“Nah, the empties. But they’re mighty heavy with all them iron hoops. Yer were lucky.”
“Well, as I said, no harm done. But if this lady hadn’t called out, well…”
The aleman nodded his apologies once mor–
“Miles!” Mr Firth was striding towards them, ice-blue eyes grim and fists clenched. “What the hell happened?”
“Those barrels,” Verity said, voice still rather aquiver. “They came off that cart and nigh hit Miles, I mean, Lord Stonewold.”
Mr Firth put hands to Miles’ shoulder. “Are you well? I know you’re tough as old boots but…”
“Fine. Truly.” Yet deep creases marred his brow. “Where is everyone?”
Verity’s gaze sharpened. “And where’s my cousin, Mr Firth?”
He held his palms aloft. “I left Miss Nash and the Taits taking tea in the marquee and thought I’d come find you. The whole day has turned into a complete bumblebroth: Mother is in high dudgeon as Jeremy disappeared for an hour – she believes he was in the tent with the Soiled Doves. Mrs Tait got bitten at the flea circus. Miss Tait was pestered by some scruffy lad with wilting daisies, and Kane’s daughter became bilious whilst watching the revolving trapeze artists.” He shook his head. “Shall we all go home?”
12
“SWEET FLOWERS ARE SLOW AND WEEDS MAKE HASTE.”
(W. SHAKESPEARE)
Ameadow beckoned, its knee-high hotch-potch of wildflowers and grasses waving their welcome in the nimble summer wind.
So Verity darted onwards.
But not alone.
For Miles held her hand. Green eyes blithe.
And barefoot, they rushed through the azure cornflowers and viper’s bugloss, skirted the thistle heads and jumped the white yarrows.
His grip was firm, skin warmed by the sun, and she laughed to the cerulean sky, happy as the larks that darted over their heads, while far, far off was naught but the slow arc of earth meeting sky.
Effortlessly, Miles swung her into his arms, around and around, white skirts winged, Miles the core, the unshakeable heart around which everything spun.
Before he kissed her.
Soft and tender as a whisper – the hand to her nape belying deeper passions, claiming and caressing.
Toes slipped to the ground and she smiled into his fervid eyes. Kneeled and fell back to lie in the indulgent meadow grass, closed her own eyes and held out her arms, could feel his shadow blocking the sun.
Yet he did not join her.
Such teasing. She opened one eye.
No Miles.
Just a lead-grey cloud swallowing the sun whole.
Frowning, she sat up, twisted, but of Miles there was no sign – just the expanse of meadow which increasingly dimmed as further opaque clouds scudded across the sky, coupling and gathering.
She was…alone.
The daisies began to shield their yellow faces with white petals of lament and the larks dropped from the sky.
Verity stumbled to her bare feet, smoothed her rumpled skirts but her hands came away viscous and she stared down…
