“I would like that,” Barnaby murmured, his skin goosing at the thought of her nearness. He might have to offer his hand for them to leap together over a patch of mud along the way. Her nimble fingers would wrap around his, the feminine pressure of her hand pushing down onto his skin, the thrill of her touch burying itself in his very core.
The thought sent a delicious shiver up his spine.
Jeremiah Tully gave him what could only be described as a look. Barnaby was not familiar with a father’s disapproval, never having sought the opposite before. He did not understand why he should displease the man and therefore had assumed he wouldn’t. And yet, Mr. Tully did not drop his gaze.
“Is something wrong?” Barnaby asked, genuinely confused.
“Not yet,” came the ominous reply. “Just you take care not to overstep yerself with my daughter’s generosity.”
Barnaby’ mouth fell open. “I wouldn’t dream of it, sir! If you’d prefer, I shall find assistance elsewhere. For that matter, Rev. Taylor and I would fare just as well on our own.”
“What nonsense!” cried Miss Tully, entering the parlor once more, bonnet in hand. “You need a Fenwickian to set folk at their ease so they may open up to you. And fie on you, Father, for trying to rob me of my little adventure. I am sure Mr. Ash is the perfect gentleman. Besides, we will be among friends.”
She had been tying the sash of her bonnet as she spoke, an indication that she was quite determined to follow her own mind. Now that both bow and speech were tied up neatly, she marched forward and slipped her hand around Barnaby’s arm at the elbow.
“Come, Mr. Ash, we are wasting precious time.”
Stunned to find her thus attached to him, Barnaby did not resist at all, but allowed himself to be escorted from the cottage. He tossed a “Thank you” to the vicar before heading past the honeysuckle-fence and back toward the center of the village.
“I apologize for my father,” Miss Tully said as she steered Barnaby firmly onward. “He thinks I should be married and ensconced in a cottage of my own with some farmer or the like. I am certain he now regrets teaching me to read or giving me my head like the stubborn mare I am. He rather spoiled me after Mother died. And now it is too late for me to mend my ways. Every so often, however, he reverts to treating me like a helpless lass. Do not take his words to heart, Mr. Ash. He has no one else to fuss over. He does not mean to insult your character.”
Barnaby hardly knew how to answer any of that. Mostly because his elbow burned with the presence of Miss Tully’s hand. He could think of nothing else.
Well, that was a lie. He could think of putting his own hand over hers, as if to cocoon it, but he did not believe her independent nature would like such a gesture.
He could think of the way her perfume wafted up under his nose—a subtle blend of lilac and roses, perhaps something she had made herself from her garden.
He could think of—oh, who was he fooling? He could think of almost nothing but Miss Tully’s intimate presence.
It was only when she commandeered him to the entrance of the Queen’s Barque that the spell was broken. It was too late to escape. His enchantress had brought him to the noise and smells of the crowded inn, and he must brave it all.
For the sake of Fenwick’s legend. And the warm hand that did not release him as they stepped inside.
Chapter Four
Henry Brewster materialized in front of them as if summoned from the ether.
“Miss Tully!” He beamed. “I see you have met the Brathwaite boy’s tutor. Are you introducing him to the fine fare we offer at the Queen’s Barque?”
She turned a quizzical eye upon Barnaby. “Tutor as well? You are a busy man.”
“Oh,” said Barnaby, flustered at the misunderstanding. “No. I…er… that is to say…”
But Miss Tully had already moved on. “Mr. Brewster, we have a rather exciting development we thought you’d like to know about. Is there somewhere quieter we can talk?”
Brewster did not need to be asked twice. “Something good for the village, I hope.”
“That, I believe, is what Mr. Ash is trying to find out.”
“Well, then, follow me,” said the innkeeper, leading the way to a private parlor just beyond the bar.
Barnaby began at once to unwrap the manuscript, explaining what he had learned thus far from its contents. “So, you see, it is a local story, and we’re hoping to find someone with any idea of how it ends.”
“This is remarkable!” Brewster’s eyes shone like polished pennies. “This is exactly the sort of lore that puts a place like ours on the map. Visitors will want to sleep in the same bed which this Alwin and Lyra shared, and…”
“Actually,” interrupted Barnaby, “that would make the bed almost nine centuries old. The Queen’s Barque will not have existed back then. The writer speaks of a public house which…”
“Yes, yes.” Brewster waved a hand at him impatiently. “The inn was built on the same foundations. And who is to say it does not include the original building within its walls? People love the idea of things. Especially if it is romantic. Just think…” He lifted his palms with thumbs extended as if framing an image before him. “Couples on their honeymoon will want to sleep in the room where magic united human and fae. A sort of blessing upon their marriage, don’t you see? A few weeks by the sea, some excellent food, a touch of the mystical. Yes… I might even consider hiring musicians for a full-moon recital. This Alwin did say he thought the music came from the public house.”
