Never Kiss a Laird (3 page)

“Thank God, Miles,” was the earnest
reply. “My father will not be best pleased as it is, but a serious injury to
Beau and we would have really been in the suds!”

”Which to my mind is exactly where
we are, Miss Sally.”

Sarah Denham cast a rueful glance
at the groom who had set her upon her first horse when she was only four years
of age.
 
“It could be considerably
better, Miles, I’ll grant you.
 
But the
horse is mostly unhurt, as are we.
 
And
we are not a mile from the village.”
 
The
evening sky was darkening fast, and as she pulled the cloak more firmly around
her shoulders, Sally noticed the dark clouds that were starting to move across
the inky sky.
 
She realized that she was
shivering violently; it was cold enough for snow.
 

“I shall perish from the cold if I
stand here any longer,” she informed her groom, stamping her small feet in
their kid boots in an attempt to keep warm.

“Miss, I dare not set you on Beau’s
back with that fetlock swelling, but I can tie him up here and walk back with
you to the Saracen’s Head.
 
It’s more
than five miles to the Manor from where we stand, and you’d be frozen long
before we got there, but it’s just a step back to the village,” Miles offered.

“I would not have you leave him
here for anything!”
 
the
redoubtable Sally insisted.
 
“I am more
than capable of walking less than a mile back to the village myself.
 
And in turn, you can send the gig for me once
you get back to the Manor.
 
If you leave
Beau standing here in this weather his leg will stiffen.”
 

“I don’t know, Miss,” Miles
hesitated between the desire to get the horse back safely, which his Master
would expect, and the knowledge that his Mistress would be wroth with him for
letting Miss Denham walk through the gathering gloom to the Posting House alone.
 
The knowledge that Lord
Denham’s anger would take a more painful and physical form than that of his
lady, made up his mind for him.
 
“Right, Miss.
 
As soon as I get
back to the Manor I’ll send Tom for you in the gig.”

Sally gave Beau one last pat, and
then turned in the direction of the village.
 
The sky was midnight blue, and the fast-gathering clouds were not yet
obscuring the myriad bright stars.
 
A
full moon cast a glow over the country lane.
 
Long shadows fell across the path, and Sally could hear rustling in the
bushes, as small nocturnal animals foraged and hunted.
 
Pulling her hood securely over her bright
curls, she crossed her arms against the harsh wind and trod purposefully back towards
the village and the Saracen’s Head.
 
She
could have walked this path blindfolded, she thought with a smile, having spent
her entire youth playing in this countryside.
 
As the youngest of three children, and the only girl among them, Sally
had tagged after her brothers and their friends, begging to be allowed to be
included in their games.
 
She was usually
allowed the role of fetching the cricket ball, or creating a diversion while
they engaged in some prank.
 

Twenty minutes later, with hands
and feet thoroughly chilled, Sally was greatly relieved to see the lights of
the posting house ahead.
 
The moon had
more than once passed behind a dark cloud, forcing her to slow down to avoid
tripping, and the short walk had taken her longer than she had expected.
 
Her pace quickened, and as she approached the
front door she looked around the yard to see if she recognized any of the
carriages.
 
It was too much to hope that
one of the local gentry might be here and able to transport her to Denham Park,
she thought.
 
And indeed, the only
conveyance in the yard was the cart that Barrow used when he was hired
occasionally as a carrier.
 
As she stood
there scanning the yard, the first small hard snowflakes started to fall, and,
shivering violently in her thin cloak, Sarah hurried toward the low building.

“Barrow?” she called as she pushed
the door open and entered the warm musty hallway.
 
She stood for a moment, grateful for the
warmth, listening to the sounds of someone banging pots around in the recesses
of the kitchen.
 
A door swung open and a
short, stout man in knee breeches and a stained white apron toddled down the
hallway.
 
He stopped in surprise as he
recognized the slim girl who stood in his doorway.
 
           

“Miss Denham?” he exclaimed in
tones of surprise.
 
“I didn’t even hear
your carriage approach.”
 
He glanced
around expectantly.
 
“You’re never here
alone, Miss?”

“I am, Barrow,” Sally informed him
ruefully.
 
“Beau strained his fetlock and
cannot pull the barouche. Miles is walking him back to Denham Park,
and will send Tom for me.”
 
She pulled
off her tan
york
gloves as she spoke, and rubbed her ice-cold fingers together briskly.
 

“Eh, Miss, but you do look
chilled.”
 
Barrow hesitated for a moment,
trying to decide what hospitality to offer a single female, even one he had
known since she was a child.

“I am, Barrow, to the bone,” Sally
smiled, her teeth chattering slightly.
 
“May I stay by your fire until Tom comes for me in the gig?”

“Certainly, Miss,” Barrow assured
her making a quick decision.
 
The
Denhams
were the most important family in the neighborhood,
and he would not turn their only daughter away on a night like this. In fact
there might be some
gelt
in it for him from a
grateful father. “There’s not anyone likely to come in tonight, with the snow
beginning to fall.
 
You’ll be snug in the
taproom, and I’ll bring you a glass of hot cider to warm you.”
 

“That would be heavenly, Barrow,” Sally
sighed gratefully.
 
She passed through
the heavy oaken door held open for her, into a low-ceilinged room.
 
A long table surrounded by benches, a pair of
horsehair chairs and a lamp that was smoking slightly met her eyes, but she was
drawn to the smoldering fire in the grate.
 
Barrow threw several pieces of firewood onto the embers, and flames
sprang to life.

“There you are, Miss Denham.
 
I’ll be back with that hot drink for you.”

Sally pushed the blue kerseymere
hood back and shook out her bright red-gold curls.
 
