“Calm yourself, my dear.” He wanted to kiss that worried line between her curving brows. Kiss other parts of her, too. Mindful of their audience, he settled for holding out the bouquet she’d been too overset to notice. “These are for you.”
Her eyes widened at the cluster of hothouse roses. The vibrant blooms ranged from creamy pink to deep crimson in hue. The florist had added lush foliage and an intricate wrapping of ribbon.
“How beautiful,” Maggie breathed. “But these must have cost afortune. With your debts, you oughtn’t to spend money on frivolous things.”
“I don’t consider you frivolous.”
Her cheeks turned rosy. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant. While I appreciate your concern, a few roses aren’t going to put me farther into dun territory,” he said. “If they please you, I would consider them a worthy investment.”
“They’re the most splendid flowers I’ve ever seen,” she said in a rush. “Thank you. I’ll go put them in water and be right back.”
Her smile was so sweet that his heart tripped in his chest. Watching her carefully carry the roses into the cottage, he couldn’t help but think of the far more expensive gifts he’d given to other women. His ladybirds had had no compunction about dropping hints about the gewgaws they expected from him.
Maggie dropped no hints. Expected nothing. She was grateful for a few flowers, for Christ’s sake…and wasfrettingover the fact that he’d spent a few paltry pounds on her. His throat tightened with an emotion he couldn’t quite name.
When she returned, they started their journey to Whitchurch Canonicorum. The road wound through the Marshwood Vale, a scenic landscape of leafy copses and hedgerows, with farms scattered here and there. Framed by the idyllic setting, Maggie looked like a prim pagan goddess beside him, her eyes as verdant as the hills, wind-caught tendrils of her hair catching fire in the sunlight.
She was quiet as he drove. He appreciated that about her: she wasn’t the sort of woman to bore a man with inane chatter. Glory, on the other hand, was more than happy to fill the silence.
“Do you recall the advice you gave me over supper, Mr. Jones?” the girl said from the rear bench. “About handling bullies?”
“I told you not to give them any satisfaction. To ignore them until you couldn’t,” he said. “Then, if needed, go for a direct hit.”
“I tried your strategy, and itworked,” she said gleefully. “You should have seen Billy Pinkleton’s face when he called me a name, and I pretended he didn’t exist. When he tried it again after school, I told him that only a coward made fun of others.”
Rhys slid a glance back at her. “How did he respond?”
“He turned as red as abeet.” Her skinny face shone with satisfaction. “He said he wasn’t a coward, so I challenged him to a tree-climbing rematch. In front of everyone this time.”
“Glory, you didn’t.” Maggie twisted around to bestow a reproving look upon her daughter.
“I did, and I beat himagain,” Glory said triumphantly. “Unlike the last time, I made sure other children were there as witnesses, and they saw me win. Now he can’t call me names any more, or he’ll be known as a sore loser.”
Rhys felt an odd surge of pride. “Well done, poppet.”
Maggie’s frown swung to him. He wondered if it made him depraved to be aroused by that schoolmistress-like look.
“Glory oughtn’t to be climbing trees, contest or no,” she stated.
“Youclimb cliffs,” the girl pointed out with (he thought) rather solid reasoning.
“I do it because I have to. There’s no need for you to be risking your reputation—”
“The other children think I’m tip-top for beating Billy Pinkleton.” An edge of belligerence entered Glory’s voice. “Why shouldn’t I do something I’m good at?”
Why indeed?Seeing Maggie’s look of frustration, however, Rhys refrained from interfering.
“Because you have Goode blood,” Maggie argued. “You need to curb your recklessness, or it will get the best of you.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong. Mr. Jones said I should stand up for myself, didn’t you, sir?”
When Maggie’s gaze narrowed upon him, he shrugged. “I can only speak from personal experience.”
“You mean to say people tried to bullyyou?” Glory’s head popped up between him and Maggie, her golden green eyes huge in her freckled face. “But you’re so big and strong. And a gentleman. Who would make fun of you?”
“I wasn’t always big and strong,” he said, “and certainly not when I was twelve and sent to Eton. The older boys have rituals for ‘welcoming’ the new ones—especially the ones who were different.”
