“She’m caught,” Jack murmured when some of the children crept closer, looking uncertain. “The lady’s hair, looks like. Edn she caught?” Connor was already on his feet. “Con? Wait, now. Ho, Con! You shouldn’t oughter—”
He didn’t hear the rest. Impulsiveness was one of his most dangerous failings, but this—this was too much like the answer to a prayer he’d been too distracted to say. He took off across the green at a sprint.
No doubt about it, the teacher was caught. “It’s all right, Birdie,” she was saying, reaching back to try to disentangle her hair from something on the little girl’s dress. “Don’t wriggle for a second. No, it’s all right, just don’t move.”
Birdie was near tears. “I’m sorry, Miss Sophie,” she kept saying, worried but unable to stop squirming. The music teacher winced—then laughed, pretending it was a joke.
The other children eyed Connor in amazement when he squatted down beside the entangled pair. Birdie’s mouth dropped open and she finally went still. The teacher—Miss Sophie—could only see him out of the corner of her eye; if she turned her head, she’d yank the long strand of hair that was wound tight around Birdie’s shirtwaist button.
“Well, now, what have we here?” he said, softening his voice to keep Birdie calm. He shifted until he was kneeling in front of the teacher, and reached over her bent head to untangle the snarl.
“It got stuck! Now I can’t move or I’ll hurt Miss Sophie!”
Around them the children had gathered in a quiet circle, curious as cows. And protective of their teacher, Connor fancied. “That’s right,” he agreed, “so you must hold very, very still while I undo this knot. Pretend you’re a statue.”
“Yes, sir. What’s a statue?”
A breathy laugh came from the music teacher. He could see only her profile and the smooth angle of her neck. She had cream-white skin, the cheeks flushed a little from exertion or embarrassment. Her eyes were downcast; he couldn’t be sure what color they were. Blue, he thought. “The stone cross at the edge of the green, Birdie,” she said, amusement in her low voice. “That’s a sort of statue, because it never moves.”
“Oh.”
The snarl was stubborn, and Connor was as anxious as Birdie not to pull Miss Sophie’s hair. “Almost got it,” he muttered. “Two more seconds.” Her pretty hair was soft and slippery and it smelled of roses. Or was that the sun-warmed linen of her dress?
“There are scissors in the rectory,” she said, speaking to the ground. “Tommy Wooten, are you here? Would you go and ask—”
“Out of the question. I’d sooner cut off my hand than a single strand of this beautiful hair.” And if that wasn’t the most fatuous thing he’d ever said in his life, he wanted to know what was.
She sent him a twinkling, sideways glance, and he saw the color of her eyes. Blue. Definitely blue. “Actually, I was thinking you might cut off the button.”
“Ah, the button. A much better idea.”
“Shall I go, Miss Sophie?” asked a reedy voice behind Connor’s shoulder.
“Yes, Tommy.”
“No, Tommy,” Connor corrected as the last strand in the tangle finally came loose. “Miss Sophie is free.”
She sat back on her heels and smiled, first at him, then at the children gathered around; some of them were clapping, as if a performance had just concluded. Her laughing face was flushed, her hair awry—and she was so stunningly lovely, he felt blinded, hindered, too dazzled to take it in. He remembered to take off his hat, but before he could speak—and say what?—she turned away to give Birdie a strong, reassuring hug.
“Did it hurt?” the little girl asked her, patting her cheek worriedly.
“No, not one bit.”
She heaved a great sigh of relief. “Look, Miss Sophie, here’s what I was giving you.” She held out one bent daisy, the stem wilted, the white petals smashed.
Sophie drew in her breath. “Oh, lovely,” she declared, holding the flower to her nose and sniffing deeply. “Thank you, Birdie.” The child blushed with pleasure. Then she was off, anxious to tell her friends about her adventure.
Now that the drama was over, the other children began to wander away, too. Connor was still on his knees beside the teacher. “Thank you,” she said in her musical voice.
He said, “It was very much my pleasure.” They both looked away, then back. He put out his hand. She hesitated for a second, then took it, and he helped her to her feet.
Patricia Gaffney is a New York Times bestselling author and six-time RITA nominee for her historical romances and winner of the Romance Writers of America Golden Heart Award. She worked as a high school English teacher and a court reporter before pursuing a full-time career as a novelist. She lives in southern Pennsylvania with her husband.
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