Hero, Come Back (7 page)

“A matchmaker? Ridiculous. Whatever would I be doing with a matchmaker? I simply got lost in the storm last night and stumbled upon this place. Mrs. Maguire offered me shelter, and when I was awakened this morning, rather rudely I might add, she was gone.” She opened a plain leather valise and started searching through it as if tallying up her belongings. “Now if you are done with your speculations as to my character, I’ll be gone.”

Something about her indignation, her denial caught Jemmy’s curiosity. “What would you expect me to think?” he asked her. “After all, this is Bramley Hollow, so it is natural to assume—”

Her hand froze over the latch on her traveling bag. “Bramley Hollow?” Her eyes widened in recognition.

So she really hadn’t known. “Aye, Bramley Hollow.”

“And this is—” She looked about the room, her gaze darting over the bundles of herbs hanging from the rafters to the heavy pot slung in the fireplace.

“Yes, the cottage of the matchmaker,” he told her. “The matchmaker of Bramley Hollow.”

From the look on her face, she was no longer lost. She knew exactly where she was.

“Oh, this is a disaster.” Her hand now floundered about for something steady to grab hold of.

“Hardly all that.” Jemmy slid a chair beneath her shaky legs. She sat down, her head resting in her hands. “As long as you didn’t engage Esme’s services, make a bargain with her, then you needn’t worry that you are about to be dragged before the parson.”

Her gaze flew up to meet his. “A bargain?”

“Yes, you know, over tea, I would imagine. She pours you a cup and offers to help you find your heart’s desire.”

“Tea?”

If the gel had been pale before, she hadn’t a bit of color left now. “Don’t tell me, you drank the tea?”

She didn’t speak, only nodded.

Jemmy had been warned by his father from an early age never to partake in a cup of Esme’s potent brew. It was how his own parents had ended up wedded. “I wouldn’t be so overwrought,” he offered. “As long as you didn’t give her any money, then there is no harm done.”

She closed her eyes and shuddered, as if trying to forget the evening in its entirety.

“You gave her money?”

“Just a few coins. It seemed the decent thing to do. She’d taken me in, after all. I thought she was naught but a lonely old lady with a fastidious cat to feed—”

“Nelson,” Jemmy said, groaning. If Esme could be called a bit of an oddity, a century or so back the eerie Nelson would have qualified her for a nice toasty blaze in the village square.

“Yes, Lord Nelson. I thought a few coins would put her right for the time being. Just enough for a stewing hen is all. But I certainly didn’t ask her to make a match for me.”

“Are you positive?” he asked. “Absolutely positive?” Esme wasn’t renowned for being all that open and honest about her transactions.

The young woman bit her lower lip and closed her eyes. “I fear last night is a bit hazy. But I do recall giving her a few coins after she offered to help me. But with what, I can’t remember.”

Now it was Jemmy’s turn to seek out a chair. He slumped down and looked across the table at her. “You know what you’ve done, don’t you? You’ve contracted a match!”

Her cheeks pinked. “I did no such thing. I was merely lost and sought shelter here, nothing more.”

Jemmy stared at her. “Well, it turned into something more, now didn’t it?”

The lady’s chin notched up. “It’s not like this sort of thing is done anymore. It was all just an innocent bit of conversation.”

“Not in Bramley Hollow,” he said. “A bargain is a bargain. And when a match is contracted, it must be completed.” He paused for a second, feeling no small twinge of guilt to be the one to break the bad news to her. “ ’Tis the law. You must be wed.”

Her eyes widened again. “
The law?
Why, that is barbarous. You can’t force a person to wed.”

“No one is forcing you. You were the one who contracted Esme’s services. But the law is quite specific on the subject. Once a match is engaged, an expedient marriage must take place.”

“How can that be? Banns must be read.”

“Not in Bramley Hollow,” he told her. “The king granted the village an exemption from the Marriage Act, though only in weddings contracted through the matchmaker.”

She shook her head at this unpleasant news. “I don’t see how I can be forced to wed someone in such short order.”

“Surely you know the legend of Bramley Hollow?” Having grown up under its auspices, Jemmy couldn’t imagine anyone not knowing the story.

