The Ideal Bride (37 page)

 
He jumped down from the dray and rejoined her. Smiling, she took his arm. “You’re very good at that, you know.”

 
Michael looked into her eyes, read her sincerity, lightly shrugged. “It runs in the family.”

 
Her smile deepened and she looked away; he seized the moment to tuck the compliment safely away in his mind. Such praise from her would have been gold in any case, yet now it meant much more.

 
The crowd had returned to the stalls and the various activities— the horseshoe throwing, the woodchopping and archery contests, among others. Despite her long absences, Caro was popular; as they strolled, people came up to greet her. And him. She was easy to spot in her summery gown of wide white and gold vertical stripes. She hadn’t bothered with a hat; a gauzy gold scarf lay about her throat, protecting her fine skin from the sun.

 
Many members of the Ladies’ Association stopped them, congratulating her on her idea of steering her ball guests to the fete, thus, as was quite evident about them, ensuring a special success for the day. Again he was struck by her facility for knowing what was happening in the lives of so many, even though she so rarely resided at Bramshaw; she picked up snippets from this one and that, and always seemed to remember to whom they applied when she next met that person.

 
He had more than one reason for clinging to her side; she commanded his attention on so many levels. Luckily, the fete was primarily Muriel’s responsibility; when he asked, Caro confirmed that, as he’d supposed, once she’d delivered her guests as promised, her duty was discharged.

 
And she was free.

 
He bided his time, buying a selection of savories and two glasses of Mrs. Hennessy’s pear wine to take the edge from their visceral hunger.

 
Normally, at such gatherings most participants would remain all day. The ball guests, who to a person had attended, had made their own arrangements for departure, instructing their coachmen to stop in the nearby clearing at prearranged times. There was no reason, therefore, that he and Caro could not remain until late afternoon.

 
He gave her no hint that he planned anything else. Arm in arm, they wended through the now considerable crowd, meeting others, in between amusing each other with observations and anecdotes that, un-surprisingly, were colored by their worldliness, by the background they shared.

 
Caro grew increasingly aware of that last, of just how much at ease in Michael’s company she’d become. As they parted from Mrs. Carter, voluble in her thanks to Michael for having hired her son—which thanks he’d glibly yet sincerely turned aside with praise for Carter’s service, thereby allaying any lingering doubts raised by Muriel’s rejection of same, a fact Caro was perfectly certain he both knew and intended—she glanced at him. He caught her eye, lightly raised a brow. She merely smiled and looked away.

 
Impossible to tell him—explain to him—what a pleasure it was to be with someone who saw and understood as she did, to share even such minor yet significant matters with someone who thought and acted as she would. It was an emotional pleasure, not just an intellectual one, something that left, her with a warm inner glow, a sense of shared achievement.

 
She’d grown used to his strength, to the sense of it surrounding her, to him being by her side, yet today she was conscious of the less obvious, less deliberate attentions he paid her. Without making any point of it, he seemed devoted to her pleasure, constantly seeking to smooth her way, to find things to amuse her, to please and entertain her.

 
If it had been Ferdinand, he’d have expected her to notice, and to reciprocate in kind; Michael hardly seemed aware he was doing it.

 
It occurred to her that he was taking care of her—that he considered her as being in his care, his to care for. Not as in a duty, but more as an instinctive act, an expression of the man he was.

 
She recognized the role; it was one she often assumed. Yet it was novel to find that role reversed, to discover herself the recipient of such unobtrusive, instinctive care.

 
They’d paused; she glanced at him. He was looking through the crowd, his expression impassive. She followed his gaze and saw Ferdinand talking to George Sutcliffe.

 
“I wonder,” Michael murmured, “what Leponte is up to now.”

 
“Whatever,” she replied, “knowing George’s taciturnity,
especially
with foreigners, I can’t imagine Ferdinand will have much joy of him.”

 
Michael raised his brows. “True.” He glanced at her. “You’re sure we shouldn’t go and save him?”

 
She laughed. “Ferdinand or George? But regardless, I think we can leave them to their own devices.” She had no wish to mar her day by having to deal with Ferdinand, to let him attempt to seduce her into revealing more about Camden’s papers. He wouldn’t succeed, and then he’d sulk; she’d known him for too long not to be certain of that.

 
Michael had pulled out his watch and was checking it.

 
“What’s the time?” she asked.

 
“Nearly one o’clock.” Returning the watch to his pocket, he looked over the crowd toward the forest. “They’re starting the archery contest.” He looked at her. “Shall we go and have a look?”

 
She smiled, took his arm. “Let’s.”

 
Many men had attempted to charm her, yet this—this simple day and his caring companionship—touched her in a way no other ever had.

 
The archery contest should have started by now; however, the participants, many eager to try their luck, had yet to agree on the precise structure of the contest. She and Michael were both appealed to, but were too experienced to get drawn in; laughing, they disclaimed all knowledge and, after a shared glance, beat a hasty retreat.

