Joseph doffed his cap and gave it a wave. “Lucy-lass, yer as fine as a Scottish sunset, ye are, with those cheeks as bright as a crimson apple they be…”
Uncle Tasgall snorted. “Which is it, lad?” he drawled, going to fetch the younger man a tankard of ale. “Is she the sun or the apple?”
The ginger-headed, would-be beau grinned. “Which one is more likely to convince the lass to marry me?”
“Joseph, clap yer mouth,” Nettie whispered furiously, dragging the tall, slender servant by his ear.
“Ahhhh.” Joseph griped and groaned all the way, but he knew better than to resist Nettie, leaving Lucy and Uncle Tasgall alone.
“Yer aunt be right, she is. But don’t let her know I went about saying that,” Uncle Tasgall said, giving a gentle tug on one of her many escaped curls. “I dinnae like ye be doing all the noticin’, but some of these lads need a little push.”
Beloved Uncle Tasgall slid a glance at the gentleman in question’s way. “Or, as the case be havin’ it, a verra big shove.”
Aye, there could be no doubt. Mr. Smith was a braw fellow, he was.
“There are good things coming for you, Lucy. Ah only hope I’m around to see it. It be Christmas, my lass. Remember…”
Lucy’s back came slowly straight. “Anything can happen at Christmas…”
“Aye,” Uncle Tasgall said. His words of encouragement continued, even as Lucy finally found her legs.
At the same exact moment, Mr. Smith stood. Her feet seemed to move in slow motion, even as his moved with a dizzying speed.
He was already in his cloak, tossing down bills and coins, and then out the door as she reached the table.
Mr. Smith left a sizable fortune. Enough coin to match the collective ones of all the patrons they’d have this week. Certainly enough to pay for the ancient, carved oak sign in desperate need of repair and rehanging.
Lucy’s gaze, however, went to the brown leather journal. Reverently, she stroked her fingers over the enormous S, and letter C to its left, and letter D to its right.
Grabbing the book, she clutched it close to her chest and hung onto it. The pages were still warm from the length of time he’d spent writing within the book.
He…
He…
Had forgotten his book!
His book held protectively close in her right hand, with her other, she hitched her skirts up high and set out in pursuit. Slipping and sliding, it was all she could do to keep her feet.
“Mr. Smith!” She raised her voice louder. He was nearly at the stables. “Mr. Smith!”
Mr. Campbell Smith turned slowly.
“Yer journal!”
The nearly full moon cast a radiant white light upon his smiling face. Then a shadow fell over his handsome features.
“Mr. Smith!” she cried out a warning. Heart racing, she broke into a full sprint. “The sign.”
Startled, Mr. Smith looked up and froze.
Lucy hurled herself at Mr. Smith’s wiry chest.
Slick cobblestones proved their foe—or savior. Their legs went sliding forward, backwards, and sideways.
Lucy flew backwards.
The fallen snow only dulled some of the impact. All the air exploded from her lungs as her back collided with the earth; the force of Mr. Smith’s weight crashed atop Lucy. Stars danced in her eyes.
