Severin alighted, prowling behind her. A strapping blond man dressed in a loose shirt and chamois breeches stepped into her path. The fellow was nearly of a height with Severin, with legs like tree trunks and a ruggedly handsome face that probably made milkmaids swoon.
Severin narrowed his eyes as the fellow grabbed Fancy by the waist, lifting her in a circle.
“Sam Taylor, put me down at once!” She sounded out of breath.
“Put the lady down.” Severin’s voice was not breathless. “Now.”
Taylor pivoted, his brow creasing. “Who the devil are you?”
“The man you will answer to if you do not release Miss Sheridan at once,” Severin said.
Taylor’s gaze slitted.
“Let go o’ me, you oaf.” Fancy freed herself. “This is the Duke o’ Knighton. ’E’s been escorting us.”
“A duke, is ’e?” Taylor looked Severin up and down, his expression unimpressed. “Where did you find the toff? And what do you need an escort for?”
“It’s a long story…” she began.
“And there’ll be plenty o’ time to be tellin’ it after we’ve settled in.” Milton Sheridan came over, his tone genial. “Fancy, why don’t you ’elp Mrs. Taylor in the kitchen? She’s got ’er mind set on preparing a feast to celebrate us all bein’ together.”
“Yes, Da.” With a relieved look, she darted off toward the farmhouse.
“I’ll see if Ma needs anythin’ brung in.” Taylor set off after her in a determined stride.
“Sam and me Fancy ’ave known each other all their lives,” Milton said. “They fit together, don’t they, Your Grace?”
Severin watched as Taylor reached Fancy’s side. The blond fellow fell in step with her, and she blushed prettily at something he said. Looking at the fresh young pair, surrounded by their loving families, Severin was once again an outsider peering in on happiness.
“Yes,” he said flatly. “They do.”
At dusk, Fancy went searching for Knight with a plate in hand.
He wasn’t with the group eating in the kitchen, nor was he sitting around the fire with Oliver, Godfrey, and some of the Taylor boys. She skirted around her family’s wagon when she saw Sam leaning against it, having an earnest conversation with Da.
Sweet Jaysus, she hoped that Sam wasn’t bringing up marriage again. She thought she had put the matter to rest in the spring, and she didn’t want any unpleasantness marring the relationship between his family and hers. It had been awkward enough in the kitchen with Mrs. Taylor. While she and the redheaded matron prepared supper, the good lady had dropped broad hints about how she wished to see her son settled with a woman from another travelling clan.
As much as Fancy hated disappointing Mrs. Taylor and her own family, she didn’t have those kinds of feelings toward Sam. And she couldn’t control the yearnings of her heart, foolish as they might be, any more than she could the sun from rising.
Fancy approached Knight’s coach. The driver, who was happily digging into his own dish of Mrs. Taylor’s excellent cooking, said that the duke had gone to the pond. Fancy declined his offer to escort her there. She’d been stopping at this abandoned farmhouse since she was a girl, and she knew her way around.
The pond was situated just beyond the clearing behind the house. She passed by the logs the lads had used as makeshift goal posts for their game of kickball, her aproned skirts whispering over the trampled grass. As she passed through a small copse of trees, her heart sped up, her hands growing clammy against the plate, but the boisterous voices of her family and friends carried on the breeze, reassuring her that she was safe.
At the pond, she spotted Knight by the water’s edge. He’d set his hat and jacket on the ground, and he had a foot propped on a boulder. He looked solitary, not just because he was by himself. There was a remoteness to his gaze as he studied the sunset-painted water, as if he wanted to discern some secret beneath the rippling surface.
At her approach, he turned. In that unguarded moment, she saw a maelstrom of emotion in his eyes: pain and…longing brighter than the sun’s dying rays.
What is ’e thinking about?she wondered.Or, more precisely…who?
He straightened, his gaze shuttering. “Good evening, Fancy.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said hesitantly. “But you weren’t at supper, and I thought you might like something to eat.”
His gaze fell to the tin plate she held out.
He took it from her with a quiet, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” With a smile, she handed him the wooden utensils she’d tucked into her apron pocket. “Mrs. Taylor’s known for ’er ’otpot, and there won’t be much left once the boys are done.”