 
“Enough!” Taking her hand, Michael led her back into the crowd. They circled the central ring of stalls, passing three more, stopping to talk to the helpers who’d relieved those who had manned the same stalls earlier.

 
The crowd was dense, the sun high. Waving a hand before her face, regretting her lack of a fan, Caro tugged on Michael’s arm. “Let’s step to the side for a moment—catch our breath.”

 
Instantly, he led her free of the bustle. A tall birch with a smooth trunk stood just within the clearing; reaching it, she turned and leaned against it, half closing her eyes, lifting her face to the sky. “It’s really the perfect day for the fete, isn’t it?”

 
Michael stood between her and the crowd; he let his gaze dwell on her face, on the light flush the sun’s warmth and their peripatetic exertions had brought to her fair skin. When he didn’t immediately respond, she lowered her gaze and looked at him. Slowly, he smiled. “That’s precisely what I was thinking.”

 
Smile deepening, he reached for her hand. “Indeed.” He drew her from the tree, almost into his arms as he leaned close to murmur, “As I was about to say—”

 
Whizz-thunk!

 
Startled, they looked up. Froze. Stared at the arrow quivering in the tree trunk precisely where Caro had been an instant before.

 
Michael closed his hand hard about hers. He looked down at her. Slowly, she brought her gaze back to his face. For one instant, her screens were down. Shock, bewilderment, and the first stirrings of fear were all there in her silver eyes. The fingers locked in his quivered.

 
He swore, drew her closer, into the protection of his body. One glance around showed that with all the noise and bustle, no one else had heard, much less seen, what had happened.

 
He glanced down at her. “Come on.”

 
Keeping her close, he drew her back into the safety of the crowd, her hand still locked in his as they tried to disguise their shock. Caro put a hand on his arm, slowed him. He looked down. She was shaken, pale, but in control.

 
“It must have been an accident.”

 
His jaw clenched so hard he thought it might crack. “We’ll see.”

 
He halted as the crowds parted and they got a clear view of the archery butts, now properly set up and with the contest in full swing. Laughing, Ferdinand laid down a bow. He appeared to be in high good humor, exchanging comments with two locals.

 
Caro grabbed his arm. “Don’t make a fuss.”

 
He looked down at her, grimaced. “I wasn’t intending to.” His protective instincts might have leapt at the sight of Ferdinand, bow in hand, but his wits were still functioning; he knew the two men running the contest—neither was so witless as to allow anyone to point an arrow toward the crowd.

 
And, as he’d assumed but had wanted to confirm, the butts all the contestants were aiming at had been positioned along the edge of the forest. There was absolutely no chance that even a stray arrow could have struck where he and Caro had been, all but in the opposite direction.

 
In addition to that, the arrow they’d left sunk in the tree trunk had been fletched with dark-striped feathers. All those for the contest carried plain white ones. He scanned the quivers standing filled and ready; not one arrow sported even a single stripe.

 
“Come on.” He urged Caro back into the crowd.

 
She drew a tight breath and stayed close. After a few steps, she said, “So you agree. It must have been an accident.”

 
From her tone, she was trying to convince herself.

 
“No.” She glanced up; he caught her eye. “It was no accident—but I agree there’s no point in making a fuss. Whoever fired that arrow wasn’t in the crowd. He was in the forest, and he be long gone by now.”

 
* * *

 
Caro’s chest felt tight, her heart thudding in her throat as they pushed on through the crowd. But more people had arrived; they had to stop and talk as before. Both she and Michael slipped on their polished masks—no one seemed to guess that behind those masks, they were shocked and upset. However, the more they talked, the more they were forced to respond in a normal fashion to those about them, to discuss the gentle vicissitudes of country life, the further the incident, and the sudden fright it had caused, receded.

 
Eventually, she realized it really
had
to have been an accident— perhaps some boys larking about in the forest edge, as boys were wont to do, with no idea they’d shot at anyone. It was
inconceivable
—there was simply no reason—that anyone would want to harm her.

 
Certainly not Ferdinand. Even Michael seemed to have accepted that.

 
Only when they reached the far side of the clearing and Michael continued on did she realize she hadn’t, indeed, any idea what he was thinking.

 
“Where are we going?” Her hand still locked in his, he was heading for the clearing where the carriages and horses had been left.

 
He glanced at her. “You’ll see.”

 
Muriel’s stableman was on watch; Michael saluted him and continued on, leading her to where a long line of horses were tethered. He marched along, then stopped. “Here we are.”

 
Released, Caro blinked at a faintly familiar bay rump. Then Michael backed his big gelding out of the line.

 
Her instincts jerked to life. “What—”

 
“As I was about to say before being rudely interrupted by that arrow”—he lifted his head and met her gaze as his hand locked once more about hers—“
come with me
.”