Julia London (58 page)

“D-Do you s-see?” she gasped as she lifted a hand and delicately wiped a tear from the corner of her sparkling eye. “We are
arguing
about an obstinate old
hog
!” she cried gleefully, and followed it with another peal of melodious laughter.

He supposed he should be thankful she was not hysterical after the scare, but merely amused.
Greatly
amused—her dulcet laughter was infectious. “Are you hurt?” he asked, a grin slowly spreading his lips.

She shook her head, making the tiny wisps of curls dance around her flawless face. “No,” she said, giggling, “are you?”

“No.”

She peeked up at him through thick, curly lashes. “I am quite mortified, you know! I landed right on top of you! I thought you would … you know …
move.
”

Alex chuckled as he bent to retrieve his coat. “My intention was to help you step over the fence.”

She laughed roundly. “And did you think with that beast on my heels I would tiptoe across?”

“I rather suppose I did,” he admitted sheepishly. God, but her smile was as brilliant as the damned sun beating down on them.

“I am Lauren Hill,” she offered, and extended her hand.

A faint, indescribable tingle waved through the pit of his stomach as he took the long, graceful fingers into his and closed around them. “Alex Christian,” he muttered, his eyes riveted on her hand. Belatedly remembering himself, he glanced up. A bit of color infused her cheeks as she slowly withdrew her hand. Her gaze dipped to the tips of her chunky boots as she clasped her hands demurely behind her back.

“It would appear the hog has decided that as a meal, you are not worth the effort,” he remarked.

Her head snapped up, and gasping softly, she leaned to one side to see around him. “
Now
where has that silly hog gone?” she muttered under her breath. “Honestly, the way Lucy keeps running off, you would think we never feed her!”

“Lucy?”

“We named her Lucy eight years ago when it became apparent she was much to old to be a very good Christmas dinner.”

“I see. And do you often sing to Lucy?” he asked, another, uncommon grin curling the corners of his mouth.

“No,” she said softly, her eyes riveting on his lips, “only when she is irritated.”

He wished to high heaven she would not stare at his mouth like that. Uncharacteristically flustered, he turned abruptly toward the field. “Lucy apparently likes pumpkin.”

“Yes, exceedingly well.” Frowning, Miss Hill walked to the fence. Alex’s legs moved of their own accord, but his gaze followed the soft sway of her slender hips and the dark chestnut curls bouncing lightly just above them. He recalled
the feel of that round little bottom, and amazingly, he had an unmistakable urge to touch those curls, just above those hips. She turned suddenly, startling him. “Are you lost?”

“Lost?” he stammered.

“Lost. I hope I am not too forward, Mr. Christian, but is there a reason you are, you know,
here
?”

Alex was so captivated by her dark blue eyes and so startled by the uncommon address that he was momentarily unable to think of an answer. “Ah, well. I suppose one could say I have lost my bearings.”
If not my mind
, he added silently. “My horse drew up lame, you see, and I was walking for help. I thought the village of Pemberheath was nearby—”

“Three miles more,” she offered helpfully. “Where is your horse?”

“A small clearing a few miles south of here. Perhaps you would be so kind as to point me in the proper direction?” he asked, feeling uncomfortably absurd to be looking at her with all the admiration of a schoolboy. But hell, he was only mortal, and she possessed the most remarkable eyes he had ever had the good fortune to see.

“You shall come to Rosewood! I can send Rupert for help when he returns from the village,” she offered, then smiled so charmingly he had to swallow. Rosewood, he had heard of it. Rupert? Was she married, then?

“Is your husband presently at home?”

“Husband?” she asked, confused, then abruptly laughed. “I am not married, Mr. Christian. Rupert lives at Rosewood—I mean, with my uncle, my brother, and me. Oh, and Mrs. Peterman,” she added hastily.

It astounded him that he should be so pleased she was not married. “I would be most obliged if Rupert could find help.” Still smiling, she gracefully flicked a thick strand of curls over one shoulder. Alex’s eyes followed the movement, and he swallowed again. Hard.

She motioned toward a barely discernible path. “I am afraid it’s a bit of a walk,” she said apologetically.

“My only regret is that I cannot offer you the comfort of a carriage.”

