Read Online The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel by Stefanie Sloane - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stefanie Sloane
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head turning alertly at the sound of yet another rider.
Sarah instantly backed up against a massive tree trunk and stood stock-still, nearly groaning aloud as Lord Weston rounded the corner on his impressive chestnut. The earl lazily held the reins in his hands, the horse meandering along as if they were enjoying the scenery.
A reluctant smile tugged at Sarah’s lips. The pair’s obvious affection for each other was endearing. She knew enough about Thoroughbreds to know they could be fiery and fierce, yet here strode the chestnut, as gentle as a lamb in his owner’s capable hands.
Sarah looked yet again at the leather reins in Weston’s hands, looped loosely about his long, sun-kissed fingers as they rested on his thighs. She’d not noticed earlier how his fawn breeches fit so snugly, the contours of the muscles visible even from the considerable distance.
“I was a bit preoccupied with hiding at the time,” she whispered absentmindedly to Percival, who blinked in response.
The rhythmic thud of Pokey’s hoofbeats held Sarah’s attention as she watched Lord Weston’s leg muscles flex and release as the horse walked on. Flex and release. Flex and release.
“Caw!”
Pokey stopped abruptly, tossing his head anxiously at the sound of Percival’s ear-piercing cry.
Lord Weston swung the horse in a circle to keep Pokey from rearing. “Easy, boy.” He patted the big chestnut’sneck while scanning the woods, his gaze stopping scant inches from where Sarah stood.
“Miss Tisdale, is that you?” he called.
Sarah held her breath, her eyes widening with fear, certain she was about to be discovered. Percival appeared ready to caw at any moment.
“No? All right, then—only a bird, Pokey.” Weston clucked, urging the horse forward. The chestnut complied, apparently eager to move on and away from the cawing woods. The earl looked back, a small smile on his lips.
Sarah waited what felt to be nearly a quarter of an hour before moving, her limbs stiff from the effort. Percival had strutted over to a rotten log and was currently nibbling at bugs.
“This is entirely your fault, you know,” she said accusingly, wincing as she stretched complaining muscles. “If you could have only kept quiet.”
Thankfully, Titus had trotted after Nigel and a group of village boys earlier in the day. Lord only knew what disaster would have transpired had the mastiff been in attendance.
“Caw?” Percival replied, then bent back to his meal.
“Precisely!” Sarah answered resolutely, in truth not entirely sure how her need to hide in the first place had been Percival’s fault, but hardly willing to argue the point.
“Caw.”
The Boot Inn had changed little in the century since its door first opened to the thirsty fishermen and townsfolk of Lulworth. Marcus had visited a time or two on past trips, usually dressed in homespun and waiting until the patrons were sufficiently in their cups before making his way to the simple and unassuming tavern. Drunks were easily persuaded by rough clothing and the offer to purchase a round for all.
Tonight was no different. A raucous tune spilling from the open windows of the inn greeted Marcus as he handed Pokey’s reins to an ostler.
He’d gone home after visiting Tisdale Manor, consulting with Sully on the little he’d been able to glean from his conversation with Tisdale and Dixon.
The valet had arranged for a fellow Corinthian agent to meet Marcus at the Boot with information from Carmichael.
A blast of warm air and the pungent odor of hops hit Marcus as he pushed open the Boot’s door.
Come all you young sailormen, listen to me
I’ll sing you a song of the fish in the sea
The patrons’ lusty singing was infectious. When a portly man, a thin scar running the length of his face from forehead to chin, clapped Marcus on the back, he could not help but join in the chanty’s chorus as the song made its way back around for the second time.
“Jolly sou’wester, boys, steady she
Sarah instantly backed up against a massive tree trunk and stood stock-still, nearly groaning aloud as Lord Weston rounded the corner on his impressive chestnut. The earl lazily held the reins in his hands, the horse meandering along as if they were enjoying the scenery.
A reluctant smile tugged at Sarah’s lips. The pair’s obvious affection for each other was endearing. She knew enough about Thoroughbreds to know they could be fiery and fierce, yet here strode the chestnut, as gentle as a lamb in his owner’s capable hands.
Sarah looked yet again at the leather reins in Weston’s hands, looped loosely about his long, sun-kissed fingers as they rested on his thighs. She’d not noticed earlier how his fawn breeches fit so snugly, the contours of the muscles visible even from the considerable distance.
“I was a bit preoccupied with hiding at the time,” she whispered absentmindedly to Percival, who blinked in response.
The rhythmic thud of Pokey’s hoofbeats held Sarah’s attention as she watched Lord Weston’s leg muscles flex and release as the horse walked on. Flex and release. Flex and release.
“Caw!”
Pokey stopped abruptly, tossing his head anxiously at the sound of Percival’s ear-piercing cry.
Lord Weston swung the horse in a circle to keep Pokey from rearing. “Easy, boy.” He patted the big chestnut’sneck while scanning the woods, his gaze stopping scant inches from where Sarah stood.
“Miss Tisdale, is that you?” he called.
Sarah held her breath, her eyes widening with fear, certain she was about to be discovered. Percival appeared ready to caw at any moment.
“No? All right, then—only a bird, Pokey.” Weston clucked, urging the horse forward. The chestnut complied, apparently eager to move on and away from the cawing woods. The earl looked back, a small smile on his lips.
Sarah waited what felt to be nearly a quarter of an hour before moving, her limbs stiff from the effort. Percival had strutted over to a rotten log and was currently nibbling at bugs.
“This is entirely your fault, you know,” she said accusingly, wincing as she stretched complaining muscles. “If you could have only kept quiet.”
Thankfully, Titus had trotted after Nigel and a group of village boys earlier in the day. Lord only knew what disaster would have transpired had the mastiff been in attendance.
“Caw?” Percival replied, then bent back to his meal.
“Precisely!” Sarah answered resolutely, in truth not entirely sure how her need to hide in the first place had been Percival’s fault, but hardly willing to argue the point.
“Caw.”
The Boot Inn had changed little in the century since its door first opened to the thirsty fishermen and townsfolk of Lulworth. Marcus had visited a time or two on past trips, usually dressed in homespun and waiting until the patrons were sufficiently in their cups before making his way to the simple and unassuming tavern. Drunks were easily persuaded by rough clothing and the offer to purchase a round for all.
Tonight was no different. A raucous tune spilling from the open windows of the inn greeted Marcus as he handed Pokey’s reins to an ostler.
He’d gone home after visiting Tisdale Manor, consulting with Sully on the little he’d been able to glean from his conversation with Tisdale and Dixon.
The valet had arranged for a fellow Corinthian agent to meet Marcus at the Boot with information from Carmichael.
A blast of warm air and the pungent odor of hops hit Marcus as he pushed open the Boot’s door.
Come all you young sailormen, listen to me
I’ll sing you a song of the fish in the sea
The patrons’ lusty singing was infectious. When a portly man, a thin scar running the length of his face from forehead to chin, clapped Marcus on the back, he could not help but join in the chanty’s chorus as the song made its way back around for the second time.
“Jolly sou’wester, boys, steady she
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