So Enchanting

by Connie Brockway

  “No.”

  “Well, we shall have to rectify that straight off. Which way is this inn?”

  She nodded down the street and tucked her hand in the crook of his arm as he led her forth.

  “If you weren’t thinking you disapproved of me,” she said, “what were you thinking?”

  “How intrepid you are,” he answered.

  “Intrepid?” Now she was surprised.

  “Why, yes. Here you endure under an unknown threat and yet there is nothing about you to suggest an ounce of anxiety. I call that intrepid.” He leaned a little closer. “That isn’t to say I approve. I don’t know that I like the thought of you all alone in this town, without anyone to watch over you.”

  She felt a thrill run through her, but her innate honesty forced her to reply, “Really, Lord Hayden, I am sure there is no need for alarm. I may not be the most popular person in town, but I am the most important, and there is no one in Little Firkin who isn’t well aware of it.”

  “What remarkable clearheadedness,” he said admiringly. “So few of the young ladies I meet would be capable of such reasoned thought. Or even want to attempt it. You almost convince me.”

  She blushed again. He was too wonderful! “Please do be convinced. I should hate to have a pall cast over your visit here.”

  “Then there won’t be,” he avowed. “I hereby declare our visit here a holiday.”

  “And what are we celebrating?” Amelie asked, charmed.

  “Why, my meeting you, of course,” he said.

  And the day only got better from there.

  Chapter 11

  The day of the dinner party, Fanny awoke to the sound of pots and pans crashing, a young girl squealing, and an older woman shouting: Miss Oglethorpe and Violet engaged in battle.

  The day only got worse after that.

  Amelie was still not speaking to her after she’d roundly chastised the girl for disappearing into Little Firkin yesterday, only to return hours later glowing like a candelabra. Fanny had been about to start down the road to Little Firkin when she’d spied Amelie and Ploddy making their way back to the house. When they’d reached her, she’d given the girl a sharp dressing-down, even though she knew she was being unreasonable. Amelie had always enjoyed free rein of the town. What could she do—keep Amelie prisoner at Quod Lamia until the author of the letter had been revealed? And what if that never happened? The letter had been dated three weeks previous, and in the interim nothing unusual had happened.

  But as she performed her morning’s toilette, she kept seeing Oglethorpe’s livid face. Could Oglethorpe have gone dotty? Reportedly, in the last few years his sermons had grown even more rabid. And really, he needn’t have gone dotty to be at the root of this mystery; he needed only for someone else to think he was dotty. Perhaps Miss Oglethorpe, after hearing his spittle-attended sermon, had decided that he was crazy and so written that letter. Not so much out of fear for Amelie, but out of fear that if her brother killed Amelie, she’d be out of a cushy job. By the time Fanny went downstairs, the musing and worrying had started her head aching all over again. She found Miss Oglethorpe waiting for her at the bottom of the steps, her round, flat face set in a pugnacious expression.

  “There’s nothing fer to make a decent dinner this evenin’,” she declared in her thick Highland brogue. “Tha’ slattern Violet hae left the door open ta the ice chest and the eel’s spoiled.”

  “Miss Oglethorpe,” Fanny said, “did you write a letter to Lord Collier saying that Amelie’s life was in danger?”

  Caught off balance by this unanticipated sally, Miss Oglethorpe rocked back on her thick heels. “Why would I do a fool thing like tha’?”

  “Someone did.”

  “Well, weren’t me.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have?” Fanny asked.

  Miss Oglethorpe bent a cold eye on her. “No. I don’t and I don’t care to. Whatever troobles ye and tha gel hath broot down on yer heads is nae concern of mine,” she said, and then, the matter settled, she asked, “Wha’ would ye hae me do aboot dinner?”

  Fanny wasn’t sure whether she believed the woman or not, but recognized that asking further questions would be a waste of time.

  “Well?”

  “I’ll send Violet to town for a nice joint of beef,” she said.