“Yes, yes, I know the tale, but I don’t see why a thousand-year-old pledge need be honored. Especially since I was induced into this bargain by trickery.”

“Trickery is how matchmaking got its start in Bramley Hollow—if that princess hadn’t induced the baron to marry her, she would have ended up wed to that wretched despot. Her clever bit of matchmaking and the baron’s loyalty have kept the village out of harm’s way all these years.” He smiled at her. “But just in case you are of royal blood, your father isn’t going to sack the village if we don’t hand you over, is he?”

She managed a wan smile. “I don’t think Bramley Hollow need fear anything so dire.”

“Relieved to hear it—I had visions of having to haul the family armory out of the attics.”

“But don’t you see—I don’t want to be married,” she said, bounding up from her chair. “I can’t get married.”

Something about her spirit tugged at his heart, almost more so than the memory of her soft thighs and long legs.

“Whyever not? You aren’t already engaged, are you?” He didn’t know why, but for some reason he didn’t like the idea of her being another man’s betrothed. Besides, what the devil was the fellow thinking, letting such a pretty little chit wander lost about the countryside?

But his concerns about another man in her life were for naught, for she told him very tartly, “I am not engaged, sir, and I assure you, I’m not destined for marriage.”

“I don’t see that there is anything wrong with you,” he said without thinking. Demmit, this was what came of living the life of a recluse—he’d forgotten every bit of his Town bronze. “I mean to say, it’s not like you couldn’t be here seeking a husband.”

The disbelief on her face struck him to the core.

Was she really so unaware of the pretty picture she presented? That her green eyes, bright and full of sparkles, and soft, brown hair, still tumbled from her slumbers and hanging in long tangled curls, was an enticing picture—one that might persuade many a man to get fitted for a pair of leg shackles.

Even Jemmy found himself susceptible to her charms—she had an air of familiarity about her that whispered of strength and warmth and sensibility, capable of drawing a man toward her like a beggar to a warm hearth.

Not to mention the parts that, as a gentleman, he shouldn’t know she possessed, but in their short, albeit rather noteworthy, acquaintance, had discovered with the familiarity that one usually had only with a mistress…or a hastily gained betrothed.

He shook that idea right out of his head. Whatever was he thinking? She wasn’t interested in marriage, and neither was he. Not that any lady
would
have him… lamed and scarred as he was.

“I hardly see that any of this is your concern,” she was saying, once again bustling about the room, gathering up her belongings. She plucked her stockings, gauzy, French sort of things, from the line by the fire.

He could well imagine what they would look like on her, and more importantly what it would feel like sliding them off her long, elegant legs.

When she saw him staring at her unmentionables, she blushed and shoved them into her valise. “I really must be away.”

“Away?” He shook his head. “You can’t leave.”

“I’m certainly not staying.”

He rose from the table. “You don’t understand. You can’t leave. If you do, you’ll be breaking the law. The magistrate won’t allow it, and I assure you the constable will have you in irons before you can cross the shire.”

“And you, sir?” she asked. “Will you allow me to be wed against my will?”

“Well, I…I mean to say,” he stammered. He’d never considered the idea. “That is, order must be maintained.” Some answer, he thought. He sounded like a third-rate barrister who’d barely managed to make the bar, let alone find the Inns of Court.

“Yes, that is a fine opinion. Some gentleman you are.” She tossed a glance in his direction, as if she were sizing him up to see if he were capable of stopping her. When she continued her packing, he felt more than just slighted.

“I care not what your antiquated laws require,” she told him. “I will be well away from here before anyone misses me. As it is, I’ve tarried too long. Thank you, sir, for your warning, and now I bid you good day.” She finished stowing her meager possessions and then plopped a straw bonnet atop her head and hustled out the door before he could even try to stop her.

So much for his arguments about maintaining law and order.

But more than that, he found himself unsettled by the quiet solitude of Esme’s cottage that now surrounded him. Instead of wrapping him with a sense of calm, it only served as a unpleasant reminder of the empty, lonely void that was his life.

How was it that in such short order, this tart- tongued, spirited lady had left her mark upon him? Not that he was likely to discover what that mark might be, for he’d let her get away.

