Page 15 of Lord Ramsey's Red-Headed Ruin
She and Ram had left Varennes the afternoon after he discovered her in his room in the auberge. They had taken a coach west to a small village, where the carriage inn offered bad food and straw beds. The next day, they had left for Buzancy. There they had paused for four days while the local seamstress sewed Amber three new gowns, two hats, and two petticoats, and fashioned new slippers. Amber had happily donned one new travel gown in favor of the borrowed gown, petticoat, felt hat, and knitted shawl Madame Verne had given her.
Amber smiled as she remembered the Vernes fondly and hoped no gendarme came to bother them. The four gold Louis that Amber had left in the old Verne family coin jar was small remuneration for the generosity the family had shown her. They had offered their barn, their hayloft, and their kindness to her when she had been alone, afraid, and in need of friendly faces.
Now their succor had been replaced by this man. This man who surprised her with his knowledge of her, his dedication to helping her elude Vaillancourt, and his surprising turn of character from demanding agent of the British Crown to debonair foreign traveler—and her fake husband.
She trained her gaze away from him, trying to ignore the tug he gave to her heartstrings. His attentiveness was so gallant. So…friendly. She could only applaud him…and thank him.
But that was becoming—
“Unnecessary,” he had said to her more than once when she expressed her gratitude.
He wished no thanks. He performed a service. Nothing more. Nothing…
She sniffed and turned to survey the quaint village streets of Charleville as Ram paid the coachman. Stone and red-brick cottages with decent tiled roofs and a few spring flowers blooming in little wooden boxes near the front doors spoke of some prosperity. People waved and stopped to talk to others. Everyone here seemed to know everyone else.
A shiver rippled through her. It could be a bad thing to be a stranger in a small town. People had looked at them oddly in the last village. They had claimed to have caught the wrong coach. Here, however, Ram and she could say they knew townsfolk.
“Tell me about your relatives,” she said as he took her arm to assist her over the cobbles and direct her along the lane toward a carriage inn. A faded white wooden sign, carved in the shape of afleur-de-lis, swung to and fro in the breeze andproclaimed it wasLe Roi François. “I came here years ago with my grandmother. French, she was.”
Surprise inspired a smile on her lips. “From this eastern part of France?’
“Yes. She was the youngest daughter in a large family when my grandfather saw her from afar.”
“And why was he in France?”
Ram slid her a silly grin. The humor stunned her. He too was becoming more carefree these past few days. His ease transformed his stark masculinity into a radiance of magnetic allure.
She longed to taste his charm, and foolish as she was, she pressed his arm against her breast.
Ram set his jaw, blinking away his notice of her seemingly innocent embrace. “Simple. My grandfather was traveling. It was his grand tour.”
“But this is so far into the countryside,” she said, relaxing her grip on him. To lead him on would be unkind. He was so chivalrous. In that, he resembled Maurice. Her dear husband had been a man of manners and restraint. She had been enraptured by his tender regard of her. So few men had treated her like a treasure. To most, her red hair marked her as a hussy. Her ample breasts and hips said she belonged in a whorehouse. Ram treated her as if he must protect her from the rabble. As his prize—and his wife. And she loved his devotion. She had to pretend nonchalance. “What is there to see here in this town that your grandfather included it on a quest to see fine art and architecture?”
“My grandmother’s beauty.”
Amber chuckled. “Her fame had spread that far and wide?”
“It did. My grandmother is not so much vain as she is notoriously proud of my grandfather, who grew to love her other qualities.”
“The lady still lives and tells everyone of her fame?”
“Not shy, my nana. My grandfather was with his own father, and both had beauty of all types on their minds. The story goes that the two men introduced themselves to my grandmother’s father. My paternal grandfather, not shy himself, praised the Frenchman’s daughters. Then he quickly wooed the youngest, married her, and took her home to England. The art the family possesses is notable, too. A painting by Leonardo da Vinci and one of his machines. A flying machine, as I remember.”
“But I thought Leonardo lived in Rome? How did the family gain possession of his works?”
“One of my grandmother’s ancestors had lived at the royal chateau of Amboise when King Francis resided there and invited Leonardo to come live and work there. The painting and flying machine were gifts from the artist to my grandfather.”
“I would like to see both of them.”
“Tomorrow,” he said as they approached the entrance toLe Roi François, “we will knock on the door of the family Boyer and see if my grandmother and I are remembered—and hopefully you and I are admitted.”
“How will that aid us in learning what you wish to learn here?”
“It will,” he told her. “Everyone knows the product for which the town is famous. You and I will keep our ears open and perhaps learn from gossip any useful news.”
It was not until thepropriétairehad shown them to their room that they spoke again.
“My wedding ring? I need one, remember?” There had been no goldsmith in Buzancy.
