Read Online Patrica Rice by The English Heiress - Free Book Online
Authors: The English Heiress
Ads: Link
you. I think I shall be your sister.”
Wonderfully enough, no curses rang out over her head as she marched toward the vicarage. Michael never cursed. That was one of the marvelous things about him. Although right about now, his curses might reassure her a great deal more than his silence.
A silent Michael was a dangerous thing. She would best hurry before he devised some devious plan for ridding himself of her company.
Seven
She had the right of it. He couldn’t stop her.
Watching morosely from the shadows of the apple orchard, idly fingering the coin that never left the chain at his neck, Michael saw Blanche mount a nag provided by the vicar. She had chosen to disguise herself in a shabby riding outfit, no doubt outgrown by the vicar’s plump wife, and a flat cap with a veil for keeping the dust of the road from her eyes.
She appeared more the baker’s daughter than aristocrat. But Michael’s eyes saw beyond the obvious. Her straight, elegant seat in the saddle spoke of years of training. She had kept her own gloves, and the expensive lambskin clung to long shapely fingers holding the reins with practiced ease. The partial covering of the veil cast a shadow over delicate skin seldom kissed by sun, and did little to disguise the silken blonde locks carefully arranged beneath. Anyone with half an eye could see a duke’s granddaughter.
Anyone with half an eye could see her groom, too, Michael snorted to himself. She’d concealed the man in shabby coat and trousers, but he sat his horse with as much confidence as his employer. The village men didn’t own horses or know how to ride them. And if she had some funny notion she could play the man as a relation, she had bats in her belfry. The groom’s harsh, weathered features, bandy legs, and rough hands belied any such possibility.
The pair stood out like songbirds on a winter’s day. Scowling, Michael led his horse through the orchard. He wanted to get on with the business of finding Fiona, but he couldn’t leave Blanche exposed and unprotected, not after what had happened today. He felt responsible for the incident, even if he had no proof of any relation between the explosion and Fiona. These were troubled times. He could think of any number of men angry at the wealth of a dukedom. There had been worse incidents throughout England.
Moreover, he couldn’t forget the feeling of Blanche trembling and terrified in his arms. He’d once held a shivering and dying baby bird in the palm of his hand. The experience was much the same, except he knew Blanche, knew the brave woman who had rescued a house full of servants before saving herself, knew what it must have taken to reduce her to hysteria. He had a passion for fixing things, people as well as objects. He felt compelled to right wrongs. But with Blanche, it went well beyond that particular obsession. He wanted her whole again because she was the only perfection he had ever found in this world.
He wanted her whole because he couldn’t imagine his arms around any other woman. Glumly, Michael accepted that unwelcome piece of knowledge. He had held her, and she had molded perfectly against him, her head bumping just along his chin, her slender waist swaying like a reed between his hands, her soft breasts pushing against his coat, and she aroused him as no other woman could.
He snorted in self-deprecation. Blanche could test the mettle of a monk.
He mounted his horse and followed behind the odd couple. There was no sense in torturing himself. If fate or the gods had any sympathy for him at all, they would arrange to discourage Blanche before she reached the city. A pity he had no confidence in either fate or gods.
She stopped and spoke with every farmer on every wagon, every housewife in every cottage along the road. They all greeted her warmly, spoke to her with deference, and every single one of them reluctantly shook their head in negative response to her questions. They all wanted to help, but none had help
Wonderfully enough, no curses rang out over her head as she marched toward the vicarage. Michael never cursed. That was one of the marvelous things about him. Although right about now, his curses might reassure her a great deal more than his silence.
A silent Michael was a dangerous thing. She would best hurry before he devised some devious plan for ridding himself of her company.
Seven
She had the right of it. He couldn’t stop her.
Watching morosely from the shadows of the apple orchard, idly fingering the coin that never left the chain at his neck, Michael saw Blanche mount a nag provided by the vicar. She had chosen to disguise herself in a shabby riding outfit, no doubt outgrown by the vicar’s plump wife, and a flat cap with a veil for keeping the dust of the road from her eyes.
She appeared more the baker’s daughter than aristocrat. But Michael’s eyes saw beyond the obvious. Her straight, elegant seat in the saddle spoke of years of training. She had kept her own gloves, and the expensive lambskin clung to long shapely fingers holding the reins with practiced ease. The partial covering of the veil cast a shadow over delicate skin seldom kissed by sun, and did little to disguise the silken blonde locks carefully arranged beneath. Anyone with half an eye could see a duke’s granddaughter.
Anyone with half an eye could see her groom, too, Michael snorted to himself. She’d concealed the man in shabby coat and trousers, but he sat his horse with as much confidence as his employer. The village men didn’t own horses or know how to ride them. And if she had some funny notion she could play the man as a relation, she had bats in her belfry. The groom’s harsh, weathered features, bandy legs, and rough hands belied any such possibility.
The pair stood out like songbirds on a winter’s day. Scowling, Michael led his horse through the orchard. He wanted to get on with the business of finding Fiona, but he couldn’t leave Blanche exposed and unprotected, not after what had happened today. He felt responsible for the incident, even if he had no proof of any relation between the explosion and Fiona. These were troubled times. He could think of any number of men angry at the wealth of a dukedom. There had been worse incidents throughout England.
Moreover, he couldn’t forget the feeling of Blanche trembling and terrified in his arms. He’d once held a shivering and dying baby bird in the palm of his hand. The experience was much the same, except he knew Blanche, knew the brave woman who had rescued a house full of servants before saving herself, knew what it must have taken to reduce her to hysteria. He had a passion for fixing things, people as well as objects. He felt compelled to right wrongs. But with Blanche, it went well beyond that particular obsession. He wanted her whole again because she was the only perfection he had ever found in this world.
He wanted her whole because he couldn’t imagine his arms around any other woman. Glumly, Michael accepted that unwelcome piece of knowledge. He had held her, and she had molded perfectly against him, her head bumping just along his chin, her slender waist swaying like a reed between his hands, her soft breasts pushing against his coat, and she aroused him as no other woman could.
He snorted in self-deprecation. Blanche could test the mettle of a monk.
He mounted his horse and followed behind the odd couple. There was no sense in torturing himself. If fate or the gods had any sympathy for him at all, they would arrange to discourage Blanche before she reached the city. A pity he had no confidence in either fate or gods.
She stopped and spoke with every farmer on every wagon, every housewife in every cottage along the road. They all greeted her warmly, spoke to her with deference, and every single one of them reluctantly shook their head in negative response to her questions. They all wanted to help, but none had help
Similar Books
