Page 83 of To Woo a Wicked Widow

Her return smile warmed him better than the sun that had decided to show itself brilliantly for the first time in days. Perhaps it was a happy omen.

They chatted over lunch, Charlotte relaxed and friendly, asking him about the success of his trip to London and his plans to capture the gang.

“The man who’s heading up the detail, a Mr. Kelliam, worked at Bow Street for ten years before retiring. He came highly recommended.” Nash took out his pocket watch to consult. He snapped it closed and tucked it back in his waistcoat pocket.

“The games should begin in a quarter of an hour. Would you care to stroll over to the field?” He offered his hand and she nodded and rose. His lady had exceeded his expectations so far. With luck, the rest of the day would do as well. “We can shop along the way, if you like.”

She beamed at him, making his knees weak.

“That would be fun, Nash. I’d love to see some of the local wares. We will not, however, be sampling Mr. Micklefield’s ale.”

He chuckled at the vehemence in her voice. “Agreed. There are plenty of other food booths if you’ve a mind for tasting.”

Nash led her first to Mrs. Faison’s stall, with the beautiful plaid shawls and scarves. Charlotte made much over a blue-and-green-patterned scarf, though when he offered to buy it for her, she shook her head.

“Allow me to spend my own money, please, my lord.” The twinkle in her eyes told him she was enjoying herself immensely.

“By all means, my lady.” He gestured for her to proceed and she quickly paid for two items, the blue-and-green scarf and a shawl of mingled green and gold. Mrs. Faison wrapped and tied them in brown paper and string and held it out to Nash.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t want the lady burdened, my lord,” the woman said with a wink.

“You are correct, Mrs. Faison.” Nash grabbed the package and followed Charlotte, who had moved to the next stall, where Mr. Tillman had set out all manner of knives.

Booth by booth, they made their way through the bustling crowd toward the playing field. The games must have begun, but he was loath to urge Charlotte to hurry. She seemed the happiest he’d ever seen her, genuinely engaged with the different crafts. She had even begun to exchange pleasantries with the various merchants. He hated to put an end to her pleasure.

As they neared a stall that sold baked goods, Nash spied a booth just beyond. He grabbed Charlotte’s hand.

“Nash! What are you doing?”

“You’ll see,” he said, pulling her along until they stood before Mrs. Hammond’s wares.

“What are these?” Charlotte picked up one of the small figures made of strands of wheat.

“Corn dollies, my lady,” Mrs. Hammond replied, placing several different designs of the little dolls in front of Charlotte. “They’re made from the last sheaf of wheat from last year’s harvest and are supposed to bring good luck to the next harvest.”

Charlotte smiled delightedly. “Then I must have one, to bring me good luck as well.”

“And you must allow me to buy it for you, Charlotte.” Nash pulled some coins out of his pocket. “I insist.” He handed them to Mrs. Hammond, who nodded and smiled. “Do you like this design?”

Charlotte turned the little figure this way and that. “Yes. She’s the one I want.” It had a head and arms and her lower half resembled a skirt. She clutched the corn dolly to her, looking for all the world like a little girl with her first doll. A shy smile crept over her face. “Thank you, Nash. That was very sweet. And I do need all the luck I can get.”

He took her arm and they continued toward the games area. “The dollies aren’t just for good luck either. They were originally to ensure fertility—”

“What!” Charlotte stopped dead and spun toward him. Her face drained of color until it resembled the cold moon. She thrust the corn dolly from her, staring at it in abject horror, and dropped it, as though it suddenly burned her hands.

Military reflexes still intact, Nash bent and snatched the little figure before it could hit the muddy ground. He held the dolly out to Charlotte. She backed away from him, revulsion frozen on her face. After two steps, she turned and fled over the field, away from the stalls and the games area, making for a stand of trees in the distance.

“Charlotte!” He raced after her, pushing himself because she ran as though hellhounds breathed down her neck. What the devil had gotten into her? He caught up to her just as she reached the woods. His hand shot out and grasped her elbow, spinning her around to face him. “Charlotte!” He grabbed both her arms, afraid she would try to bolt again.

Misery looked out of her haunted eyes.

The horror of it hit him like a punch to the gut. Christ, he was an unthinking fool. She could be carrying Kersey’s child and here he was prattling about corn dollies and fertility.

“Don’t look at me.” She squeezed out of his grasp and shrank away. Her arms stole around her waist as she clutched herself. One hand came up to cover her face and she wept.

His first instinct to comfort, he crept up behind her but hesitated, unsure how she would react to his touch. Her sobbing grew to a steady wail he could not abide for long. Driven to desperation by her keening, he slid his arms around her.

She stiffened, though the sobs did not abate.