  Miss Oglethorpe crossed her arms over her broad chest. “There’ll be no joint. I had me plans and they’ll stay as is or I’ll no’ be cookin’,” she said. “Dinner was to be fish, and I already made those things best with fish, and I’ll not change me mind cause some wee scrawny slut canna shut a door proper.”

  In the end, Miss Oglethorpe ruled the day; Fanny would have to go fishing.

  Even though she resented having to fish for Grey Sheffield’s meal, generally Fanny would have looked forward to a morning spent knee-deep fly fishing in the crystal-clear waters of Quod Lamia’s small loch. But today, she hadn’t time to enjoy the beauty of the dark water or the thrill of flicking the mirrored surface with her fly line.

  Instead, she would need to drag Amelie’s little dinghy into the lake, row out a hundred feet or so, dump a hook over the side, and wait for some stupid pike to take it. She had no doubt it would. The loch was teeming with pike. She just hoped it didn’t take too long.

  She changed into a dark serge skirt and plain white shirtwaist, donned sturdy shoes, and tucked her hair beneath a soft cap before heading to the loch. There she found Amelie’s dinghy overturned on the shore, where it had been left since last fall, chained and padlocked to the end of the dock. The boat had been Fanny’s present to Amelie on her sixteenth birthday, her attempt to encourage the girl to partake of more physical exercise. Fanny smiled. Amelie loved the dinghy, but was more likely to be found floating in it about the loch, her hand drifting in the water, than actually rowing it.

  She unlocked and overturned the boat, loaded her fishing kit and the new fishing rod, and looked about. The water level was low, half the short dock on land. She would have to wade in, shoving the boat ahead of her until its keel cleared the rocky bottom. That was just the way the day had gone. Sighing, she resigned herself to wet feet. Luckily, her garments were made for practical outdoor use and not fashion.

  Once in the dinghy, she rowed toward the center of the loch, where a submerged rock shelf often attracted decent-size fish. It didn’t take long to reach her destination. The loch wasn’t very big. She threw the anchor overboard and dropped her line, noting with dismay that she’d hauled a fair amount of water in on her skirts. She lifted her feet out of the water pooling in the dinghy’s bottom and onto the bench in front of her.

  A pleasant breeze ruffled the loch’s sapphire surface, and the scent of flowering plums wafted gently across the water. The bright sun dazzled her eyes. She stripped off her jacket and tucked it in the boat’s prow, then leaned back, using it as a pillow. She looped the fishing line loosely around her fingers and, tipping the brim of her soft cap forward, closed her eyes. The spring sun toasted her cheeks and soaked through her cambric shirtwaist

  With a start, she came awake, her fishing line cutting into her fingers. She bolted upright and her feet landed in cold water. She jerked them up and stared.

  Water had filled the bottom of the dinghy. Far more than she’d brought in on her skirt.

  She looked over the gunwales. There were mere inches of freeboard. The boat was sinking. She stared, looking for something with which to bail out the boat. There was nothing. She wasn’t afraid; she was a first-rate swimmer. She was mostly angry—angry at the loss of her boat, her fishing rod, and her dinner.

  “No!” she shouted, standing up. The water swirled, her hem floating around her calves, and the boat, already unsteady, wobbled. She sat back down and, muttering curses Amelie would be shocked to learn she knew, wrenched off her shoes and socks. She had just reached behind her waist to unbutton her skirt when a gush of water erupted from the middle of the boat. With nary a whimper, Amelie’s dinghy headed for the bottom of th
e lake.

  The shock of the icy water took her breath away. For the first time, a tendril of unease touched her. She struck out for shore, and the movement jerked the fishing pole from her hand. Freed, it started sinking slowly away from her.

  Without thinking she dove after it. Ten feet below, she snatched the fishing rod and jackknifed around, kicking hard against the drag of her sodden clothing. Unease jettisoned into fear. She was a strong swimmer, yes, but the water was ice-cold, far colder than any water she’d ever been in before, and her skirts felt leaden around her.

  She dropped the pole and raised her arms, spearing upward. Kicking violently, she broke the surface, choking and gasping for breath and—

  Something snatched her around the waist.

