Page 45 of Hearts of Briarwall

“You hide it, but I like it.”

He sighed, almost a growl. “I liked you better when you were hiding from me behind pillars.”

She laughed. “Do I scare you?”

“Outta my boots, ye fair wench.”

She laughed more, and he found himself chuckling. Help him, he was in trouble over this key-hunting, chair-tipping, cow-loving, rock-throwing enchantress.

She walked toward him, watching him, and he tore his gaze away, suddenly in a frantic search for the chaperone. “Where did—”

“You asked that I bring her. You didn’t say she had to stay.”

He straightened up from the pillar. “Lydia, I don’t think—”

“Settle down, Spencer. I had an idea, and it would be impossible for Mary to come along.” She motioned beyond him to the far corner of the temple. Two bicycles leaned against the steps. “I thought we could go for a ride. See the old grounds? Mary hasn’t learned to ride. Apparently washing and mending transport her to another world altogether, and she has no need of wheels. I’m quoting her, of course.”

“Of course.” He dropped his head, shaking it, both relieved and frustrated. “A ride sounds lovely.”

“See? There it is.”

“What?”

“You say ‘lovely’ as if you were saying ‘drove-lay.’”

He blinked at her. “And you like that?”

She nodded. Shrugged.

He descended the stairs and headed for the bicycles. “Well, you’d be the first person outside Brum to say so. You know as well as I that most of England would rather listen to a Cockney than a Brummie. And Cockney makes their eyes twitch.”

She followed. “Is that why you hide it?”

He pulled up the first bicycle for her and waited until she had it in hand. He pulled up the second, which had a small hamper belted to the rack over the back tire. “I hide it because my father paid a tutor to teach me how to hide it. He didn’t want me to have to fight as hard as he did, you see.” He threw a leg over the bike and mirrored her pose, one foot on a pedal.

“Fight for what?”

He threw her a brief, sharp look. “Respect.”

She opened her mouth to argue.

“You’re a smart woman,” he said, cutting her off. “Surely you see the reasoning behind his choice.”

After a moment, she relented with a nod. “And behind yours.”

He shrugged. “My father might be gone, but I’ll use what he sacrificed to give me.”

“Language is a beautiful gift, in all its forms.”

A grin pulled at his lips. “An idealist, you are.”

“No. I just believe people shouldn’t be pigeonholed for being born into circumstances they had no control over.”

“Like in the choking squalor of Birmingham?”

“Yes. Or having been born a woman.” She leveled her gaze, as if challenging him. Then she shifted her weight on the pedal and took off on the bicycle. “Follow me,” she called over her shoulder.

He imagined it would become more and more difficultnotto follow her. Anywhere.

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