“That way, Miss Dalrymple,” he jammed his finger toward the crude path, and at last, she began to move in the direction he had wanted her to be moving since she arrived. Away.
“I’ll have you know I’m not usually so clumsy. Just the opposite, in fact,” she prattled on. “I’ve had some of the finest instructors.”
Thank God for small miracles; the din of the courtyard swelled.
Miss Dalrymple raised her voice to be heard over it, confirming the Lord was otherwise dead or previously engaged helping some more worthwhile fellow than Rafe. “I’ve had endless lessons on the art of walking,” she said.
The art of . . . ?
As if to provide an illustration for his silently unspoken question, the lady held her arms out and proceeded in a graceful glide across the muddied, rock-cluttered ground. And . . . as she did, his gaze, of its own volition, slipped lower.
Her eyes collided with his, and she smiled widely. “After all, what manner of instructor would I be if I were incapable of carrying out the same feats of ladylikeness that I was expecting my students to follow?”
There was only one certainty in this moment . . . the little bird had no idea the path his thoughts had wandered down. She’d not be smiling so innocently if she did. Though, likely if . . . The lady tossed a glance over her shoulder, with her head at a jaunty angle, and flashed a smile. “Do you see?”
It was then that he tuned in to her gait: a slight sashay of those narrow hips that lent them a false curve . . . but drew a man’s gaze lower, to her buttocks, which were surprisingly lush for one of her slenderness. “Aye, I see,” he said, his voice guttural. And he did. There was a grace to her movement that made a man—
From out of the corner of his eye, he caught the miners all lined up, staring.
Rafe glared at their audience, and those young men tripped and stumbled over one another in their haste to get back to their respective jobs.
Seemingly oblivious to both his brief lapse into insanity and the lewd stares she’d been the recipient of, the young woman did a little pirouette . . . and curtsied, with her mud-drenched parasol in hand.
He opened his mouth to deliver another blistering rebuke . . . when he honed in on another detail. She’d had her weight balanced over her left foot, which indicated, despite her sheer and surprising lack of complaint, she’d in fact been injured.
“You’re hurt,” he said, the charge accusatory.
“A lady never shows—eep!” Whatever latest deportment lesson she intended to launch was thankfully, effectively cut off by the little bird’s perfectly birdlike squeak as he swept her into his arms and marched onward.
The sooner he got her out of here, the sooner he could be done with Miss Dalrymple and her pleasantly plump arse.
“You injured your ankle, princess. You’re hurt. Do you know what I risk every day?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. Nay, he didn’t allow her to answer. “Do you know what all the men and women and children here risk every day? Cave-ins. Fume poisoning that leaves a person spitting up blood. Explosions that separate a person from their limbs.” The more he spoke, the rounder her eyes got. A gentlemen, the one she took him for, would have felt some compunction at speaking so to a lady—to any woman—with the shocking candor Rafe now did. But he wasn’t done with her or his list.
Chapter 5
Clinging to Mr. Rafe Audley as he marched onward through the mining courtyard, Edwina saw two possible fates awaiting her.
One, Mr. Rafe Audley intended to deposit her somewhere far, far away, so she might not ever be a bother to him—or anyone—ever again.
Or two, he intended to help her.
She wasn’t one given to wagering, as it was a cardinal sin no lady should commit, but if she were of the gambling persuasion, she would have placed all the coins she’d accumulated over the years on Rafe, with all his gruff bellowing and bellicose temperament, being set on outcome one.
She peered up at him; his features were as harshly beautiful as those stone statues of the Greek gods . . . equally chiseled . . . and cold. His eyes, a dark brown that leaned toward black, even colder. And even with all his blustery annoyance from before, this was the first she’d ever felt the stirrings of real unease where her new charge was concerned.
Oh, dear. Yes, it appeared with every long stride he took, away from the crowd, and onward to . . . wherever they now went, that he was going to dispose of her.
It was the silence that made him seem more like a statue and less . . . human. As such, Edwina opted for the most tried and true course of disarming volatile individuals and situations—Do not allow a person to simmer in silence. Get to the heart of it, Edwina. “You are angry.” Or, perhaps, he was not? Perhaps she was needlessly worrying because he was a foreign-to-her gentleman, and she was in the middle of the even more foreign English countryside and—
“I’m not happy,” he said curtly. That was it. Three words, confirming his displeasure.
“One might say that is a contrary way of saying, ‘I am angry.’ I prefer plain-speaking, in most situations. This being one of them. Of course, all situations should be considered separate from the other, and we will also add that to—”
Mr. Audley glared her into silence, and this time she allowed him to do it.
His lessons. She made a mental note to add this latest discovery to her journal. Alas, it appeared with every turn, she learned more and more just how much dire help her charge needed.
He quickened his stride, and took a narrow path that led away from his courtyard, and even farther away from the crowd of workers assembled there.
She peeked over his shoulder, to where the men, women, and children grew to distant and then invisible specks . . . and the noise of those grounds faded altogether. Unease traipsed along her spine. Mr. Audley had been menacing enough amid a crowd of onlookers, but to be alone with him and his displeasure?