She glanced in the heavy mirror that hung
over the fireplace.
 
Her reflection
showed a tall, slim girl with a profusion of wind-blown curls.
 
Even a nose red-tipped from the cold could
not disguise her delicate beauty.
 
As the result of a lifetime of being referred to by her brothers as
carrots, Sally, however, had no love for her red-gold hair.
 
 
While
the neighborhood beaus composed poems referring to her as ‘ethereal’ and
‘nymph-like’, Sally just shook her head and ignored them. She would have much
rather
have been a sturdier girl
, so she could have
given her brothers a run for their money in their many cricket games.

A sharp, tingly feeling was just
starting to return to her fingers and toes when Barrow returned with a pitcher
of hot cider.
 
She wrapped her hands
gratefully around the mug he poured out for her, and sank into one of the
horsehair chairs.

“
Ahh
,
Barrow, I just might survive after all,” she sighed contentedly, sipping at the
warm, fragrant liquid.

“Not once your Papa finds out that
you’re alone in my taproom at ten of the clock in the evening,” Barrow
commented cynically as he stoked up the fire.

“With a bit of luck that knowledge
will remain between the two of us,” Sally shuddered at the thought of her very
careful Papa’s reaction to her current situation.
 
“If Tom makes haste with the gig, I should be
home long before Mama and Papa return from the
Cartherson’s
rout party.”

“If they don’t leave early with the
snow and all,” her Job’s comforter continued in his pessimistic strain.

“Oh, Barrow,” Sally exclaimed on a
delicious peal of laughter.
 
“I am
finally warm for the first time all night, and I won’t allow such thoughts to
intrude.
 
You must have duties to attend
to, so I will just sit here with this revivifying drink until Tom arrives.”

“Yes, Miss,” Barrow took his cue
and headed for the doorway.
 
“As you wish.
 
I’ve a
large party arriving in the morning, so I wouldn’t mind getting back to my
work.
 
Safe passage
home, Miss Sally.”
 
And with those
words, the stout man bustled back towards the kitchen.

Sally took another sip of her cider
and watched the dancing flames in the fireplace.
  
The warmth seeped back into her bones, and
with a contented sigh, Sally pulled the cloak around her, and tucked her feet
up under her on the chair.
 

“I will just savor this moment,”
she told herself.
 
“And not think about
the moment when I face my father with the tale of his favorite horse’s injury.”
 

It seemed like mere moments later
when Sally opened her eyes.
 
She
stretched cramped, cold limbs, and realized that the fire was now just cold
ash.
 
Wintry sunlight streamed in through
a dusty window.

“Oh, no,” Sally started up
guiltily.
 
“Heavens, what time is
it?”
 
She stood and straightened her
dress, put a hasty hand up to her hair and grabbed up her cloak.
  
As she strode briskly towards the door, she
became aware of the sounds of a horse-drawn vehicle pulling into the posting
yard.
 

“Tom and the gig!” she thought with
relief.
 
Miles must have run into
trouble, to be so delayed in sending Tom, she worried, fearing that Beau must have
been seriously injured after all.
 
Footsteps sounded in the hallway and a short moment later the door was
thrown open.
 
Framed in the doorway stood
a very handsome young man, a many-caped greatcoat dusted with snowflakes flung
back from his broad shoulders.
 
He held a
curly brimmed beaver hat, a cane and a pair of gloves in one hand.
 
His blonde hair was in disarray from the
weather, and although his nose was red from the cold, it was also straight,
beautiful in profile, and his blue eyes had caused many a young girl to wish
that he would look at her much as he was now regarding Sally.
 
A pleased and surprised smile was curling his
shapely lips.

“Miss Sarah Denham!” he exclaimed
in surprise.
 
His voice was deep, and
held a note of mischief. “Were you waiting for me?”
 
He looked around the room in an exaggerated
pantomime, as if looking for her attendants.
 
“And all alone?
 
How delightful!”

Sally’s eyes darkened.
 
“Good morning, Mr. Atherly,” she said coldly,
uncomfortably aware of her tousled hair and crumpled dress.

“But you haven’t answered my
question,” he chided her gently, advancing into the room and slipping his many-caped
greatcoat from his shoulders.
 
He tossed
this remarkable garment onto a bench, and stood before her in his superbly
fitted long-tailed coat of superfine, pale yellow pantaloons and shiny Hessian
boots.
 
But instead of looking at Sally,
his eyes strayed to the heavy mirror over the fireplace, and he absently
brushed his hair back into order, and put a hand up to straighten a cravat in
slight disarray.

Sally surveyed this self-absorption
with pursed lips.
 
She had known Simon
Atherly her whole life, and had watched him grow from a selfish young boy into
an entirely self-centered young man.
 
Her
older brothers had admired him for his natural athleticism, and
horsemanship.
 
He was extraordinarily
handsome, and most of the girls in the neighborhood were madly in love with
him.
 
As Sally watched him carefully
adjusting his cravat, entirely absorbed with his own reflection, her lip curled
and she was reminded again of why she had never succumbed to his admittedly
very attractive physical attributes.

Simon looked away from his compelling
reflection, caught the look of derision in Sally’s eyes, and burst out
laughing.
 
“Well?
 
Would you have me present myself to you in
disorder?”
 
he
enquired, shooting her a look of impish appeal through his thick lashes.

“I do not require that you present
yourself to me at all,” Sally informed him baldly, unimpressed by one of his
lordship’s best moves.
 
“In fact, I wish
you will go away.”

“What?” he exclaimed in mock
dismay.
 
“Would you have me leave a
maiden who is clearly in distress and in need of rescuing?”