Little wonder news that Connor might court Jane unnerved her. He’d becomeherdashing hero in many of those scenarios. Her beau. Her lover. Her hours of diversion through the long summer nights.
From a distance, he had inspired many an idle fantasy. Up close, he merited a far more physical response. A feverish one. Or was it the heat of the day? The heat radiating off of him?
His appearance told her he hadn’t labored in the fields today. Like her, he’d sacrificed more than a few open buttons to the weather. Hatless and with his jacket slung over one shoulder, the sleeves of his white shirt turned up to reveal taut forearms delineated with strands of muscle. He was muscular without being burly, but then he appeared rather young. Perhaps only a few years older than she. Piper assumed he’d fill out in the years to come. Especially if he kept working like a field hand.
It rendered him more manly. Earthy.
Piper glanced up from beneath the brim of her hat to find him smiling down on her. Not a hint of suspicion in his eyes, only amicability and a touch of appreciation. She lowered her gaze.
Perhaps somewhere deep down inside, she was glad he’d found her. And maybe, just maybe, she’d roamed far and wide of late to make it easier for him.
She peered up again, unable to refrain. There was an odd thrill to be found in strolling by his side. An awareness that left her jittery, perhaps a tad bilious, but in a perversely pleasant way. His fingers brushed hers as they walked, stirring the compulsion to take his hand. Hold it. She managed to restrain herself from such a humiliating act and settled for admiring him in silence, as the sunlight filtered through the leaves and branches sending random bursts of light to play across his features.
How strange to have him look down at her. A brace of inches from six feet herself, there weren’t many men besides her brother who towered over her. As she studied him, she noticed his hair wasn’t brown as she’d thought. Hints of mahogany glistened in the random sunshine, adding to his appeal, if that were possible. She’d wager he had a ginger or two on the low-hanging branches of his family tree. A scruff of the same color darkened his jaw and upper lip. And his lips were…
His brow rose a notch, and Piper realized she was staring. She trained her eyes on the ground, watching his scuffed boots dart forward as he walked.
“I wouldnae have pegged ye for the quiet sort,” he offered at length. “I dinnae ken why I would think so when ye’ve spared me nary a word as yet.”
“My apologies. I suppose I’ve grown rather used to having whole conversations in my mind without realizing that I’ve said nothing aloud,” she found herself revealing. “I don’t find myself in company as regularly as I would like.”
“Since Mr. Milbourne passed?”
“Pardon?” She followed his gaze as it dipped down. Oh, of course! Given the name she’d taken and her mourning gown, he’d assumed she was widowed. “Oh, yes. Since my husband passed.” A heartbeat of silence. “God rest him.”
He nodded, a curious light in his green eyes. “Ye’re young to be widowed already. Ye maun have been a mere babe when ye wed.”
Familiar panic rushed in. Piper scouted the area for an escape.
“Och, lass.” Connor stayed her with a brief hand on her arm, retreating once he’d halted her impending flight. “Dinnae fash, ye have nothing to fear from me.”
* * *
He hadn’t been joshing overmuch when he’d teased her about bearing the air of a hunted deer. Such wariness could only be accounted for by a handful of reasons. The simplest would be that it was her base nature to be the fretful sort, however, amid the timid glances and edgy fidgeting, he’d seen enough fire light her eyes to dismiss the obvious. Vivacity dulled by vigilance. Sobriety superimposed over humor. Without question, she was hiding herself away here in the countryside. From whom or what, he wasn’t certain.
Nor would he harass her into revealing her secrets. As he’d said, everyone had them. And everyone had reasons for them. Trust would be needed before she shared hers.
And he wanted her to trust him. Moreover, Connor wanted to ensure it wouldn’t be another near trio of months before they met once more. She mentioned that she lived close by, yet their paths hadn’t crossed in all that time. Any effort to search her out had been stymied repeatedly by the obstinate and closed-mouthed. For all he’d scoured the area for her, this random encounter after seeing neither hide nor hair of her for so long had come as a surprise. He’d been sitting on the edge of the fountain at the end of the parterre thinking over the plans he’d made with Larkin, the estate steward, when he’d spotted her on the path. More than the astonishment of seeing her, he’d been taken by a burst of happiness.
The lass had haunted his thoughts all summer. Not merely as some enigmatic puzzle for him to logic out. There was something more, though he couldn’t pinpoint precisely what it was about her that had ensnared him so. He liked women. All women. Perhaps not as much as his brother James loved all women or as fervently as his younger brother, Dorian, set himself to adoring them all thoroughly, but Connor had engaged in a fair number of flirtations and affairs to know the lure of Mrs. Milbourne was more irresistible than most.
She must have bewitched him, for he’d been unable to get her out of his head. It was more than the mystery of her, more than the long, curvy body encased in too-tight clothing. More than the raven blackness of her hair pulled smoothly back from her face, the unblemished silkiness of her ivory skin. Or the brilliant sapphire of her wide eyes peering at him from beneath the brim of her hat.
“Why do people say they’re blue, do ye think?” he heard himself ask.
“You mean in reference to sadness?”
Connor nodded. “Aye, as if the color subdues happiness? Your eyes are joy itself.”
Looking away from her, he shook his head, marveling at his ability to spout such drivel and wondering where that spat of balderdash had come from. Gads, he had reached the middle of his twenties without ever once spouting such callow poesy. Gathering his courage, he shot Mrs. Milbourne a quick glance, convinced she’d be laughing at his idiocy.
Instead her head was bowed, a rosy blush on her pale cheeks, and a hint of a smile on her lips. If he had to guess, he’d say she was flattered…nay, pleased by his bumbling compliment.
She must have wed young indeed.
Clearing his throat, he touched her elbow to prompt her into motion. Grasping at the first and most mundane conversation he could conjure, he gestured to the book clasped tightly in her hands.“What are ye reading?”
She held up the book as if surprised by its presence. “Middlemarch.” Her voice bore a huskiness it hadn’t possessed before. She coughed to dislodge it. “George Eliot. Have you read it?”