Suddenly, it felt very, very important that she be set down on her own two feet.
Feet were, after all, for running. Even hobbled feet allowed a person a chance to escape. Hers had served her on such occasions requiring flight. And she’d feel a good deal better having them under her. “I am more than happy to walk,” she said, forcing a dose of cheer and optimism into her voice that she decidedly did not feel.
He grunted, adjusting her in his arms so that for a moment she thought he intended to honor her request.
Alas, he merely shifted her weight and drew her closer, startling a squeak past Edwina’s lips.
Blast. “In fact, I much prefer it,” she continued on when it became apparent he’d not put her down. “Walking, when done with measured steps, is good for one’s constitution.”
“Do you know what else is good for one’s constitution, princess?”
“Of course I do,” she scoffed. “Dancing. Needlework. Shell-work. Paperwork. Quilling. Feather-work.”
He cast her an odd look. “Anything else?”
“Watercolors.” She paused. “And sketching.” That wasn’t really inclusive enough. “All forms of art, really. Also, knotting. Though, I’m likely leaving a number of other suitable ones off my list.”
“Silence,” he snapped. “Silence is good for one’s constitution.”
Her cheeks warmed. “You were not, then, looking for an enumeration.”
“I was not.” And brusque and rude as he always was, there was a trace of sarcasm to his deep baritone that suggested amusement. Which she would gladly accept, as humor was humor and, well, not dangerous.
“Hmph.” Edwina found herself preferring the silence after all, too.
That was until they reached a small rise, and a small, dilapidated stone cottage appeared. She frantically searched about for hint of any persons . . . and found none.
Double-dee blast.
She swallowed around an enormous lump of nervousness and fear that had formed in her throat.
So this is where he intended to leave her. When she’d set out with her directives from the duke, she’d not considered that her assignment might be altogether difficult. Mr. Audley might be bastard-born, but he was a duke’s son. Challenging. Rewarding, even. What she’d not thought he would be was perilous.
“If you would?” she said, her voice creeping up an octave, along with her panic, as she wiggled, attempting to free herself.
“Would you stop moving?” he snapped, as they reached the wooden door. Reaching around her, Mr. Audley let them in. He paused only long enough to kick the door shut with the heel of his leather boot. She peeked over his broad shoulder, eyeing the panel as it shook, the resounding boom echoing in the narrow, untidy space.
Her eyes struggled to adjust to the dimly lit one-room house. Cluttered with desks and books and papers, it gave no indication that it was a place anyone actually resided in.
Except . . . for the bed.
Fear pitted her belly.
Then, he stopped beside that small cot. Her entire body tensed in preparation of being tossed upon that light, small bed. But with a surprising gentleness, he rested her atop the mattress.
There was a tenderness to his efforts that under most any other circumstances would have awed her, but given that she was alone with him, a strange man . . . and everything she knew about being alone with any man sent her back up in tensed preparedness.
Mr. Audley straightened, and headed back across the cottage . . . and hope flared in her breast. Perhaps, he was going to leave her here alone, after all. Which now seemed the decidedly safer—
He stopped at a desk, and grabbed a vicious-looking pair of scissors.
Not safer.
It was not at all safer.
Her heart knocked erratically against her ribcage.
While he searched through that cluttered desk for . . . something else, Edwina frantically looked about with only one intent in mind: escape.
Yes, the gentleman was a duke’s son, but he was also one who’d expressed no interest in joining his respectable father. And who’d expressed even more annoyance in her presence.
Edwina’s gaze took in all the ways in and out of this place. Three windows. One door. The largest ones a person could fit most easily through required passing him.
Arching her neck back, she stared at the narrow little window overhead. Edwina assessed the space. Climbing was generally forbidden for all ladies, allowed under only the very most extreme of circumstances. Her current one, however, she’d place firmly in the peril column.
Never. She would never be able to climb that high, and open it, and squeeze herself through before—
The wide-plank wood floors groaned, and she immediately jerked her attention forward . . . to the gentleman approaching with a strip of long, white fabric between his coal-stained fingers . . . and scissors. The metal gleamed, mocking her with their brightness and size.
Mr. Audley stopped before her, and she stiffened.
Wordlessly, he sank to a knee, and grabbed the hem of her skirt. With a little squeak, Edwina kicked him with her uninjured foot . . . which didn’t even move him.
In fact, he gave no indication that he’d even noticed the gesture, let alone felt it.
And this time, she gave another attempt at shoving him, kicking him with all her might. She gasped as her foot promptly throbbed.
“What the hell do you think you are doing?” he demanded with such indignant outrage, it would have been laughable had she not been rattled with fear.
“Kicking you.” When she’d been a small girl, she’d been running exuberantly up the cottage lane to meet her father when he was visiting, and in her haste, she’d drifted slightly off course and collided with the uneven stone wall that ended at the entrance to the drive. She’d been knocked square on her buttocks and had all the thoughts rattled in her head for days. In small part because it had been like running into a wall. And in larger part, because he had the most dizzying effect on her senses. Even having put all the force she could manage into that kick, the only things she ended up with were hurt toes, and an immobile Mr. Audley. “I was kicking you.”
