Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

Hawk chuckled, he couldn’t help himself. Her thoughts were so clear on her face.

Her eyes flew upward. Belatedly, she squinted.

But he was too amused to notice the small distorted eyes behind the thick lenses. He said, rumbling laughter still deep in his chest, “I thought you said you saw me naked in the loch.”

“I did,” she said, choking with embarrassment.

“I’m certain you realized that the water was damnably cold, frigid in fact.”

What did that have to with anything? “Of course the water is cold this time of year,” she said, hoping her voice was as cold as that water. “I enjoyed watching you shiver.” Ah, that sounded nice and nasty.

But still that wretched smile was on his face. “Then you must know that men aren’t always ready to, well, to, ah, indulge in—”

“I didn’t look at that part of you! Oh, stop it!” She flung up her hands to ward off further drawing comments from him. She quickly turned on her heels and fled down the inn stairs. She heard his laughter behind her.

“You miserable animal ... stallion,” she said under her breath. She met Grunyon at the foot of the stairs, and flushed to her puce cap.

He smiled at her with grave understanding. “Good morning, my lady. Breakfast is served in the private parlor.”

Hawk joined her some minutes later. He was no longer laughing—or smiling, for that matter. He was looking quite serious. “Frances,” he said gently, for he was now writhing in guilt for embarrassing her and baiting her, “are you all right? No ... aftereffects?”

“No,” she said coldly, “I bathed. In the dark. After you took yourself off.”

So much for my concern, he thought, and seated himself. He looked with satisfaction at the array of food on the table. Ah, thick sirloin. Rare, just as he liked it.

As he chewed on the delicious beef, he remarked upon the disgusting cap that covered most of her head. He could just imagine the reaction of the staff at Desborough Hall, much less his father’s reaction. He cleared his throat, wondering how to tell her that she looked deplorable.

He shook his head at himself. He couldn’t bring himself to criticize her, not just yet.

“We will go immediately to Desborough Hall,” he said after a long, strained moment. “Soon, I will bring you back to York. It’s a lovely city and boasts many sites you would enjoy.”

She s

aid nothing, merely spread her scrambled eggs about her plate.

He forged ahead, taking her silence as a positive sign. “There are, uh, very nice shops here. You know what I mean. The modistes are excellent.”

Frances silently vowed to wear this gown until it rotted off her body.

“It’s also very probable that there are competent medical men here. Perhaps we could see to your getting some more ... well, new spectacles. Is your eyesight very bad?”

She gave him a particularly vicious squint. “Yes,” she said, “terrible.”

Hawk eyed her with growing impatience. Didn’t she realize how very kind he had been to her? He’d spared her all the embarrassment he could. Well, he amended to himself, he had been a bit rough with her this morning in the corridor, but damn her, why didn’t she say something, anything, to show that she was at least thinking?

Couldn’t she at least be a bit civil?

He downed some excellent English ale, then slammed down his mug. “Are you ready?” he asked, his voice curt.

“Certainly,” Frances said. She wished she had something to bang on the table.

Frances didn’t realize that ladies and gentlemen of the English ton viewed northern England, this county in particular, as the wilds of Yorkshire. It was beautiful, she thought. Rough and wild, with rolling hills. Untamed, like Scotland, like home. She felt tears sting the back of her eyes and quickly sniffed them back.

They traveled due south, close to a winding river, the River Ouse, Grunyon told her when they stopped for a rest near Naburn Moor. The moor fascinated her. It was desolate, so unlike the neat farmlands that surrounded it.

“Desborough Hall,” Hawk continued to her, “is near Stillingfleet. East, to be exact, quite close to the river. Our closest town is Acaster Selby.”

They rode another thirty minutes through farming country and several small villages.