Between the Devil and Ian Eversea: Pennyroyal Green Series

by Long, Julie Anne

  “What’s happened? Are you hurt?”

  Polly seemed a bit embarrassed.

  “Oh, I’m sound enough, except me ankle . . . oh, blast, but I’ve twisted it, Miss Danforth, in a blessed vole hole, I believe. I can’t seem to get far. And oh, my dress! I’ve dirtied it! My papa is going to kill me.”

  Tansy understood full well the distress of dirtying a dress and worrying a father.

  “If only I could find a stick to help with the walking . . .” Polly fussed. She furrowed her brow and looked toward the Pig & Thistle, as if she could will herself back into the pub.

  “A stick! What nonsense. You’ll wait here and I’ll fetch help if we need it. But first, may I have a look? Here, let us take off your shoe, just . . . so.”

  Polly extended her leg without question, and Tansy carefully unlaced the worn, serviceable walking boot and handed it to Polly to hold.

  “Oh, it’s swollen! You poor thing. Now, if only we had something to wrap it . . . you see, I’ve done this before! My brother and I used to play together, and I would run after him. I never could catch up. He was older and his legs were longer and I tripped in holes in the pasture.”

  Polly laughed at that. “I always wished I had a brother.”

  “Mine was both wonderful and a great trial to me. He died late in the War of 1812.”

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Danforth. The men do love to go and be soldiers, and leave us at home missing them and worrying.”

  “Please do call me Tansy.”

  She wondered which Eversea in particular Polly had missed and worried over.

  “Tansy. Thank you, Tansy. Papa will be so worried. I’m all he has, you know, and I only have the few memories of Mama. And I canna serve at the Pig & Thistle with a limp. How could I be so foolish?”

  “Oh, we’re all foolish at one time or another. We’ll worry about that later. Let me see if this will help . . .”

  Tansy fished out a handkerchief and was able to wrap it around Polly’s slim ankle twice and tie it neatly. She bounded to her feet and hauled Polly gently upward.

  Polly tried to put a little weight on it, leaning heavily on Tansy. She brightened. “Oh! It’s a bit better.” She tried another step and yelped. “Bloody aitch, Tansy! I’m afraid I can’t do it all the way back to the Pig & Thistle like this. Oh, my papa will be so upset with me!”

  “Well, he will be at first, but if I know papas, he’ll be happier to see you alive than he will be angry that you hurt yourself. Here, lean on me and we’ll settle you back down again. I’ll go and fetch help straightaway.”

  Tansy managed to get herself into the saddle, which was a bit of a struggle, and she was afraid she’d showed Polly her stockings and part of her chemise in the process. Then she kicked her horse into a decidedly unladylike gallop and tore across the downs in the direction of town.

  She was shamelessly enjoying the excuse to ride at breakneck speed when she saw two men riding toward her across the green.

  She pulled her mare to a halt and stared. Then threw a glance over her shoulder at the woods. She really was quite in the middle of things and didn’t see any refuge.

  Ah. She wondered if this was the sort of thing she ought to have considered before she rode out alone.

  She wasn’t armed, more’s the pity, for goodness knows she could have shot either of them from horseback where she sat.

  If they wanted to abduct her and sell her into slavery on a pirate ship, she would put up a struggle, but there really was no doubt about who would eventually win.

  She watched, and said a little prayer, and a moment later . . . something about one of the men . . .

  . . . something simply about the way he occupied space . . .

  She knew it was Ian Eversea.

  Her relief seesawed with alarm for a moment before nerves settled in to stay.

  Nerves and guilt.

  And her heart, of course, took up that disorienting jig it normally did in his presence. Even when he was still at a distance.

  He sat a horse so beautifully, her breath snagged in her throat. She decided to try to take pleasure in that before the berating began.

  She saw the moment he recognized her, because he drew to an abrupt halt, too.

  He kneed his horse into a canter and was beside her in seconds.

  “Miss Danforth,” he drawled, sweeping his hat from his head. “Imagine seeing you where you shouldn’t be. And alone, too, which you also shouldn’t be. Or are you?”

  “And good day to you, Captain Eversea. I was riding into town to fetch Mr. Hawthorne. Polly Hawthorne was . . . out for a walk . . . and has twisted her ankle and she can’t put her weight on it. I discovered her.”

  He transformed before her eyes. His face went brilliant with relief and joy. “You found Polly? Where is she?” He turned to shout over his shoulder. “Ned! We’ve found Polly!” He turned back to Tansy. “Is she otherwise sound?”

  He sounded so worried, she found herself soothing him. “She’s fine. She’s turned her ankle and can’t put her weight on it but she’s otherwise well and cheerful enough. And worried about her father worrying about her.”

  “Ned! Polly turned her ankle but she’s sound otherwise.”

  Ned’s head dropped to his chest in relief and he kicked his horse into a trot.

  “Where is she?”

  “Follow me,” Tansy said. Enjoying the opportunity to order him about.

  “Miss Dan—”

  She tugged her horse around and kicked it into a gallop again.

  Catch me if you can, Captain Eversea.

  POLLY’S LITTLE ELFIN face lit when they galloped into view.

