Must Love Breeches (49 page)
Read Must Love Breeches Online
Authors: Angela Quarles
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Time Travel, #Historical, #Regency, #Paranormal
Monkey finally clean, she fitted his armor back onto his lean frame, careful to keep her new seersucker skirt from trailing in the liquid. "Okay, Loki. Now let's collect pecans." She handed him his burlap collection bag and waved him toward the pecan orchard at their property’s rear.
Loki trotted off, his bag swishing behind him in the grass. She slumped onto a marble bench in the shade of a crepe myrtle to await him and jiggled her leg up and down. A bumblebee scooted past and dipped into a nearby azalea dripping in dark red petals, flitted to another bush, and another, skipping those with already-wilted blooms.
Spring had come late this year, and the bright bursts of deep pinks and reds of the azaleas marched down their property’s edge to the first of the pecan trees.
God. So much had changed in the yard. No matter that she’d been back for a year, it still jolted her. Gone was her mother’s herb garden and vegetable patch, and the personality she imbued the whole with dashes of her wildflowers. Now the yard was stiff and fussy, a natural by-product of being maintained by a hired gardener.
No scent of crushed mint. No blue-tinged butterflies danced near yellow tickseed. No fuzzy softness between her fingers from rubbing lamb’s ear leaves.
She crossed her arms over her stomach and leaned forward, fighting grief’s nasty twist.
When would the pain go away?
No. No thinking about her mother.
She blinked rapidly and inhaled deeply. How to pass the time? A time whose emptiness gaped before her like a gauntlet she had to run, prickly and chafing, if she didn’t fill it. Stay busy, stay moving was her motto—if no one took an interest or helped, she would be too busy to notice. Too busy to feel alone. Too busy to realize no one cared. Too busy to get in trouble. Too busy, period.
She re-envisioned the scene at Claire’s, embellishing the events and Loki’s antics as if there would be no consequences. And the real consequences? Well… Later. She’d figure out what to do later.
But the fantasy could use more detail. More imagery. Loki living up to his namesake and swinging from stouter tufts of Spanish moss, screeching with glee. That red and blue hot air balloon floating into view behind Loki, silhouetting him. Oh, yes. Colorful, indeed. At the helm, a devilishly handsome gentleman with windswept black hair and blue, blue eyes.
Wait. Blue, blue eyes? Come on, she could dredge up a better descriptor. And what was this dashing fellow doing in her imagination anyway? No room in her busy life for a pesky gentleman. She shook her head.
Overhead, wood and rope and wicker creaked, clearly not getting along. A humming noise permeated the air. She jerked her head up.
Floating down, cool as you please, was the red and blue hot air balloon straight from her fantasy. Headed for her family's backyard.
And a black-haired man at its helm. Were his eyes blue?
"Help!” emerged from the hold. “This blasted thing. Whooops!"
She jumped to her feet. Hot air balloons weren't uncommon, to be sure. But generally, they landed at d'Iberville Airfield near the Mobile River, or in public squares. Not in a family’s backyard. But who was she to quibble with such a welcome diversion—alone time with her thoughts was never her favorite pastime.
The stranger yanked levers and ropes, panicked oaths punctuating the scene.
Loki plopped down his bag, several pecans rolling out, and scrambled onto her shoulder, no doubt for a better view. It
was
an interesting spectacle.
The balloon floated closer, skimming past the pecan trees, and she stood on her tiptoes for a better look.
He wore no coat! How scandalous. Adele grinned. Beneath his shirtsleeves, his muscles bunched and flexed.
He sported a pearl gray waistcoat, its top button undone. His white cravat was all to pieces, flapping around his neck. No. Sailing away now in the light breeze. His hand whipped out to catch it, but he tripped and fell to the bottom of the little wicker hold. Fingers appeared, gripping the basket’s edge, and his head popped into view, his face tomato red.
Loki leaped from her shoulder and streaked across the grass with a screech.
The balloon floated closer. Still not near enough to see his eyes. If they were blue…
Yes. Blue. Like the waters of the Gulf of Mexico on a clear day. No. Too fraught with imagery.
Cerulean blue. Beetle blue.
"I say, you there."
Beetle blue? Not very romantic. But there were those little beetles with the iridescent underbelly...
"Are you of any use, woman?" the stranger shouted.
"I don't see how I could be of any service," she hollered, waving her arms. "You're doing splendidly. Now all you need do is land without crashing."
The purple sails flaring from the back whined as they adjusted position a fraction.
Thump
. The balloon touched down--with nary a bounce--smack in the center of their manicured lawn, the sails expertly embracing the burbling water fountain.
Bravo. Clearly, one of those proficient fellows who put on a bumbling show to gain more applause. "Well done, sir." She clapped. It
had
been a good show.
"Secure this, will you?" He threw an anchor over the side. His voice had a delightful, clipped accent, the exotic tones washing over her like a fresh taste of adventure.
British. Now she really wanted to know who he was. Story material? She wound the anchor around the marble fountain base and assessed him from the corner of her eye. His body practically vibrated at a job well done, his movements efficient.
Hmm. The headline could be:
Lock Up Your Daughters, Gentlemen of Mobile. Too Handsome Stranger from the British Isles Makes Dashing Appearance.
How fortunate she was immune.
The stranger unlatched the basket door and stepped onto the grass, a valise in one hand, his coat in the other. He set down his suitcase, shrugged into the coat, and buttoned the top waistcoat button. He fiddled with his collar and let his hands fall, brow furrowed. He lifted his chin and angled his head side to side, eyes closed.
What a handsome specimen. His hair, as black as newspaper ink, cavorted with abandon, lending him a roguish air. And she never thought she’d be drawn by a gentleman’s eyebrows, but there it was. Sure, he possessed a well-sculpted face—pleasing angles and all that—but the slash of eyebrows, topped by his windswept hair, elevated his features to jaunty status.
His black frockcoat fit him well. No padding for him; those were
his
broad shoulders. A little tickle itched her belly and tingled out to her fingertips. Who was this man?
No, no, no. She recognized the signs--a spark of interest and if coupled with manly charm, she was rendered stupid. She would
not
fall into that wife-sized trap again.
His eyes popped open and pierced her with their beetle blue depths; they widened slightly and his gaze slid up and down her body. Awareness sizzled down her spine despite herself. He cleared his throat, held her gaze, and stepped forward. Now he stood a fraction closer than was proper, and although his well-built frame was only an inch and a smidge taller than her, he seemed to take up more space, crowding her, shouting ‘behold my manly charm and attributes.’
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental, except where it is a matter of historical record.
Copyright © 2014 Angela Trigg
Cover design by Kim Killion
Copy editing by Valerie Walker
Proofreading by Sharon Muha and Ursula LeCouer
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Digital Edition 1.0.202
ISBN: 9905400-0-7
ISBN-13: 978-0-9905400-0-7