She nipped back to the coach and passed out the pies, first to the coachman and the outside passengers, then to the passengers inside.
“Happy Christmas, everyone!”
“It won’t be Christmas for five more days,” grumbled her elderly neighbor with the pointy elbows.
“I’ll take your pie since you don’t want it,” a portly man said and reached.
But the woman snatched the packet out of his grasp. “I was just pointing out it wasn’t Christmas yet.”
The portly man huffed and sat back.
How odd that someone might object to a gift! Still, Franny didn’t want anyone vexed when her intention had been to spread cheer.
“Please don’t mind me. I adore Christmas, so I start early to make it last as long as possible.”
The carriage filled with a chorus ofthank-yous and wax paper crinkling and murmurs of appreciation and the smell of hot, fresh pastry.
Franny grinned and stood from her seat to get her book out from under her. But the coachman must have gobbled his pie quickly because the carriage jolted forward. She would have fallen into the lap of the woman next to her, if not for a grip on her arm.
The grip belonged to the handsome, bearded passenger who had boarded the coach with her at Little Frittenden-Green.
“Thank you,” she blurted.
The man nodded.
Oh, oh. He hadn’t been angry at her for laughing. Smoldering was just his natural expression. And his blue-gray eyes now made her feel quite warm despite the chilly day. He guided her back down into her seat and only then did he release her.
I can still feel his fingers. Strong. Capable. Commanding. Oh, crispikins, Franny. Fingers can’t be commanding.
But his are.
“What was you laughing at, miss?” asked a youth at the opposite end of the carriage around a mouthful of pie.
Franny smiled. “Some very silly jokes.”
“Would you read us a few, miss?”
“Oh, doodly-ho! I don’t want to bother anyone more than I already have.” She laughed until she caught the eyes of the man across from her and her chuckle petered out as her heart began to pound violently.
“I could do with a few laughs meself,” said her neighbor, biting into her pie with suspicion.
The rest of the passengers chimed in withyeses andpleases. All except the absolutely deadly man who was dispatching every bit of her scant good sense with his brooding silence and his penetrating stare and those broad shoulders and muscular thighs.
But the thighs were encased in dirty trousers where his shabby coat fell away from his legs. And that unkempt beard. And there was a hunger in his those stormy-sea eyes.
Poor soul.
Well, if she were to oblige everyone by reading aloud, she couldn’t very well eat the pie she had kept back for herself. It would go cold, and she didn’t really need to eat it, did she? The coach would be in London soon enough, and she would be ensconced with Ren and Mrs. Tumney in a cozy kitchen and stuffed with all kinds of treats from now until Twelfth Night.
The bearded man with the hungry eyes was still holding his meat pie as if he couldn’t believe his luck in getting something to eat. She reached out and put her pie in his other hand.
How rum. Beautiful leather gloves. She hoped he hadn’t stolen them, but instead some benefactor had taken pity on his cold hands.
Stolen them! That thought was not worthy of you, Francesca.
The man looked at her as if baffled by the appearance of another pie.
“Please do eat up while they’re hot. And a happy Christmas to you.”