“Well, that is certainly not going to secure my cooperation.” His cooperation, he’d speak about? “You are—?”
Edwina scrabbled for her parasol, and brought it down over his head.
Mr. Audley cursed and gripped his temple. All the while he singed her with a black look that sent her inching backward on the mattress. “What the hell was that for?” he barked.
“Defending myself?”
“From what?”
There was such a healthy dose of bafflement to that question, it cut through the panic that had been gripping her since they’d entered his cottage. “You weren’t . . . you . . . I thought . . .” Her face went hot once more.
His eyes went wide. “You thought . . . I left my mines in the middle of the day, and carried you all this way with the intention of forcing myself upon you?” And this time a different bark escaped him, one of laughter.
She bristled and bit her tongue to keep from pointing out the fact that he’d brought her to a bed and had come at her with bindings, and of course, the fact that they were very much alone. “I am glad you find this situation amusing.”
After his mirth had faded to a small chuckle, Mr. Audley gave his head a rueful shake. “I assure you, I’ve no intention of taking advantage of you, or any woman. Even if you were the manner of woman to tempt me.” He paused. “Which you decidedly aren’t.” He muttered that last part to himself.
Relief. It should be the dominant emotion. Expressed in the form of an audible sigh.
Indignation should be the absolute last of what she felt. And yet, there it was. She chafed at the sarcastic-once-more insult.
This time, however, he hesitated with his fingertips at her hem. “Do I have permission to check your ankle?”
“My ankle?” she asked, breathless, as it finally dawned on her just what he’d intended.
“As in the one you injured,” There was a heavy dose of sarcasm in that droll response as well . . . but his tone did nothing to erase the daze cast by his request.
He’d . . . not only asked permission but insisted on . . . caring for her?
Edwina sat there, motionless. Breathless. And both captivated and confused.
Over the years, Edwina had had any number of dealings with men. Most had been merchants. Others gentry. There’d been heads of household and their sons.
And, as she had come to find out, there were two ways in which a woman without the benefit of marriage or even legitimacy to her name was treated:
One, she found herself fending off unwanted or improper attentions.
Or two, she remained invisible, being instead left to the women of the household.
Not a single man had ever helped her. And certainly none had ever saved her. And in the most literal sense of being saved.
And several times at that. Three to be specific. All in the span of one meeting. It was why she knew, even though Mr. Rafe Audley didn’t want her here and had been crude and rude at every turn, that he was still a true gentleman. And that gave her hope for her assignment.
Still, she remembered the years of instruction she’d received on deportment and propriety and uttered the requisite, expected response. “That wouldn’t be proper,” she murmured.
He snorted. “And how proper is it for a young lady to be gallivanting around a mine by herself?”
Edwina wrinkled her nose. “Yes, well, that is a fair point.” But she wasn’t a lady in the traditional sense of the word. Instead, she was one who instructed those young women, and it was, therefore, expected that Edwina conduct herself in a like way . . . When she could. “Alas, it would have been a good deal easier and I would’ve been spared my gallivanting as you called it, if you had simply returned for y
our lessons.” As such, nothing about being sent to fetch her latest charge, however, was traditional.
“Listen, princess, I am of half a mind to let you go traipsing about on your injured leg . . .”
But he wouldn’t . . .
“Let me look at your damned foot. You’ve my word I won’t attempt anything more than that.”
And this time, she who was never without a word, reply, or retort found herself nodding her head, over and over, even after he’d directed his focus to her hemline.
All those butterfly sensations low in her belly were effectively doused as he haphazardly pushed her skirts unceremoniously up, exposing her legs from the knee down, and a blush burned up the whole of her body from the roots of her hair to the tips of the toes he now handled. She needn’t, however, have worried; he gave no indication that he noticed anything beyond the foot cradled in his palm. Lightly wiggling her slipper loose, he drew it off and tossed the article aside. “You know these are ridiculous, don’t you?”
She glanced about before realizing what it was he spoke of. “My slippers?” she gasped with indignation. “I know no such thing.”
“No, you don’t know anything. Which is why you went and nearly got yourself killed, and hurt your ankle,” he shot back. “Slippers have no place in these parts.”
“There’s no wrong day for slippers,” she said calmly. “Slippers brighten every day, in every way. They are colorful and bright, and easy to dance in and glide in. They—”
He laughed, the sound of it unexpectedly rich and full and boisterous . . . and also at her expense. “Tell me, princess, does the ‘brightening of a day, in every way’ also include sprained, swollen ankles? Because if I put on the footwear favored by the gents, I’d have shredded soles and shredded feet.”
She lifted her chin up. “I beg your pardon?”
“As you should,” he said between his mirth. “What rot is that?”
She bristled. That rot, as he referred to it, also happened to be the oft-uttered words of her mother whenever her love had arrived with a new pair of silk slippers.
Along Came a Lady Page 6