Demmit, he didn’t even know her name.

But a few moments later she came rocketing back into the cottage, a frown creasing her fair brow, and she managed quite handily to toss his life upside down once again.

“Forget something?” he asked, trying his best to ignore the cheer of elation rising in his chest at the sight of her crooked bonnet and the tangled curls peeking out beneath it.

“Yes,” she said, her booted foot gouging at the floor, her teeth nibbling for a moment at her lower lip. “Which way is it to Brighton?”

“
B
righton?” Jemmy replied. “Are you serious? That’s a good fifty miles away. You can’t go there unescorted.”

Once again her chin rose stubbornly. “I don’t see that it is any of your concern.”

She was right, it wasn’t. But still…

“What is in Brighton that is so important?” he asked. It was mere curiosity, he told himself. Not that he cared. Truly he didn’t. But then again, what was she thinking traveling about the countryside unchaperoned? She had every appearance of a lady—from her expensive gown to her innocent blushes, not to mention the pair of silk stockings that would be too dear for anyone but quality—and therefore had no business gadding about the countryside without someone looking out for her welfare.

“I wish to…I mean to say…” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I have a matter of some importance to conclude there.”

Pretty and stubborn to boot, he mused. Yet despite the dead-eyed challenge in her gaze, he didn’t miss the waver to her overly confident words. No, for all her bravado, this was a lady in trouble.

Demmit
, he thought, his fingers curling around the top of his walking stick, if she needed help, all she had to do was ask. Then again, he reminded himself, she
was
asking him, if only for directions, that is.

Worst of all, in her defiance he saw a glimmer of something he recognized only too well.

The siren’s call to adventure.

Are you mad?
he wanted to sputter. He knew only too well what happened to fools who followed their folly. He had a worthless leg and scars enough to prove the point.

Yet, there it was in her eyes, in her stance, in the stubborn tilt of her chin, that bewitching notion of the unknown, the spellbinding temptation capable of drawing a man into the depths of hell without a second thought.

It was one thing to be mesmerized by a pretty chit—which she was—but even worse, before he knew it, her determination ignited a spark inside him, so much so that he felt the chill he’d carried since he’d fallen in battle, since his life and body had been ripped apart by that French mine at Badajoz, melt ever so slightly.

Oh, that warmth was heady, but also terrifying. In an instant, he knew he should point her south and forget about her. Forget that outside Bramley Hollow, life continued without him.

At the doorway she stood, tapping her foot with staccato impatience. “Really, sir, if you cannot, nay, will not, help me, I bid you good day.”

Then she turned to flee again, and Jemmy found himself blindsided by a rush of panic that this time if he let her walk out the door, he’d never see her again.

Demmit. He had no reason to feel responsible for the chit, none whatsoever. One day it would be his duty to enforce the laws of Bramley Hollow, and here he was considering breaking a pledge that had been kept for nigh over a thousand years.

“Wait,” he said before he could stop himself.

She stopped and glanced over her shoulder at him, her chin wavering just a mite. He suspected she’d walk every mile if she must. And if her determination caught him, it was her eyes that held his gaze, wrenched anew at his reluctance.

Green eyes
. Oh, the devil take him. There was nothing he could do now. Green eyes had always been his downfall.

Perhaps if he took her to the nearest posting inn, say, Southborough, there would hardly be any crime in that? She was the one breaking the bargain, not he. In truth, his conscience would be in worse repair if he turned a blind eye to her plight and allowed a young woman to wander alone about the countryside. Why, she could be accosted, or worse.

He glanced up and found those green eyes filled with wariness, and worse yet, doubt.

Doubt that he could rise to the challenge. He pounded his walking stick to the floor. “Do stop looking at me that way. I’ll help you. At least to get you to the nearest posting house.”

Her sudden smile slanted into his heart like a well-aimed arrow. “Oh, thank you. You are too kind.”

He tried to ignore the delighted sparkle in her eyes. He wasn’t too kind. If he was, he’d take her the entire way to Brighton.

The entire way?
Now what was he thinking? He shook his head and mustered every bit of common sense he possessed.
Just to Southborough
, he told himself. Then she’d be out of the shire and on her way to Brighton.

