Page 27 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

Chapter 9

Beneath Alistair’s watchful gaze, the familiar terrain slid by. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made the journey staring out the window. Usually, he read. Occasionally, he slept. But this time, all his books were packed away, and he had made a private vow not to fall asleep in Miss C.’s presence again.

Another mishap like the one this morning and it would take more than a box of crayons to make amends. If he weren’t careful, he would have to do the honorable thing—though at least then, he thought with a private laugh, I would finally learn her name. She would have to sign it in the parish register.

No, no. He mustn’t joke about it, even to himself. Marriage was no laughing matter.

And marriage to this woman was a mistake he could not afford to make.

She had spent the last two hours sketching, silent but for the occasional scritch-scritch of her pencil across paper, the quiet sound rising above the rattle of the carriage. When they had stepped inside the pub to settle their bill before leaving, the proprietor had been standing at the bar, grumbling over his bookkeeping. She had, with surprising deftness, talked him into giving her the stub of a pencil he’d had tucked behind his ear. “So I can draw and you don’t have to ruin another handkerchief,” she’d explained to Alistair.

He couldn’t see enough of the paper to identify the subject of her picture. He wasn’t even certain he wished to know. After all, he was more than aware of both her capabilities and her propensities. And he couldn’t decide even now whether the box of crayons and an hour in the church had disposed her to forgive him for his bad behavior. Her gaze, whenever she looked at him, was always a little too sharp for comfort.

“Have you a knife?” she demanded without looking up.

“I beg your pardon?”

“A knife—a penknife,” she added by way of explanation, a slight twist of annoyance to the words. “This pencil is dull.”

“Not on my person, no. Sorry.”

She flicked a cool glance toward him, sighed, and touched the tip of the lead to her tongue.

He’d lost his mind, clearly. She was the cartoonist who had made his life a mockery and a misery. Yet he’d agreed to bring her to Rylemoor to instruct his sisters—in art! He’d even bought her paper and charcoals.

And he found the sight of her wetting a pencil—whetting her weapon, more like—somehow arousing.

“We’ll be stopping to change horses before long.” She had resumed sketching and gave no indication that she heard him. “I would’ve mentioned it before, but I didn’t want to disturb your work.” Scritch-scritch. “It’s the inn where I usually stop. A pleasant enough spot. We would have stayed there last night but for the unfortunate problem with the wheel.”

The pencil stopped. “They know you in this place.”

“Yes.”

“No more masquerading as Mr. and Mrs. Cooper, then.”

Was she relieved? Disappointed?

“No,” he said.

She applied one final flourish to the paper, then closed the pad and tucked the pencil somehow into her profusion of coppery curls. “I hope there’s food.”

“The best steak and ale pie I’ve had anywhere, as a matter of fact.” At the mention of it, his stomach rumbled in anticipation.

A smirk ghosted across her lips.

Somewhat to his surprise, she had left him out of her sketch of the churchyard. Then again, it had been done in another style to what he was accustomed to seeing from her, and her usual depiction of him would have been quite out of place. But now that she had had the opportunity to observe him closely, he could only imagine the ridiculous figure he was going to make in her next cartoon.

Well, by the time the next issue of the Magazine for Misses saw print, it wouldn’t matter anyway.

“We’ll eat quickly,” he cautioned, “then push on to make up for lost time. With any luck, we can be at Rylemoor tomorrow night, only a little later than expected.”

“You are eager to be home.”

Eagerness, he almost said, is beside the point.

It was time for things to return to normal.

He was not naïve enough to imagine that there would be no further frustrations on this journey. But from this point forward, he would be recognized as Ryland; his role would be clear. No more assumed name or presumed bridegroom. One more night on the road, in a suitable inn this time, with a room and a bed of his own, and then he would be back at Rylemoor. His life would return to its predictable patterns. Its typical troubles.