She giggled as if that was the most perfectly ridiculous thing he could have said, which, of course, it was. “Oh, it is much too nice a day for carriages, Mr. Christian. It should be many months before we enjoy such fine weather again.”

Fine weather? He was positively stifling. Limping slightly, he fell in beside the enchanting creature. Her eyes landed upon the slash of dark red seeping through his expensive buckskins, and he said, “A bramble bush, I think.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He motioned to his leg. “Jupiter slammed into a bramble bush, I think,” he clarified.

“Yes, bramble,” she murmured, and turned her attention to the path in front of them. But not before he noticed the heightened color in her cheeks. They walked for several minutes before either spoke.

“Where did you learn the song you were singing?” he asked.

“It’s a ditty from a Shakespearean play,” she said with a graceful but dismissive flick of her wrist.

“
The Two Gentleman of Verona
,” he said.

Surprised, Miss Hill snapped a wide-eyed gaze to him. “Why,
yes
! How did you know?” She beamed, clearly delighted.

How did he know? He was a generous patron of the arts, had boxes in the finest theaters and concert halls across Europe. But all of that seemed a bit too pretentious under the circumstances. “I am quite a fan of Shakespeare,” he said simply.

“Ah, the ‘
Sweet Swan of Avon
,’ ” she said with a sigh.

Alex arched a brow. Singing Shakespeare and now quoting Ben Jonson? “You have read Mr. Jonson?”

The angel laughed lightly. “We may be a bit off the
beaten path, sir, but we are not so remote we do not have a book of English literature.”

He nodded, silently regarding her as they continued along. Dressed in that plain brown frock and those awful boots, she looked like a simple country lass. But her speech was that of a gently bred woman, and she was obviously well read. It was an unusual dichotomy, one he could not quite understand. One he did not need to understand, not when she was looking up at him with those vivid blue eyes. She brought a hand to her brow and raked a loose curl from her forehead. For the second time, Alex was seized with a desire to touch the riotous curl of her hair.

“Do you read poetry?” she asked. He nodded, mentioning a couple of his favorites. He was astounded—she knew them all, and rattled off little stanzas of her favorite poems. He was completely mesmerized, stunned that he had found this unusual creature in the middle of a pumpkin field.

After a quarter of an hour more, a barn came into view. Three dairy cows mowed the grass in a large circle, tended by a young boy. She noticed him looking at the barn, and admitted proudly, “We just birthed a calf. Horace is quite convinced one of the bigger cows will smush the little fellow, so he has appointed himself its guardian.”

Amazed by the extraordinary leap of his stomach at the mention of her children, Alex glanced toward the mill. “How many children do you have?”

“Five at the moment. Sometimes one or two more.”

He should hardly have been surprised; the small kernel of disappointment he felt was ludicrous. He had the impression that country people bred continuously, and why should he care how many children she had now or had lost? Country children were, unfortunately, susceptible to disease and death. “You have five children?” he asked again, angry with himself.

She shifted her dark blue gaze to him, saw the obvious look of wonder on his face, and burst out laughing. “Oh no,
sir, not
mine
! The children at Rosewood are our wards. Orphans,” she clarified, “except for Rupert.” Another child suddenly appeared on the crest of a hill, behind which Alex noticed the four chimneys of a small manor house. Miss Hill lifted her hand and waved. Absurdly relieved that they were not her children, Alex followed her to the barn. The young boy tending the cattle, who looked to be no older than seven or eight years, rushed forward to greet them.

“Horace, have a care where you step!” she called, then laughingly wrinkled her nose. “Our cattle, few though they are, are quite prolific in their production of fertilizer.”

He was about to remark that he was quite sure it was a trait common to all cattle, but the shouting caught him off guard. He thought the other boy had been hurt, and jerked around. With inhuman effort, he managed to keep from gaping at the boy’s hideous birthmark. “Really, Leonard, he is
not
a pirate,” Miss Hill said, laughing. “He is a country gentleman who has lost his way.”
And my mind
, Alex silently reminded her,
especially my mind.
The unfortunate young lad was smiling brightly at Miss Hill. She touched his temple, smiling at him as genuinely as if the child were Adonis himself.

Dear God, she
was
an angel.