  Ned all but threw himself down from his horse and ran to her, then turned to Ian, wordlessly, who was next to them in a moment. Tansy watched as Ian scooped Polly up as if she were weightless. Together he and Ned gently situated her in the saddle of Ned’s horse.

  And if I were Polly, Tansy thought, I would never forget the feel of his arms around me, and how it felt to be lifted gently, as though I were precious. Almost worth turning an ankle over.

  With a tip of his hat to Ian and Tansy and a heartfelt, “My thanks,” to both of them, Ned Hawthorne urged his horse forward again. From the sound of things, Ned was clearly fussing and berating, and Polly protesting and placating.

  She smiled. Lucky Polly, to be so missed.

  She turned toward Ian.

  He was smiling, too, at the two of them as they retreated.

  Tansy’s heart squeezed. It was a beautiful smile. Warm, wholly satisfied and relieved, utterly unguarded. It made him look very young.

  That’s what he looks like when he cares about people, she thought, wistfully.

  That smile faded when it turned her way, alas.

  “How did you happen to find her, Miss Danforth?”

  He could have at least congratulated her. Or thanked her.

  She hesitated.

  “I’ve seen her near . . . here. Whilst I was riding. It’s a lovely spot, isn’t it? Very quiet by this stream.”

  “What were you doing here by yourself? Burying bodies? Meeting a lover?”

  She pressed her lips firmly closed.

  And when he refused to blink, she sighed.

  “Nothing remotely as interesting. Would you please, please, please stop being so bloody curious and overprotective? I said please. Three times.”

  He studied her a moment, clearly fighting a smile.

  “No need to curse,” he said mildly. “Are you going to stamp your foot? You’ve that look about you.”

  “Are you giving me permission to do it?”

  He did grin again, and the grin evolved into a laugh. He had a beautiful smile, even more beautiful when he aimed it at her.

  A little silence followed, and he swiped a hand over his hair, almost
self-consciously.

  “You ride very well,” he volunteered. “Then again, why wouldn’t you? Every ‘wallflower’ rides like a hellion.”

  “Of course I ride well. This soft little country is nothing compared to rugged American terrain. I frequently rode by myself. And I have to dodge Indians and bears and the like when I do it.”

  Judging from the look on his face, he was thoroughly enjoying this bald-faced lie.

  “Miss Danforth, I’m not ignorant of geography, you know. I’m familiar with your part of New York.”

  Oh.

  “But doubtless you need to gallop hard to elude your suitors and incensed women,” he added.

  “I leave all of them in the dust,” she said gravely, her hand over her heart.

  And he laughed again, sounding delighted, and the laugh evolved into a happy sigh, as if she were part of something amusing being performed on Drury Lane.

  Could it be that they were actually enjoying each other?

  If she thought about it too much she would likely revert to gawking and stammering.

  There was a silence that threatened to become awkward.

  “Is that where you learned to shoot?” he asked. “Like a bloody marksman?”

  “My father and brother taught me. I rather took to it. I don’t very much like to shoot animals, however.”

  “But you have no compunctions over murdering apples.”

  She laughed. “That apple deserved to die. I know how to load a musket, too, you know. I should one day like to shoot a rifle.”

  “I have an excellent rifle,” he said. “A Baker. Shot it during the war.”

  He stopped short of volunteering to allow her to shoot it, she noticed. And it seemed like those silent words filled the little pause that followed.

  “From when you were in the army,” she prompted.

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t expound. She imagined he’d shot a good deal when he was in the army, and seen a good deal, and suddenly she didn’t want to remind him.

  “You don’t really like Richard the Third, do you?”

  He looked startled. “I don’t dislike him. I would have to say I have no powerful feelings about Richard the Third. Have . . . you?” He said it with great trepidation.

  “No. I like stories of people surviving things. I’m rather fond of Robinson Crusoe.”

  He looked a bit taken aback by that. “Robinson Crusoe is a marvelous story,” he said on a hush. “Quite tolerable for a novel.”

  “Isn’t it?” she said eagerly. “I’ve also quite enjoyed the books by Miles Redmond about his South Seas Travels.”

  Amazement flickered across his face. “Mr. Miles Redmond’s stories have inspired me to take an ocean voyage around the world.”

  “You might be eaten by a cannibal,” she warned.

  “They’d have to catch me,” he said soberly. “And I’m an excellent shot. Not as good as you, of course. Apple killer.”

  They regarded each other in another peculiar little silence. Somewhat alarmed by their accord. And by the fact that they appeared to be very much enjoying a conversation.

  With each other.

  She suddenly wondered if Ian Eversea—who allegedly was so expert and blasé about women—felt a trifle awkward around her.

  His horse snorted encouragingly into the silence. Growing a little restive.

  And yet he didn’t suggest they leave yet.

  “Do you miss your home in America, Miss Danforth?”

  The question sounded almost tentative coming from him. As if he thought it were a delicate question, or was afraid it would result in a torrent of unwanted information. Men could be so amusing.

  Then again, he could actually be trying to know her.

  “Yes,” she said, mimicking his taciturn answer of a moment ago.

