Page 62 of Fair as a Star

“Quite so. She’s yours now. I believe she’s always been yours.” Henry clapped Mark on the shoulder before taking his leave. “You’ll understand if I don’t linger.”

“Are you all right?” Beryl lifted her hand to Mark’s face, her touch infinitely gentle.

Mark gazed down at her, a hint of a smile on his lips. “I’m fine,” he said. “It’s nothing.”

Beryl didn’t know about that. She hadn’t seen the fight from her stall. The crowd around Mark and Mr. Priddy had been too heavy. But it hadn’t taken but a few moments for someone to gleefully relate the details to her. “If it’s nothing, why was Henry with you?”

“He was assisting with Bert Priddy. They’ve taken him to the gaol.”

Music and laughter floated on the air behind them. Gigs and open carts were still arriving at the green, villagers and their young families spilling out, anxious to take part in the eating, drinking, and children’s theatricals on offer at the fete.

Beryl wasn’t feeling very festive at present. “Mrs. Doolittle claims that you knocked him down.”

“A minor altercation. Priddy was drunk.” Mark paused, adding, “And he struck the first blow.”

“Your nose is bleeding,” she said.

“Ah. Sorry about that.” He dabbed at it with his handkerchief. “I should go back to the vicarage and clean up.”

“I’ll go with you.” Beryl picked up Ernest. It wasn’t far to the church. They crossed from the green to the street, walking the short distance to the churchyard. “I wonder what Mr. Venable will say?”

“Pray he won’t notice.” Mark opened the gate. Climbing roses caught at Beryl’s muslin skirts as she passed through. He followed after her, shutting the gate behind him. “Venable doesn’t approve of brawling.”

Beryl huffed. The very idea of Mark engaging in a brawl. It beggared belief. Not because he was weak. Indeed, with his commanding height and leanly muscled frame, he was more than capable of handling all comers. Despite that, she’d never once witnessed him commit an act of violence. Never seen him be anything but kind and compassionate.

But there was strength, even in that. A power in his compassion, stronger than mere physicality. It made her love him all the more.

She dropped Ernest onto the grass. “Isn’t there a pump here somewhere?”

“Behind the church.”

“That will suffice.” She crossed the empty churchyard with Mark at her heels. At the back of the church, a weathered wooden bench stood near a cluster of crumbling gravestones. “Sit down,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

She didn’t wait for him to comply. Finding the pump, she used it to soak her white linen handkerchief. When she returned, Mark was seated on the bench, waiting. He’d removed his coat. It was draped next to him.

She sat down at his side, her skirts pooling around his legs. “Let me see.” Turning his face toward hers with a soft brush of her fingers, she wiped away the last remnants of blood.

His gaze rested on her face as she worked. “You’ll ruin your handkerchief.”

She gave him a look. As if she cared one jot for her linens when the man she loved was injured. “You don’t think he broke your nose, do you?”

“No. It’s fine. Truly.”

She blotted his lip and the edge of his cheek. “The bleeding seems to have stopped, at least. You’ll be fit enough to face Mr. Venable.”

Mark didn’t appear unduly worried. “Is that another damselfly?”

She lowered her handkerchief to examine the small whitework figure in the corner. When wet, the thread was almost invisible. “It is.”

He smiled. “Hiding in plain sight.”

“Not hiding. You noticed it.”

His fingers gently encircled her wrist, the pad of his thumb resting on her pulse. It leapt at his touch. “Beryl—”

“My wedding dress is in the window of the Emporium,” she blurted out.

“I know.” Mark’s smile faded. It was replaced by a look of concern. “Are you—”