do you mean fortune-telling?”
Rohan shook his head and slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “No,” he said, looking amused, “although she did tell fortunes to gadjos at times. The old magic is a belief that all of nature is connected and equal. Everything is alive. Even the trees have souls.”
Amelia was fascinated. It had always been impossible to coax Merripen to say anything about his past or his Romany beliefs, and here was a man who seemed willing to discuss anything.
“Yes, we’ll want to see the condition of the casing and the inner core.” Swansea was red-faced with satisfaction. He used a handkerchief to blot his steaming, wrinkled countenance. “It’s been an exciting morning, eh?”
“Perhaps it’s time to return to the manor, Captain,” Westcliff suggested.
“Yes, quite.” Swansea bowed to Amelia. “A pleasure, Miss Hathaway. And may I say, you took it rather well, being the target of a surprise attack.”
“The next time I visit, Captain,” she said, “I’ll remember to bring my white flag.”
He chuckled and bid her farewell.
Before turning to join the captain, Lord Westcliff glanced at Cam Rohan. “I’ll take Swansea back to the manor, if you’ll see to it that Miss Hathaway is delivered home safely.”
“Of course,” came the unhesitating reply.
“Thank you,” Amelia said, “but there’s no need. I know the way, and it isn’t far.”
Her protest was ignored. She was left to stare uneasily at Cam Rohan, while the other two men departed.
“I’m hardly some helpless female,” she said. “I don’t need to be delivered anywhere. Besides, in light of your past behavior, I’d be safer going alone.”
A brief silence. Rohan tilted his head and regarded her curiously. “Past behavior?”
“You know what I—” She broke off, flushing at the memory of the kiss in the darkness. “I’m referring to what happened in London.”
He gave her a look of polite perplexity. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“You’re not going to pretend you don’t remember,” she exclaimed. Perhaps he had kissed so many legions of women, he couldn’t possibly recollect them all. “Are you also going to deny that you stole one of my bonnet ribbons?”
“You have a vivid imagination, Miss Hathaway.” His tone was bland. But there was a flare of provoking laughter in his eyes.
“I have no such thing. The rest of my family is steeped in imagination—I’m the one who clings desperately to reality.” She turned and began to walk at a brisk pace. “I’m going home. There’s no need for you to accompany me.”
Ignoring her statement, Rohan fell easily into step beside her, his relaxed stride accounting for every two of hers. He let her set their pace. In the openness of their surroundings, he seemed even larger than she had remembered. “When you saw my arm,” he murmured, “the tattoo … how did you know it was a pooka?”
Amelia took her time about replying. As they walked, the shadows of nearby branches crossed their faces. A red-tailed hawk glided across the sky and disappeared into the heavy wood. “I’ve read some Irish folklore,” she finally said. “A wicked, dangerous creature, the pooka. Invented to give people nightmares. Why would you adorn yourself with such a design?”
“It was given to me as a child. I don’t remember when it was done.”
“For what purpose? What significance does it have?”
“My family would never explain.” Rohan shrugged. “Perhaps they might now. But it’s been years since I’ve seen them.”
“Could you ever find them again, if you wished?”
“Given enough time.” Casually he fastened his waistcoat and rolled down his sleeves, concealing the heathen symbol. “I remember my grandmother telling me about the pooka. She encouraged me to believe it was real—I think she half believed it herself. She practiced the old magic.”
“What is that? Do you mean fortune-telling?”
Rohan shook his head and slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “No,” he said, looking amused, “although she did tell fortunes to gadjos at times. The old magic is a belief that all of nature is connected and equal. Everything is alive. Even the trees have souls.”
Amelia was fascinated. It had always been impossible to coax Merripen to say anything about his past or his Romany beliefs, and here was a man who seemed willing to discuss anything.
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