For the second time that day, Alex felt he was watching a dream. The boys looked adoringly at Miss Hill, and the angel with the voice of gold laughingly regaled them with Lucy’s adventure, lovingly touching them as she spoke. Certain he was rudely gaping, Alex clenched his jaw tightly shut and tried to remain as expressionless as he knew how.

“Mr. Christian, may I introduce Leonard?” she smiled, gesturing toward the birthmarked child, “and Horace.”

“Good afternoon,” Alex heard himself say.

“Good afternoon, sir,” they chirped in unison.

“We have four more boarders at Rosewood,” Miss Hill said. “Sally, Theodore, and Lydia are inside. Rupert and my brother, Paul, are with my uncle in Pemberheath.”

“It’s Theodore’s turn to watch Sally,” Leonard informed him. As Alex imagined that Sally had some horrible malady, Miss Hill instructed the boys to run ahead and inform Mrs. Peterman they had a guest.

“I will race you to the top of the hill!” Horace shouted, and the lads immediately scampered ahead, toward the house.

“It is the dinner hour. I rather imagine you must be famished,” Miss Hill said. Alex dragged his gaze from the boys and smiled. “I would not think of imposing.”

“It is no imposition, sir. You are very welcome.”

“If you are quite certain, I admit I am indeed rather hungry.” He would probably never know what compelled him to agree. Part of him wanted to look at the child’s birthmark again, to see if the others were similarly afflicted. But another part of him wanted to look at the angel as long as he could. All of this—Rosewood, Lucy, and the angel beside him, intrigued him on a level he could hardly fathom. She had already started toward the crest, and he quickened his step.

Lauren did not realize how fast she was walking. God, was she
addled
? The invitation to dinner had no sooner tumbled out of her mouth when it occurred to her that Ethan might have returned. Blanching at the very thought, Lauren quickened her step, wanting to reach the house before he did, mortified that such a dignified, educated,
handsome
man might meet
Ethan.
Good
God
!

She was practically running by the time she reached the house, and would have run straight inside and up to her room had Mr. Christian not stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm. She gasped and immediately looked down to see if her arm was on fire. It certainly felt like it was; a strange, tingling sensation spread quickly to her chest. Catching her breath in her throat, she looked up at him. Lord, but Alex Christian, whoever he was, had to be the most handsome man she had ever clapped eyes on. He was tall, well over six
feet. His brown hair was threaded with a sprinkling of gold, and he had warm green eyes that could melt ice. They were certainly doing a fine job of melting her where she stood.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Hill. I did not mean to imply I was
that
hungry!” He grinned at her. Lauren’s cheeks burned; how foolish she must look, running to the dinner table like Lucy to her slop. He looked as if he expected her to say something, but Lord Almighty, she could not help staring at him. His face was rugged and square and deeply tanned, his shoulders broad and muscular, his legs powerful. She silently commanded herself to stop being ridiculous and laughed nervously at his jest. She felt the heat in her cheeks, and was never so glad to see Mrs. Peterman in all her life as when the housekeeper stepped onto the back steps, her arms wrapped around a huge ceramic bowl. She glared at Mr. Christian as she furiously stirred the contents of her bowl.

“Mrs. Peterman, may I introduce Mr. Christian?”

“How do you do, Mrs. Peterman,” he said politely.

She growled and shifted a narrowed gaze to Lauren. “That blasted hog is back in her pen. I sent Leonard after you, thinking she might have killed you at last!”

Lauren laughed tightly, cringing inwardly at how strange she sounded. “She certainly tried, but Mr. Christian was kind enough to help me.”

“Miss Hill is too generous. It would be more accurate to say she survived in spite of my help.”

“Are you in the habit of roaming the open fields, Mr. Christian?” Mrs. Peterman snapped. Lauren winced. Mrs. Peterman was still smarting over her rejection of Fastidious Thadeus, and since then had treated every eligible man in a ten-mile radius of Pemberheath as a blackguard.

“His horse drew up lame, Mrs. Peterman. I brought him here so that Rupert might help him,” she muttered, and cast an imploring look at the housekeeper.

“Rupert is not here,” Mrs. Peterman said, and pivoting on her heel, marched into the kitchen.

Why didn’t the earth just open and swallow her where she stood? She tried to smile. “Mrs. Peterman is rather protective.”