Sara Mitchell - A Most Unusual Match

“When I’m not indulging in the first pleasure holiday in a decade—” his smile deepened until dimples creased both cheeks “—I raise and train horses. Draft horses, to be specific, though we—my uncle and I—gentle the odd pleasure mount here and there. I’ve been around them all my life. Horses taught me a lot about observation, about sensing feelings, moods.” He gave a short laugh. “When you’re surrounded by creatures with hooves the size of a soup tureen, you’d better learn how to read them. Works the same with people. Although I prefer horses for the most part. They might bite or kick if frightened or provoked. But they don’t lie.”

Thea weathered the blow; it was justified. “I didn’t think a harmless fabrication would hurt anyone, and it kept speculation about me to a minimum. It was the only way I could think of to attract…” Her voice trailed into silence.

“And when nothing worked, you got desperate.”

Above them a burnt orange sky warned of encroaching night. Somewhere nearby, an insect commenced its ceaseless chirring. But between Thea and Devlin Stone silence thickened until each inhalation choked her lungs.

“Desperate,” she repeated, squeezing her hand until her fingers went numb. “Have you ever been desperate, Mr. Stone? About anything?”

“Yes. But never enough to cheat, or beg, or deceive.”

“Then you’ve never been desperate, and faced with impossible choices.” She paused. “Is that what you think of me?”

“I don’t know what to think of you, Miss Pickford. Is that your real name, by the way?”

“What? Oh…well, no. It’s actually my mother’s maiden name.” He slid the question in so neatly Thea answered before she realized it. But unless Mr. Stone frequented the tawdry depths of New York City’s Bowery he would not associate her with Hetty Pickford. “Please don’t ask for my real name. I don’t want to lie to you anymore.”

“Ah.” Another one of those flicks of blue light came and went in his eyes. “We’re in accord, then. I don’t want to be lied to. Now, it’s getting late. Is your companion— Mrs. Chudd? Is she likely to be concerned about your whereabouts?”

“Well, if I don’t turn up by midnight, she’d notify the front desk at least.”

“Not a very efficient companion.”

“No. She’s mostly for appearances. I’m supposed to be a wealthy heiress, engaged to an earl. A chaperone’s expected. Mrs. Chudd’s former employer just passed away. She said she’d always wanted to see upstate New York, but after we arrived she developed an aversion for crowds.”

“I see.” He rubbed his palms together. “All right, then. What say we return to the village? Can you walk, Miss Pickford, or shall I carry you to my buggy?”

“I can walk,” she answered too quickly, and in the sunset’s glow she caught his ironic smile.

In her haste to scramble to her feet a wave of faintness almost contradicted her words. He put his hands on her waist to steady her, and though the courtesy was brief, almost impersonal, Thea’s limbs turned to sand.

“Shall I carry you after all, then?” he offered after her first few steps.

“No. It’s just a silly weakness, already passing.” More a weakness of her mind than her limbs. “I could probably walk back to the village, but—”

“Don’t be a goose, Miss Pickford. Pride’s a useful commodity on occasion. This isn’t one of them.”

The sun slipped behind the mountains to the west as he handed her into his buggy. The contrast between this simple one-horse, two-seat runabout and Edgar Fane’s waxed and gleaming omnibus harnessed to a team of four matched horses was as incongruous as the realization that, given a choice, Theodora much preferred the former. Confused, she watched Mr. Stone light the single carriage lamp, and give the horse an affectionate pat.

Who was this man?

She looked like a woebegone waif sitting beside him in the gathering darkness, smelling of peppermint and illness. Strands of hair hung limply around the pale oval of her face and dirt smeared over her yellow shirtwaist. The floppy hat rested forgotten on her lap. For the first mile Devlin fought a battle with his conscience. Fortunately Miss Pickford herself broached the subject.

“I don’t suppose you’d consider forgetting everything you saw and heard,” she said, her grimy hands smoothing in ceaseless circles over the equally grimy hat ribbons.

“Not a chance.” He paused. “Especially the scene on the pier. Your staging and timing were impeccable, Miss Pickford. However, compared to Edgar Fane you’re a very small minnow tempting a shark.”

She groaned. “You saw that?”

“From start to finish. If it’s any consolation, I think the tactic worked. Humor can be a powerful weapon in a woman’s arsenal. The shoe definitely captured Fane’s attention.”

“Only for a moment. I wasn’t expecting to be fobbed off on a personal secretary.”

“A dinner invitation will be forthcoming, Miss Pickford. Count on it.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

She spoke so softly he barely caught the words, but a chill spiked down his spine. Snug cottages whose windows glowed with lights had begun to appear on either side of the road; in moments they’d be back in the village, and Dev would have to let her go. An opportunity would be forever lost. Off to the right, a grove of shade trees offered privacy and without a qualm he turned the horse off the road and into their concealing darkness.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing sinister. I just want us to come to a better understanding of one another before I turn you over to Mrs. Chudd.”

“There’s no point. I don’t think I can…” A long hesitation was followed by an unraveling sigh, then, “I promised myself I could do this, vowed I could ignore my conscience, and all the doubts. But it’s not working. The attacks of dizziness…they’re getting worse. Stronger.” She turned to face him, the fuzzy light from the carriage lamp illuminating a face taut with misery. “You told me you knew of Edgar Fane. Could you…would you tell me everything you know, without asking why I continue to pursue this man?”

Her sincerity disarmed him; he didn’t want to believe she was being honest with him, because it would corroborate his perception of her true character—and reinforce the dangerous attraction that intensified with every encounter. She was an admitted liar, with trouble and secrets stamped all over her face. Yet her vulnerability appealed to every one of his protective instincts.

Compassion might kill him yet….

“Horses are prey animals,” Uncle Jay counseled often enough to annoy when Dev was growing up. “Humans, now—we’re predators. But that don’t mean we never feel threatened, ’specially women. A mean woman, or a threatened woman, can kick you with words, trample your heart. After Sylvia and your mother, it’s possible you may never trust another one. I don’t look to forgive your intended myself—so can’t blame you none for feeling the same. That don’t mean all females deserve the scorn I hear in your voice these days. Regardless of their behavior, like horses a lady never deserves the back of your hand, or a fist. Always be a man instead of a two-legged mongrel, lad, so’s you’ll sleep at night.”

“How about we trade information?” he began, slowly.

“You tell me about these ‘spells,’ and I’ll tell you what I know about Edgar Fane.”

In the darkness Dev heard her exhale a long wavering sigh. “My grandfather warned me about rogues and knaves. He never warned me about someone like you.”

“Well, if I’m not a rogue or a knave, what does that leave?” Keep it light, he ordered himself. Go gently. You can lead a horse to water, but if you want him to drink, feed him something salty to whet his thirst. “Or perhaps I shouldn’t ask?”