Hero, Come Back (Cynster 9.50)

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.