Page 2 of A Bluestocking’s Secret Courtship

The lady gasped, covering her heart in mock horror. “How mortifying! We’ve arrived in the same outfit, sir.”

She laughed heartily at her own joke. When the cockatoo mimicked her, another round of merry laughter followed. Jonathan chuckled too.

As she turned to watch the procession, he caught his first glimpse of her face. Reddish-gold, wispy curls fluttered against her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled like the sea behind her. And when the full force of her smile landed on him, he froze, momentarily forgetting how to perform the simplest of tasks.

Someone bumped him hard from behind. The toe of his boot caught on an uneven board, and he stumbled into a stack of crates.

Hellfire! Sheepishly, he glanced up, but she wasn’t looking at him.

“Let go!” She tugged on her reticule, wrestling over it with a thief.

A gust caught her discarded parasol and sent it skipping toward the water’s edge.

“It’s mine! Let go!” She gripped the corded handle with both hands, kicking his shins as they spun in a circle, fighting for control of the reticule.

“You there!” Jonathan rushed forward to help her.

The scruffy thief shot a panicked glance at Jonathan, raised his arm, and struck her with the back of his hand. She cried out, instinctively reaching for her cheek. He ripped the reticule from her grasp and turned back toward the shore.

A buzzing in Jonathan’s ears drowned out all other sounds. His vision narrowed on the blackguard barreling in his direction, desperate to disappear into the hills.

Jonathan raised his walking stick, fingers tight on the polished wood.

The thief darted left.

So did Jonathan.

The man’s eyes bulged, and he zigzagged right.

Jonathan sidestepped, drawing the stick back to strike as the thief grew closer.

Whack!

Jonathan startled.

An orange orb had smacked the back of the thief’s head. He tripped. There was a thud, and the boards shook.

He dropped the reticule in the fall then scrambled to grab it. Jonathan struck his wrist. The thief yelped, drawing his hand back and rolling onto his side. He hurled insults at Jonathan while attempting to kick him, but he was too slow. Jonathan’s walking stick absorbed the blow.

“Don’t move,” Jonathan barked in Russian, cane raised overhead.

Someone shouted for a Janissary.

The young woman, her bonnet askew and an orange in hand, marched toward her reticule. Red-cheeked and flustered, she snatched the embroidered bag from the ground. She turned away, but not before he spotted a thin line of blood trickling from the corner of her mouth.

Jonathan briefly glared at the thief, then raised his hand to get her attention. “Miss?”

She looked his way as he withdrew a handkerchief from his jacket and offered it to her. She stared at the white linen square with a perplexed frown.

“For your lip,” he said. “It’s bleeding.”

“Oh!” Her hand flew to her face, smearing her glove. “Oh, drat!”

Heavy footsteps pounded on the dock. Jonathan glanced over his shoulder to see two fierce Janissaries bearing down on them. He drew her aside to avoid getting caught in the scuffle. She accepted his handkerchief in exchange for the orange and blotted the corner of her mouth, wincing slightly.

A crowd had gathered around the thief to gawk.

“You had quite the blow,” Jonathan said to her. “Do you have any other injuries?”