rights.
As he jumped down from his horse, a host of birds rose from the bushes and sought safety inside the upper floors.
His house was a demmed rookery. He had birds in his attics. Oh, Colin and Robert would find all kinds of irony in that notion.
As he was about to push the door open the rest of the way and venture inside, he heard something odd—a whistled tune coming from around the side of the house. The melody caught his ear and lured him from the steps. Before he knew it, he was picking his way through the waist high lawn and tumble of weeds, and seeking the source of the enticing strains.
Just as he hopped over a low stone wall a gasp rose from the garden beyond.
"You!"
He looked up to find the object of his vexation seated cross-legged atop a large stump, a pen in hand, and a small, traveling desk spread open on her lap.
Miss Tate no longer, Rebecca's prim demeanor had been replaced with a loose braid that fell nearly to her waist. She wore a simple green gown, but around her shoulders lay a fanciful shawl. Her feet were bare, a sight that enticed him. He didn't know if he'd ever seen an English lady with bare feet, outside his bed that was. Her toes wiggled in the sunshine, leading up to delicate ankles and an inviting pair of shapely calves.
She looked… well, she looked…
Fey.
The word came unbidden to mind. Hadn't his Irish nanny filled his head with stories of the fey—troublesome, tempting folk—but he'd never believed in them until now.
She hastily capped a small bottle of ink, and then stowed her pen. "So now you've taken to following me to prove your ridiculous theory?"
"No," he said, still taken aback by the sight before him. She captivated him as she had last night in the garden when he'd been about to kiss her. Now, more than ever, he was flooded with regrets for not having succeeded.
"So then what are you doing here?" she sputtered as she tried to gather up the pages stacked around her. Just then a gentle breeze caught the leaves and sent them fluttering over the ill-kempt lawn like autumn refuse.
"Bother!" she exclaimed before clamoring off the stump and chasing after her lost possessions.
As she dashed about trying to catch them up, he started to doubt the certainty of his convictions.
This was the creator of Miss Darby? The Miss Darby in her fine helmet and boots, who rode a charger effortlessly into battle or snagged a python from beneath the Raj's dining table with her father's best fishing rod with the same finesse with which she poured tea?
An
Incomparable
, ever at the ready, and never floundering about like a freshly caught trout.
Though, he had to admit, Miss Tate had several incomparable assets, for her all-too-tempting shape was in fine view as she leaned this way and that trying to retrieve her wayward papers.
Then in a very astute display of the differences between the elegant lady of fiction and this real life spinster, Miss Tate toppled into a hedge in an unsightly tangle.
"Oooh," she wailed as she tried to right herself but only got caught deeper in the shrubbery.
What was it about this woman and her affinity for thorns?
Rafe rushed to her side. "Careful," he advised as he started to pick her up out of the briars. "You are well caught," he added in jest.
"So you would like to think," she said, shaking off his help and righting herself with all the dignity of her accursed cat.
What the devil had she called that beast?
Ajax
. Now why did that name sound so familiar? Then it struck him. Ajax wasn't just the name of Miss Tate's hellbent tom, but also of Miss Darby's beloved wolfhound.
"Aha!" he said, pointing at her.
"Aha, what?" she asked, shaking out her skirt, then tossing her thick red braid back over her shoulder. Unruly strands curled about her face.
"Ajax!" he said. "The name of your cat and Miss Darby's dog are one and the same. I think that is hardly a coincidence."
She shook her head, and skirted past him like one might a tattered beggar on the
As he jumped down from his horse, a host of birds rose from the bushes and sought safety inside the upper floors.
His house was a demmed rookery. He had birds in his attics. Oh, Colin and Robert would find all kinds of irony in that notion.
As he was about to push the door open the rest of the way and venture inside, he heard something odd—a whistled tune coming from around the side of the house. The melody caught his ear and lured him from the steps. Before he knew it, he was picking his way through the waist high lawn and tumble of weeds, and seeking the source of the enticing strains.
Just as he hopped over a low stone wall a gasp rose from the garden beyond.
"You!"
He looked up to find the object of his vexation seated cross-legged atop a large stump, a pen in hand, and a small, traveling desk spread open on her lap.
Miss Tate no longer, Rebecca's prim demeanor had been replaced with a loose braid that fell nearly to her waist. She wore a simple green gown, but around her shoulders lay a fanciful shawl. Her feet were bare, a sight that enticed him. He didn't know if he'd ever seen an English lady with bare feet, outside his bed that was. Her toes wiggled in the sunshine, leading up to delicate ankles and an inviting pair of shapely calves.
She looked… well, she looked…
Fey.
The word came unbidden to mind. Hadn't his Irish nanny filled his head with stories of the fey—troublesome, tempting folk—but he'd never believed in them until now.
She hastily capped a small bottle of ink, and then stowed her pen. "So now you've taken to following me to prove your ridiculous theory?"
"No," he said, still taken aback by the sight before him. She captivated him as she had last night in the garden when he'd been about to kiss her. Now, more than ever, he was flooded with regrets for not having succeeded.
"So then what are you doing here?" she sputtered as she tried to gather up the pages stacked around her. Just then a gentle breeze caught the leaves and sent them fluttering over the ill-kempt lawn like autumn refuse.
"Bother!" she exclaimed before clamoring off the stump and chasing after her lost possessions.
As she dashed about trying to catch them up, he started to doubt the certainty of his convictions.
This was the creator of Miss Darby? The Miss Darby in her fine helmet and boots, who rode a charger effortlessly into battle or snagged a python from beneath the Raj's dining table with her father's best fishing rod with the same finesse with which she poured tea?
An
Incomparable
, ever at the ready, and never floundering about like a freshly caught trout.
Though, he had to admit, Miss Tate had several incomparable assets, for her all-too-tempting shape was in fine view as she leaned this way and that trying to retrieve her wayward papers.
Then in a very astute display of the differences between the elegant lady of fiction and this real life spinster, Miss Tate toppled into a hedge in an unsightly tangle.
"Oooh," she wailed as she tried to right herself but only got caught deeper in the shrubbery.
What was it about this woman and her affinity for thorns?
Rafe rushed to her side. "Careful," he advised as he started to pick her up out of the briars. "You are well caught," he added in jest.
"So you would like to think," she said, shaking off his help and righting herself with all the dignity of her accursed cat.
What the devil had she called that beast?
Ajax
. Now why did that name sound so familiar? Then it struck him. Ajax wasn't just the name of Miss Tate's hellbent tom, but also of Miss Darby's beloved wolfhound.
"Aha!" he said, pointing at her.
"Aha, what?" she asked, shaking out her skirt, then tossing her thick red braid back over her shoulder. Unruly strands curled about her face.
"Ajax!" he said. "The name of your cat and Miss Darby's dog are one and the same. I think that is hardly a coincidence."
She shook her head, and skirted past him like one might a tattered beggar on the
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