  The corner of his mouth lifted, appreciating this.

  “Genevieve said you used to live at Lilymont.”

  She inhaled sharply in surprise. It was a bit like hearing the name of a loved one out of the blue.

  She turned away, reflexively; she didn’t quite realize it, but she’d aimed her body in the general direction of Lilymont. “I did.”

  “A charming house. I remember how much I liked the garden when I saw it last.”

  “I loved the garden. My mother planted so many of the flowers there. I had such a wonderful time helping her. And my brother would chase me around it, pretending he was a British soldier and I was an American. The joke was on both of us when we went to live in America and we couldn’t decide who would be the enemy.”

  Ian laughed. “Brothers are experts at torment.”

  “I suppose you would know. You’re fortunate to have so many.”

  “I suppose I am. Did you know Lilymont is for sale?”

  “Oh.” It was a syllable of pure yearning. “How fortunate the new owners will be. I wonder if you can still see my name on the wall where I scratched it there with a little knife. Underneath the ivy in the corner next to my mother’s favorite apple tree.”

  Ian was quiet. His hat remained in his hand, and the wind ruffled the hair away from his forehead. He had the eyes of a rifleman, she thought.

  And there was a look of contemplative assessment in them, the same look her mother would get when poring over the kitchen budget looking for errors. As if he’d needed to erase an impression of her and start over at the beginning.

  Suddenly his eyes focused at some point on the top of her head, flicked to and fro.

  Where they stopped.

  And then he slowly grinned.

  “Now why are you grinning at me? It can’t mean anything good.”

  He seemed to love it when she was riled. He did it very easily, riling her.

  “It’s . . . well, you should see your hair. It’s every which way.”

  “No!” Her hands flew up to her head, aghast. “Is it? Well, I’m certain it’s nothing compared to yours.”

  He gave her a look of pity. “Good try. As if I mind what my hair looks like.”

  “You should,” she muttered darkly.

  She could see him struggling mightily not to laugh again. “And where the devil is your bonnet? I assume you went out wearing one.”

  She felt around the back of her neck but already knew it was gone. “Bloody—that is, drat.”

  “Left it behind, did you, while you were burying victims, eh? Or trysting?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I thought I felt it fly off. It was such a pleasure, you know, to ride like that, and I suppose I didn’t . . .”

  He craned his head behind them. “I don’t see it. Perhaps you left it . . . wherever you were. Why don’t we go and fetch it?”

  She rolled her eyes at him again. “Good try. But . . . I’ll need to repair my hair before I return.” She was fussing now. “I can’t go home looking like I’ve been ravished.”

  She slid him a tentatively minxlike sidelong look.

  He just shook his head slowly.

  “Leave it be, Miss Danforth. I like it this way. It makes you look as wild and disreputable as you truly are.”

  “At least you like something about me.”

  A curious silence ensued.

  He looked a bit taken aback. And thoughtful.

  If she’d hoped he’d launch into a list of all the things he liked about her, she was sorely disappointed. He remained quiet, watching her, with a look that started a little ballet of butterflies in the pit of her stomach. She sensed there were other things he liked about her, but he couldn’t say them aloud. At least not to her.

  “I wish I had a mirror,” she said finally.

  He appeared to give serious consideration to her dilemma.

  “Perhaps you can see yourself in my eyes.”

  She blinked.

  And
then went very, very still.

  The words had been issued oh so offhandedly.

  She had no doubt he would see the impact immediately, because he was watching her.

  It was a dare. Suddenly, out of nowhere, without warning . . .

  Was Ian Eversea at last flirting with her?

  Or . . . testing her?

  Or some interesting combination of both?

  Chapter 16

  SHE PONDERED THIS CONUNDRUM.

  He maintained a neutral expression.

  How many times had he said this sort of thing to other women?

  Surely she of all people would be able to call his bluff.

  “Perhaps I can see myself in your eyes,” she said cautiously.

  She took a step toward him.

  And then another.

  And another.

  She saw his mouth begin to curl at the corners at her cautious progress.

  At last she was close enough to catch just a whiff of what she suspected was bay rum and starch. Her head swam. Her heart lurched.

  And then she subtly squared her shoulders and tipped her head back and looked into his eyes.

  It was only marginally less difficult than looking into the sun, for different reasons.

  His eyes were so blue she felt them like an ache inside her, and she felt her fingers curl into fists, withstanding the impact. It seemed such an intimate thing to know about a person, that a darker ring of blue surrounded the lake of his iris, that his eyelashes were black but burnished a sort of russet at the tips, that his pupils had gone large and dark and his breath seemed to have stopped and—

  Her nerve failed.

  She exhaled, which is how she knew she’d stopped breathing, in a long shuddery breath, and ducked her head. And took a step backward.

  He was deep water, and she was in over her head, as he never tired of pointing out.

  She thought she could hear him breathing. How very still he’d gone. There was a suppressed energy about him. She was reminded of a fox patiently waiting for just the right time to pounce on a vole. She did indeed feel like the only woman in the world just then.

  “No. I can’t see myself very well in them,” she said, her voice gone small.

  On the contrary, she saw herself there very well indeed.