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Brought back to reality, he stood. “Right, of course. Begging your pardon.” He turned from her and fished out a handkerchief to tidy himself, trying to ignore the whisper of fabric as she did the same. After finishing putting his clothing to rights, Arthur turned back around to find Francesca smoothing the rumpled skirts of her walking dress.
Seeming to sense his attention, she peered up at him with hesitant blue eyes and a shy little smile that threatened to undo him entirely. “Um…” she began. “That was nice.”
The sweet, affectionate words sent his heart pounding, a flutter of something entirely different from lust blossoming within. “I’m glad,” he replied dumbly, unable to form words despite the great need for a deeper discussion about this matter. They’d crossed a line, one that he wasn’t sure could be returned to. He swallowed at the sight of her frown, knowing that she needed assurance he was taking this seriously, taking her seriously.
Perhaps he should tell her of his inheritance.
As Arthur debated the merits of doing so, she opened her mouth to speak. Before any words could leave her lips, the crack of a gunshot echoed through the forest. Instinctively, he stepped closer to Francesca, peering through the greenery with narrowed eyes and preparing to dive them to the ground if necessary. The shot sounded far off, but one couldn’t be too careful.
“Arthur?”
“Quiet a moment,” he replied in a hushed whisper. Another shot sounded, still the same distance away, followed by masculine laughter.
“That sounded like His Grace.” Francesca peered around his shoulder, worry etched on her brow.
“Stay here,” he commanded sternly, even as her eyes lit up in defiance. He turned away before she could voice an argument, but wasn’t surprised when her footfalls sounded behind him as he walked. Damned stubborn chit.
Chapter Eight
If Arthur thought she was going to stand around like a ninny while he investigated what was likely just Jasper and Ashford being a pair of idiots with a flintlock, then he had another thing coming.
Arthur… Strange how easily she slipped into his Christian name, though she supposed such a thing was warranted after what they’d shared. She could hardly call him Mr. Barrow after his mouth had been… certain places. Francesca thought she'd melt away just thinking about it, along with the wanton enthusiasm she’d felt the entire time. And in the middle of the forest trail, no less. Anyone could have come upon them, a fact made quite real with the realization that Jasper and Ashford were likely a short stroll away from them.
“You shouldn’t follow me. It is dangerous,” Arthur said without turning around.
Francesca rolled her eyes. “I will be fine. It is likely just my cousin and His Grace.”
He kept walking. “Suit yourself.”
His continued refusal to coddle her was one of the things that Francesca liked most about Arthur Barrow. James had treated her like a delicate rose, and while at the time she had preened under the new attention, Francesca recognized that he would have driven her insane had they actually married. Arthur treated her as an equal, complementing her when warranted, but never failing to hold her to task when she made a misstep. And though now uncertain of his romantic intentions, she knew his compliments about her character were genuine. Another gunshot went off, one that sounded more explosive than normal. She heard Ashford shout something unintelligible, his voice tainted by fear. Arthur picked up his pace, and Francesca struggled to keep up, her earlier consternation being replaced by concern and then fear once they emerged from the forest. The two men were on the other side of the pond, her cousin prone on the ground while Ashford crouched in front of him.
“Jasper!” Francesca took off at a run, heart in her throat at the sight of his unmoving form. A flintlock lay sprawled at his feet, and she feared the worst. And then, just as she felt the burn of terrified tears, her cousin’s chest bobbed with laughter.
“You’re a bloody fine idiot, Amberwood,” Ashford remarked with a shake of his head.
Jasper sat up on his hands, his face covered in soot. One of his platinum eyebrows was singed. “I told you I’d never shot a gun before,” he said with a goofy smile. He turned his head, eyes widening in surprise at the sight of her. “Oh, hello there, Francesca.”
“I thought you were dead, you idiot!” She angrily crossed her arms.
Jasper laughed. “No, no. Ashford was trying to teach me to shoot, and I bungled it up. The pan blew up in my face. How is it, by the way?” He turned his soot-stained head from side to side. “Not too singed, I hope?”
“Sophie is going to kill you,” Francesca snipped back, ignoring his vain question entirely.
“She very well might,” he replied playfully. He looked behind her and frowned. “What is Barrow doing here?” His eyes fell on her person once more, narrowing in contemplation. “And where in the world is your bonnet?”
Her hands flew up to her head, finding only hair beneath her fingers. Likely quite messy hair, at that. She swallowed, trying to stem the warmth trailing along her face. “It fell.”
“It fell?” he repeated. “How?”
“I see I was fretting over nothing,” Arthur remarked causally from behind, moving ahead of her to hold out a hand to Jasper. “I had no idea you didn’t shoot, Amberwood. Aren’t most young men of your ilk taught how?”
“My father was a bit too busy keeping our finances afloat to have time for such frivolities, and Uncle Harold doesn’t enjoy shooting, so I’m afraid I am quite green in this regard,” Jasper replied, taking the proffered hand amiably. Her cousin looked between Arthur and herself, the friendly smile seeming to strain on his face. “And what are you doing out here, Barrow? I thought you were heading back to the house after we parted a few hours ago.”
She glanced at Arthur, wondering if she should say something.
But the man seemed to have things well in hand, his casual countenance not wavering in the slightest under Jasper’s inspection. “I was going for a stroll in the woods when I heard your idiotic shooting. It was quite startling to hear in the middle of the countryside.”
Francesca recalled how he’d tensed after the first shot and looked ready to dive with her to the ground on sheer instinct alone. She wondered how often in his life he’d actually been required to do so. A rather sobering thought, indeed. “Were you heading to the ruins, Mr. Barrow?” She asked, as innocently as she could manage. “I thought I spied you a few hundred yards down the trail leading there.”