And out of his life. That notion didn’t set well either, but he wasn’t about to consider anything else. He didn’t dare. Hadn’t she looked up at him with something akin to horror when she’d first spied his face?

“I can’t tell you how much your help means to me,” she was saying. “Last night I rather despaired that I would ever see Brighton.” Her smile widened, and he tried desperately not to bask under its glow.

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t be so enthusiastic in your appreciation,” he told her. “We haven’t escaped your fate yet. And until we do, you remain bound by your bargain and under the jurisdiction of the magistrate, who I assure you will not look kindly upon your desire to leave Bramley Hollow unwed.”

That was an understatement. The magistrate would most likely throw them both in jail and toss the key down the village well.

Glancing around the cottage one last time, he spied his top hat under the table and stooped to retrieve it. For his labor, he was rewarded with a shooting pain down his leg.

The curse that threatened to issue forth was halted instantly as he glanced up and realized the lady had already stepped out into the sunshine. And what a sight she was.

The sunlight glinted on the curls escaping from her bonnet, igniting the simple brown strands with hints of red and gold.

Fire, like the lady herself.

For an instant, she stood there in those rays of sunlight, like an angel in an illumination, and Jemmy started to wonder if she were real or just some strange dream like the ones Esme’s teas were rumored to produce.

Without even thinking, he moved toward her, to touch her, if only to assure himself he wasn’t caught in some strange dream. As his fingers settled on the crook of her arm, she turned around to face him.

This time she didn’t favor him with that look of loathing and dread that had been all too obvious earlier, but offered him a knowing glance, as if she were waiting for him to confess something that she already knew.

As if she knew all his secrets.

Jemmy’s breath caught in his throat. Who the devil was she?

Besides, there was also something oddly familiar about her. She looked to be about his age, making it possible that she’d been out when he’d been in London playing the rake.

Had he flirted with her? Ridden past her in the park? Danced with her?

No, he would have remembered a dance, for her very touch sent his heart racing.

“Who are you?” he whispered. Suddenly the answer became very important. “Have we met?”

Her eyes widened, then her dark lashes shuttered away the tempest behind her green gaze. “If we had, wouldn’t you remember me?” The flirtatious words tossed over her shoulder chided him. Gently she pulled her arm free from his grasp and blithely proceeded down the steps.

“Yes, yes, of course I would remember you. Still, if I am to risk my neck in this venture, at the very least I should know your name.” Besides, he had to start thinking about her in some way other than “this pretty little chit.”

“My name?”

“Of course your name,” he told her. “When I am swinging from the Bramley Hollow gallows for saving you, what would my last words be if not your name?”

She laughed. “I hardly think your fate is so dire,” she offered. “But if you must utter something, you can curse Miss Smythe.”

“Miss Smythe,” he said, testing it out. Then, remembering his manners, he bowed. “My name is Reyburn. Mr. James Reyburn. At your service, Miss Smythe.”

It seemed rather trivial to make such a formal introduction after she’d been atop him, but sometimes social conventions filled in quite conveniently when all else failed. Especially when his thoughts were more inclined to linger over the memory of holding her in his arms, the soft curves of her…

“Um, well, we had best leave at once,” he said quickly. Edging past her, he walked as rapidly as he could out to his cart. It was hardly the highflyer phaeton he’d had in Town, but the cart required only one horse and was relatively easy to get in and out of, so he could handle it without assistance.

If Miss Smythe noticed his less than fashionable transportation, she said nothing, rather tossed her valise into the back and climbed up with a smile on her face, as if she were being escorted to court in a royal coach and matched set of eight.

Gritting his teeth, Jemmy climbed up, doing his best to look as capable as any knight errant, but his tonnish intentions only got him into trouble. As he tried to swing himself up, a bolt of pain shot down his leg and he fell back, landing in an ignoble heap on the ground, his cane clattering beside him.

“Blast,” he managed to bluster, saving her ears from the truly blistering curse he wanted to use.

“Oh, dear me!” she exclaimed, clambering down from the cart in a whirl of blue silk. “Mr. Reyburn, are you hurt?”

“Nothing more than my pride.”

