Page 21 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

His hand was on the door when she spoke again. “Was there somethin’ in the window that caught your notice, sir?” He glanced over his shoulder, uncertain of her meaning. Nothing about her demeanor could be described as preening or flirtatious. But it was clear she wanted to make a sale. She looked him up and down, a dubious expression on her face as she took in the state of his attire. “A new pair o’ gloves, p’rhaps?”

A reasonable suggestion, since he wasn’t wearing any at present. He’d left his behind with his hat, in the room above the Coach and Cask. Since the morning was cold, he’d been strolling with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his greatcoat, until his assistance to the shopgirl had required otherwise.

He looked past her, into the well of the window, where the odd assortment of wares was laid out, some items more eye-catching than others.

“The crayons, actually,” he said.

He hadn’t exactly been thinking of Miss C. as he’d stood on the street looking in. Except to the extent that since yesterday, he seemed always to be thinking of her, his thoughts bouncing from one extreme to another: from pity to annoyance, from distrust to—as of this morning—a most uncomfortable twinge of desire. How ludicrous for either of them to imagine they could make this journey without incurring any harm and then, at the end, pass her off as—of all things—a drawing master to his sisters.

Particularly given the fact that she no longer possessed any art supplies.

He tilted his head to one side, considering. Would it go better for him if he returned bearing gifts?

Surreptitiously, he slipped one hand back into his pocket and fingered the coins remaining there—the last of his own, which he had stubbornly kept separate from hers. “How much?”

“Two and sixpence,” she replied promptly—almost as if she could count through the heavy wool coat. “With the paper.”

Was it a wise investment of his remaining resources? Or a foolish one? Not that two shillings would get him far on his journey if Miss C. elected to leave him behind.

“Sold.” He withdrew his hand and proffered the coins.

She beamed, then tucked her duster behind her back, in the ribbon of her apron, and carefully lifted the box from the window and handed it to him to hold while she retrieved the pad of paper.

He was no judge of the quality of the implements. He only hoped they would not give further offense.

“I’ll just wrap these up, shall I?” Before he could reply, the girl took the small box from him and carried it and the paper deeper into the shop. “Are you an artist?” she asked when she returned a few moments later bearing an awkwardly shaped package tied with string.

“Certainly not.”

He spoke his denial more sharply than he had intended, as if she had flung an insult his way. The wariness returned to her eyes. “It’s only,” she explained, “that some folks do come here just to make pictures of the church.”

“Do they?”

“Aye. My papa ordered that paper special from London—took a notion someone might need it someday. But no one ever has.”

“Until now.” He lifted a hand to tip the hat he’d forgotten he was not wearing, then gestured lamely with the package instead. “Much obliged, miss.”

Tucking the art supplies under one arm, he stepped into the street, glancing back at the church before turning toward the Coach and Cask. With somewhat quicker steps than a quarter of an hour ago, he passed by the other pub, which he now saw was called the Jolly Gander; the blond man—Jem, perhaps—nodded to him as he polished his windows. Alistair crossed to its rival and went inside.

The small, low-ceilinged public room was empty and dim. He gazed with longing toward the hearth, though it was cold, before skirting the tables with chairs stacked atop them and making his way out the rear door. The stable yard was also quiet, and for a moment, he fancied he had been left behind.

But of course that was nonsense—the carriage could not have been repaired in time; not a single conveyance had passed along the roadway in the time he’d been gone; and Miss C. could not walk far.

Squaring the package and straightening his spine, he marched up the steps and into the barkeep’s quarters, which appeared at first glance to be empty too. The curtain around the man’s bed had been looped back, revealing a narrow, neatly made cot. The fellow successfully managed at least a few domestic tasks without his sister’s help, it seemed.

When the door clicked shut behind Alistair, Miss C.’s head peeked around the curtain at the opposite end of the room. Then, after a quick, assessing look at him, she stepped fully out and stood, unsmiling, with straight back and lifted chin. “My lord,” she said, not curtsying, her voice nearly as cool as the air outside.

Thanks to the even simpler styling of her second dress, she had managed to don it without his assistance. He fought down a surge of disappointment, along with the forbidden memory of the pale skin of her shoulders, the intriguing dips and hollows of her spine—all left shockingly unguarded by the usual cage of a corset.

Not that her present posture seemed to require any assistance.

Only her red-gold hair, tucked securely behind her ears but hanging in loose waves down her back, bright in spite of the gloom, offered any proof that his imagination hadn’t conjured the soft, sleep-tousled woman he’d awoken to find in his arms.

Suddenly concerned that his cold walk through the village hadn’t been sufficiently, er, quelling, he thrust the package behind his back and bowed stiffly. He would get the better of these unseemly thoughts. He focused on her bruised and scraped cheek, a visible reminder of the accident that had brought them together. Danger, his mind whispered. “I hope I didn’t disturb you when I went out this morning. I should have warned you that I am an early riser.”

She dropped her gaze, but not before he saw her lips twitch. “Indeed.”

Oh, dear. Had she taken the phrase early riser for a reference to his . . . ?