Not a moment later, the owner of said infernal contraption hastened from the ale tent, wiping his mouth, and Verity straightened her coiffure as best she could, deeming the swingboat less of a pleasant amusement and more a test of one’s moral fibre.
She heard some sort of device lowered from the bottom of the boat and it clattered into a hefty board bringing them to a rather abrupt halt, but Verity had the measure of it now and had held tight to the sides.
A small flame of anger was burning within her as she was coming to believe that she and Sephi had been the victims of a plan to divide them.
But why did Miles even want answers? Clearly, he still disdained her for breaking his heart all those years ago.
Though that kiss hadn’t felt in the least disdainful. “Why did you kiss me?” she could not help but ask.
He brushed a thumb over his bottom lip, eyes now cold as emeralds when before they’d burned. “I did not intend to kiss you.”
“Oh,” she responded feebly.
“But now that I have…” A faint smile. “The truth will come to light, Verity.”
She swallowed. “W-what do you mean? I don’t…” The door to the swingboat was opened and without waiting for Miles’ hand or for the short ladder to be brought forth, Verity grabbed her satchel and jumped down. To escape any truth that Miles might wish to know.
This side of the fair was a little less boisterous, mainly because all and sundry were in the ale tent, so she refused to wait for Miles and marched off across the grass, now positive that she and Sephi had been divided for nefarious reasons.
She stomped past the raucous ale tent and that silly whirligig, hoping Mr Alasdair Firth had behaved himself with her cousin, and that Mrs Tait had remained with them. As head of their household, it was up to Verity to protect them all. And Sephi, for all her spirit, was also fragile, like a cracked porcelain vase stapled back together with defiance.
“Verity! Wait!”
Harrumph.
But she turned nevertheless, hands on hip to say–
“Miles! No!” And she screamed as two huge beer barrels crashed off a cart not three yards from him.
He flung himself to the side but one clipped his boot and he thudded to the ground, rolled.
Verity ran to him, kneeled, roamed hands over his motionless chest and shoulders. “Miles, Miles!” Couldn’t bear if he was…
A groan and he gingerly opened one eye. “I’m well, Verity,” he rasped. “Just a knock to the head as I fell.”
“No, you’re not well. There’s blood,” she sobbed, opening her satchel, grabbing her shawl and holding it to his temple as he sat up.
“Ah.” Miles’ eyes settled on the ground. “Must have hit that tent weight.”
The barrels meanwhile had trundled harmlessly onwards, children pointing as they tottered over the bankside reeds and into Hogsmill River.
And besides being a little pale, Miles did seem well, his eyes clear as he watched her pathetic ministrations with her shawl.
Their gazes met.
He reached out to–
“Sir! Sir! Forgive me,” came a gruff shout, and they both looked up to a leather-aproned aleman approaching. “I dunno how it happened. Truly I don’t.”
Miles nodded. “No harm done, my friend. Was it rope?”
A shake of head. “Nah, they’re leather. I strapped them barrels on meself.” He turned for the cart and headed to the far side. Scratched his nape. “The bloody leather’s torn. Must’ve been brittle.”
Verity saw Miles’ eyes narrow. Then scan the area. “Did you see anyone near the cart?”
The chap fiddled with his cap. “Nah. I was in there.” And he nodded to the ale tent. “But I saw ’em fall.”
With a grimace, Miles got to his feet, holding onto her arm for support. He waggled his booted ankle. “Well, I hope those barrels weren’t full of fine ale?”