“Here, let me assist you,” she said. Before he could protest, she threw his arm over her shoulder and wrapped her own around his waist, hoisting him to his feet.

He turned his head and found himself face to face with her. This close, with the sunlight streaming down on her, he could discern every minute detail of her features, right down to the way her lips parted as his gaze went there, as if his glance were kiss enough to her.

It certainly wasn’t for him. There had been a time when he’d have planted his lips on her sweet, perk pair and stolen a kiss without a second thought, then offered a grin and a wink as a less than sincere apology.

And while he hadn’t done so in some time, he certainly was no Methuselah, and wasn’t opposed to stealing a favor from a lady.

Especially one as pretty as Miss Smythe.

He tipped his head and made his move. Her eyes widened as he drew closer, but before he could complete his rakish endeavor, she did something that truly upended his intentions. He’d forgotten that she was holding him, and just as easily as she’d helped him to his feet, she let him go—dumping him right back on the ground in the same wretched heap in which she’d found him.

“What did you do that for?” he asked once he’d recovered from the shock.

“I daresay you know why,” she said, brushing off her skirts in his direction. “How dare you!”

Jemmy swiped his fingers through his hair. Lord, he was out of practice.

“I’ll not be one of your…your…your conquests, Mr. Reyburn. Don’t think I don’t know
who
you are, and
what
you are.”

Well, demmit, it was just a kiss. Hardly a conquest.

Too bad his memory kept reliving the rare glimpse he’d gained of her long, tempting legs, and the way her round bottom and perfect breasts had felt pressed against him. If he didn’t shake off these lascivious thoughts, a conquest would be only the beginning.

“I only wanted to—” he started to protest against his better judgment.

She held up her hand. “Don’t even try to explain, sir. Your reputation precedes you.”

He dusted off his jacket and reached for his tumbled hat. “What would you know of my reputation?”

“I can read. And the
Morning Post
detailed any number of your, shall we say, more notable exploits about Town.” She at least had the courtesy to lean over and retrieve his cane. He thought for a moment she might use it like a governess and rap a lesson in manners into his thick skull.

But instead, like the lady he suspected she was, she offered it to him as if he had merely dropped it.

“The
Post
, you say. Lies, all of them.” He laughed as he struggled to his feet—this time without an offer of help from Miss Smythe.

She made no reply, only those delightful brows rising again in scathing disbelief.

“Oh, maybe one or two of those accounts had a bit of truth to them,” he offered, “though most were gross exaggerations.” He started to brush off his jacket, but realized he was covered in dust, something his father’s valet would have horrors over. But if there was any consolation, it would give the bored man something to do.

“I hardly doubt the report of you and Lady Alice…” she was saying.

Lady Alice?
This Miss Smythe had a fine memory, for Jemmy had all but forgotten about that
on dit
. Not that he should have, his mother had rung a peal over his head for weeks over that momentary lapse.

“Fine. Perhaps I have had one or two wellreported dalliances, but I have always been a gentleman in my intentions,” he said. “And as a gentleman, I’ll apologize to you. I admit my manners are a bit rusty, and it was not the best form to try to take advantage of a lady who has sought my aid.” She started to open her mouth to say something, but he stopped her. “However, I will not apologize for wanting to kiss you. That is entirely your fault.”

“M-my fault?” she stammered.

“Yes. You are far too fetching, Miss Smythe, not to be kissed. And kissed often, I might add.” From the way her eyes opened wide and a soft blush stole over her cheeks, he decided that perhaps he wasn’t as rusty as he’d suspected. For good measure he winked at her.

She shook her head. “As incorrigible, as ever, sir. Now I see that exaggeration isn’t solely the domain of the
Morning Post
. My fault, indeed!”

He felt something oddly like a sense of accomplishment. “Now that you’ve witnessed the true nature of my depraved character,” he said, “do you still want a ride?”

Miss Smythe looked up at him, and after what seemed an interminable amount of time, she nodded. “Do you need help?”

His hand went to his chest. “Oh, you wound me, fair maiden. Here I am the one supposedly rescuing you and I’ve landed in the dust twice.” He glanced around the yard. “I daresay I’m not that much of an invalid. I’ll just move the cart over to the woodpile and use the block.”