  She cried out, thrashing.

  “Don’t struggle!” a deep voice commanded.

  She jerked her head around and found herself staring into the beautiful blue-green eyes of Grey Sheffield. She nearly sank again then, out of pure amazement, but he held her.

  “No… I… She tried to tell him she could swim, but her lips had grown numb.

  “Stop trying to swim. I’ve got you,” he growled. He looped his arm around her chest and headed toward shore, her body supported atop his.

  It took only a short while for him to swim to shallow water. Once there, he stood up and effortlessly plucked her from the loch’s chill embrace into his much warmer one. Without thought, she curled into that warmth, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck as she instinctively sought to steal his heat.

  Since she was a child, she had not taken refuge in another’s strength. But Sheffield was so strong, and she was so cold, and she wanted to be comforted. She pressed her eyes shut and drank in the sensation of being cared for…safe.

  Too soon he dropped to one knee and gently laid her on the ground. He pulled her sodden cap from her head and carefully brushed her wet hair from her face. His touch was immeasurably gentle, his fingertips as light as a kiss.

  She opened her eyes. He was bending over her, his dark head backlit against the brilliant sky, his black curls sparkling with water. She could not see his face.

  “Mrs. Walcott?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said through chattering teeth.

  “Right. I, too, consider blue lips and an opalescent complexion fine.” His voice was dry, but she thought she heard relief there, too.

  He reached behind himself, then eased his arm beneath her shoulders and wrapped his jacket around her. It was dry and warm. He must have shed it before swimming out to her.

  “Better?” he asked.

  She nodded, shivering. “Thank you. I don’t think I would have been able to swim to shore. My skirts…were so…heavy.”

  “Well,” he said gruffly, “we shan’t ever know.” Then, without asking permission, he sat down next to her and gathered her close, her back against his chest, tucking her head beneath his chin. It was an oddly natural act of charity from a man whom the penny press claimed had none. It was even more oddly easy for her to accept it.

  “There, now,” he murmured against her hair. “There.”

  He gathered the collar of his jacket high under her chin and cupped her cheek with his broad palm, urging her to lay her head against his chest. It was a wonderfully broad chest. It didn’t take much urging. Even though he was as wet as she, he still exuded a wonderful heat.

  He gathered her hair in a thick coil, held it away from them, and wrung it out. She didn’t protest. She couldn’t have found the breath to do so; his ministrations had stolen it away. She could not remember the last time she’d experienced such casual intimacy.

  He dug in the outer pocket of the jacket and withdrew a folded silk handkerchief and, with that same devastating familiarity, dabbed her face dry.

  “There,” he murmured again, finishing.

  Warily, she nestled closer, relaxing slowly when he didn’t tense.

  “Now, what the hell were you doing in a leaky boat in the middle of a freezing cold loch?” he asked mildly, reaching around her and tugging on the boots he’d apparently shed somewhere along the way.

  She didn’t take exception. She was far too comfortable. She could rest like this forever.

  “Well,” she began, “I was—” She bolted upright.

  “What is it?” he asked in alarm.

  “My fishing pole!” she said. “My brand-new fishing rod and reel and all my tackle. It’s gone. Sunk. And the fish, too.”

  “The fish?”

  “The pike I’d caught for dinner this evening.”

  He took her shoulders in his big hands and gently pulled her back, rumbling, “Stay put. There’s nothing to do about it now, and you’re white as chalk and shivering like aspic on a ship captain’s table.”

  She made no attempt to resist. He was right. The rod, the reel, the fish, and the boat were all lost causes.

  “So, you were fishing for dinner,” he said, “and the boat just capsized?”

  “No,” she answered. “There must have been a leak in it. I had set the anchor and dropped my line, and I must have dozed off for a few minutes. I woke when I felt a tug on the line and found the boat half-submerged.”

  “You didn’t notice anything before today?”

  “No. But I wouldn’t. No one has used the boat since last fall. Normally I would have made sure everything was in proper working condition before I let Amelie…” A terrible thought seized hold of her. She came upright out his arms again, and this time he let her go.

