Hero, Come Back (Cynster 9.50)

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.