Page 38 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

She kissed with an innocence that seemed somehow at odds with the story she had told. Not that he agreed with those who would claim that she shared her mother’s sin—or even that her mother bore the blame for what had happened to her. But there was something in Constantia’s unique way of looking at the world that seemed as if it should have made its way to her lips. The same power that made his breath catch when he looked at one of her drawings made him imagine that her kiss could leave a man breathless, if she chose.

Perhaps if she hadn’t broken off the kiss quite so soon, or if he hadn’t been caught off guard . . .

Perhaps what he’d lost was an opportunity.

But if so, it was an opportunity that he must hope never presented itself again.

No matter how much she intrigued him—oh, and frustrated and exasperated him, too, as in his experience artistic types were wont to do. No matter if he was beginning to suspect that at least some of her annoyance with him might mask another emotion entirely. No matter that hearing part of her story had made him only more eager to pry open all her secrets.

Their paths had been marked out for them long ago, and neither of them could afford to explore other tracks. So, he would do as he’d said, do what he’d always done: ensure that she was safe from predators until her injured wing righted itself, then let her fly free.

While his feet stayed firmly on the ground.

“Firmly on the ground,” he scoffed beneath his breath as John Coachman reached out a hand to hoist him onto the top of the coach, where he’d elected to ride the remainder of the journey.

Alistair had risen even before the knock had come to wake him, and when the servant did arrive, he had employed her as an emissary to send up Constantia’s neatly packed valise, with instructions that they would depart as soon as she was ready.

Now he was sitting huddled in his greatcoat, watching dawn begin to streak the sky, and wondering if she would show up.

The leap of his heart when she emerged from the inn told him that he’d been wise to take extra precautions.

She pushed the edge of her hood back just enough to give him a glimpse of her red-gold curls and looked up at him quizzically.

“Thought it would be best to have a second lookout,” he told her. And it wasn’t an untruth; there was even a pistol by his feet, though he’d never been what anyone would call a crack shot.

Her nod of understanding held a bit of uncertainty, but she accepted the hostler’s assistance into the carriage. In another moment, they were off. And once the sun had risen, he did, indeed, feel a bit safer for being able to see far and wide.

A great deal safer for not having to share the cozy interior with her.

And a great deal colder too.

At most stops, she did not leave the coach, and when she did, she was back again more swiftly than previous travels with a party of young ladies, namely his sisters, had led him to believe was possible.

Late afternoon, they alighted for dinner at a modest-looking inn.

“You will dine with me?” he asked, offering an arm to escort her inside.

She shivered when her hand brushed the wind-chilled wool of his coat. “If you wish it.”

He did, though he knew it was not wise.

While waiting for her tea, Constantia removed her gloves, and he glimpsed the telltale marks of her craft. “You’ve been sketching again.”

“It passes the time.”

He did not ask her subject.

“You spent a restful night, I hope?”

“Entirely,” he lied.

“I’m glad to hear it. You certainly ceded the more comfortable room to me.” In spite of that fact, there were shadows beneath her eyes. Sleep, it seemed, had not come quickly for either of them.

The food arrived then, relieving them of the burden of conversation. When they had finished, he donned his hat and gloves and buttoned his coat securely over a woolen muffler he’d borrowed from the coachman.

“I’m sorry you have had a chilly ride,” she said—ironically, the warmest sentiment she had uttered all day. “Without . . . incident, I hope?”

He knew precisely what she meant.