Page 2 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
“Did you lose a trunk then?” he asked.
“It’s here.” Another woman shouted from the trees. “Come help me.”
“Wait here.” His command stayed the maid. Nerves prickling, he dismounted, handed her the reins, and pushed back a veil of branches.
A few yards down the sharp slope, a woman straightened into the only beam of light filtering through the thicket.
Bink’s breath hitched. Young she was, but no man who’d gone without as long as he had would miss the plump breasts or the rounded bottom under dusty skirts. No man who’d spent as much time on the Iberian Peninsula as he had would miss the eyes, dark as black olives, skin the color of the sand at La Coruña. Dark curls fought to escape her loose bonnet, and when she lifted her chin, her mouth clamped shut, but not before he’d seen the pure white of her teeth.
The air buzzed and his vision fogged. Many such girls had crossed his path during his time in hell. No matter the state of his own sorry self, his desperation had been no match for theirs. He’d come close to bedding a few—except, the Duke’s proclivity for hanging men who strayed with the locals had been a powerful deterrent for any poor foot wabbler who could manage to think with the head on his shoulders.
The French command hadn’t had such scruples. He’d seen a few such girls after thechasseurshad got through with them.
He blinked, chasing the nightmares away. “Troubles, miss?”
Her gaze narrowed and the corners of her full lips turned down. “Are we blocking the road, sir? Surely there is plenty of room for you to go round us.”
A haughty bit, then, well-spoken, but from the state of that yellow cart, not an aristocrat, he’d wager. Not the older woman’s servant, either. Impoverished gentry, he’d guess.
Three women in a dog cart on a road that was not a main thoroughfare. An old scold, a maid, and this snappish young miss. And no man to journey with them, during a time when England was abuzz with dangerous, unhappy laborers.
They’d be locals, surely, and when he was through with his duty, he’d give whatever man was responsible for them a piece of his mind.
“There’s plenty of room for me to stop and rescue a lady in distress.” He sidled down the embankment drawing closer.
The sharp chin eased higher. “I don’t need rescuing.”
He glanced around. “Now, where is this item you’ve lost and found?”
“There really is no need. My maid can help me.”
“She’s minding my horse.”
Her eyes lifted as he neared, and her scent rose to greet him, some mixture of florals and woman. Blood-stirring it was. Far more enticing then the odor of death awaiting him at Cransdall.
“Has it fallen then into that brook below?”
“What brook?” Her frown slipped lower, and she tipped her head. “Oh, bother. No, it hasn’t.”
“Lucky, that. Well, then.” He scanned the brush again. “Point me to it and I’ll retrieve it for you.”
Paulette Silva Heardwynfisted her skirts and tried to beat down her chattering heart.
The man was as tall, and as broad, and as ruddy as some wandering Highlander from one of Scott’s stories, yet there’d been no tell-tale Scots accent to his words. His speech, his grooming, even his boots, were proper and gentlemanly.
The glint in his eye was not, nor was the quiver she saw about his lips.
But,tall—he was that. She glanced up at the thick clutch of box tree branches, and his eyes followed hers.
“That’s quite the tallest box bush I’ve ever seen,” he said. “And is that wee brown box lodged in it yours?”
She winced. Thewee brown boxwas precious to her. It had bounced from Mabel’s arms onto the road, down the embankment, and into this great bloody bush that years of wind had tilted more than an arm’s reach away from the slope. And, blast it all, she wasn’t going to leave it.
“It’s my writing case. My lap desk,” she said. “I quite need it back.”
“Your wee box popped out of the cart box, into the box tree, did it?”
Annoyance sparked in her, and the upturn of his lips made it flare higher. He stepped around her.