  She turned to him, only half-aware that she braced a hand on his thigh as she did so.

  His blue-green eyes scoured her face questioningly. “Amelie?” he repeated.

  “The boat is hers.”

  He frowned. “You think someone purposely damaged Amelie’s boat, hoping she would drown?”

  Fanny gazed helplessly at him. “Amelie wears far more elaborate clothing than I,” she said, unable to keep the quaver from her voice. “In her usual skirts or dress she would have been so weighed down she would have sunk like a rock.”

  His dark skin turned ashen. “Thank God you dress more sensibly than that.”

  “Do you think this could have been an attempt on her life?” she asked. He might consider her his enemy if he knew who she was, but she knew he was good at what he did, and she respected his opinion.

  His frown deepened as he thought. “You just said you would normally inspect the boat before she put it to use. I assume you take equal care with her safety in other areas?”

  She nodded.

  “And this is well-known?”

  She flushed. “I take my responsibilities quite seriously,” she admitted.

  Did a smile flicker over his stern face?

  “And does no one but Miss Amelie and you use the boat?”

  “Sometimes Ploddy. And I suspect Violet’s filched the padlock key now and again for her relatives.” At his quizzical expression she explained, “Violet is one of our servants. In a manner of speaking.”

  He let that pass. “You say you suspect, but do you know?”

  She was reminded that by training Sheffield was a lawyer. “I know,” she admitted, and then she added, “There are few secrets in Little Firkin.”

  He regarded her for a long moment before finally speaking. “I don’t think this was an attempt on anyone’s life. The method is too sloppy, too reliant on chance and happenstance for its outcome. The boat might be inspected beforehand, or tied in the water at the end of the dock and seen to be sinking. The occupant might not be the intended victim. The boat might sink too fast, or within wading distance of the shore, or sink too slowly, allowing the victim time to return. Indeed, had you not dozed, you probably would have seen the water early enough to row back to shore”—a smile flickered across his hard face—“with your pike.”

  Warmth and gratitude filled her responding smile. She was more worried about this letter than she’d realized. “Thank you,” she said earnestly. “You’ve put my mind considerably
at ease.”

  “I am happy to oblige,” he responded.

  She hesitated, then said, “Please, can we keep this between us two? What with the letter and everything, I don’t want Amelie jumping at shadows or seeing threats in every corner. I think one of us doing that is sufficient,” she finished ironically. She turned her head and was surprised to discover they were smiling at each other.

  “You don’t strike me as the type to jump at shadows.”

  She sighed. “I wouldn’t have said so, but apparently my imagination isn’t always at my command.” The realization alarmed her. One good episode of uncontrolled histrionics and voila! The animals would come running and she could become the Pied Piper of Little Firkin.

  “You said you take your responsibility for Miss Amelie seriously, but I think it is more than duty that motivates you,” he said in an odd tone.

  She saw no reason to deny it. “Amelie is as close to a family as I know. I love her.”

  He cocked his head. “You have no one else?”

  “I have a brother and sister, but…we do not speak.”

  She expected him to say he was sorry. It would be the acceptable response, but then, this was Sheffield. “What of your parents?”

  “Deceased.”

  “And your husband’s family? Or is the title ‘Mrs.’ an honorary one?”

  “No. I am a widow,” she said, stiffening. “And he had none. At least that I am aware of.”

  “How is it you came to work for Colonel Chase?”

  “His country house was close to my family’s,” she replied shortly.

  “Oh?”

  He was asking too many questions and her wariness, absent for a short while, rushed back. “So many questions, Lord Sheffield. Should I be seeking counsel?”

  She had tried to make the reprimand sound lighthearted, but his eyes narrowed. “I don’t know. Have you done anything wrong?”

  “Oh, doubtless many things,” she said, donning once more the armor of insouciance.

  “Then best pray I don’t discover them,” he advised.

  “Well, then I shan’t answer any more questions, lest you lure me into revealing my dark past.”