Page 23 of Miss Harvey's Horribly Lovable Fiancé
Esme winced. It wouldn’t do to be seen, not headed for the vicar’s cottage. At dusk, too. Alone the day before her wedding. Perhaps they knew if her father was still in the village. Well, it was too late now, hiding as she was, to ask them.
The two women had to be leaving the May Day revels, headed for home. They told each other ribald stories about the new village blacksmith, a swarthy jovial man, who was as flirtatious as a girl at her Coming Out.
“And do ye know what ‘e said to me, Sadie?” The innkeeper’s wife was bursting with laughter.
“Tell me true, girl!”
Esme felt something with a thousand legs crawling on her neck. She swatted at it, hoping it wasn’t a bee. Bees loved rhododendrons—and her. But it was too early in spring for bees. This was…an adventurous spider? She shivered.
“Gar, Sadie! He told me I were pretty as a madonna.”
“Lizzie, how would ‘e know what a madonna is?”
“He’s got eyes.”
“And flash your’s at ‘im and your Tom’ll bend you o’er his knee.”
“I know.” Through the rhododendron leaves, Esme watched her elbow her friend in the ribs. “That’d be fun, too.”
“Nooo!” Sadie doubled over and slapped her knees in delight.
“Oh, my Tom, he’s—” Lizzie feigned a swoon.
And her friend guffawed.
Another bug bit Esme and she crushed it to her neck.
“He’s got a gentle touch. When ‘e’s mad at me, he pretends he’s a villain. But he’s just foolin’.”
“You’re wicked, Lizzie!”
The two of them locked arms.
But Sadie spun around, leaned into a bare spot among the leaves and threw Esme a lopsided grin. “Come out o’ there now, Miss ‘arvey. If those beetles bite ye, ye’ll look like a speckled dog for the weddin’ in the morn.”
“Of course.” She grimaced and stepped forward, at a loss if they asked her the reason for her odd hideaway. “Thank you.”
Sadie curtsied.
Esme smashed two tiny black bugs on her arm as the women cackled and hurried down the lane.
Then she ran for the front door of the vicarage and swung it wide.
“Charlie!”
“Jesus!” A tall muscular creature whirled toward her from his stance by the hearth. He was naked to the waist, his shirt around his hips and his hair disheveled. “Esme? Do you knock?”
“Oh, Charlie.” She stood quite still, admiring the marvelous specimen of manhood, chest proud and rippling with muscle. “I am sorry. Did I frighten you?”
“Hell yes!”
“Tsk, tsk, Vicar. Your rhetoric is scandalous!” She laughed, in spite of her problems, and strode toward him, feigning nonchalance. He stood, one hand on his decanter of wine, one on a glass, another within reach. “You anticipated my visit! Wonderful! I came for a drink, a quote and advice.”
He squinted at the ceiling. “All right. We’ll be quick then. Wine, first. Quote, second, and advice, third?”
She considered how deliciously broad in the chest was Charles Compton, her childhood friend and often hilarious spiritual adviser. She liked manly men. Like Charlie and Giles. “Wine, then advice. Skip the quote.”
“As usual.” He rolled his eyes. At once he filled the second glass he’d had so readily to hand and gave it to her. “Sit. I shall return with all you need.”
