Page 52 of The Storybook Hero
“Yes.”
“Well, that should mean that it will take some time for our pursuers to make their way around to where we intend to come out.”
He frowned. “Yes—assuming they go by the road.”
Octavia hung the battered kettle, the water left from last night now frozen solid, over the coals. “I had better rouse the children.”
That proved no easy task. Both of them were loath to leave what little warmth their blankets provided, and a bit of petulant whining reached Alex’s ear. Emma, it appeared, was in a testy mood.
“I’m hungry, Miss Hadley,” she complained. “And cold. And I want to sleep in a bed, not this pile of dirt and leaves.”
“None of us are terribly comfortable, Emma, but we must make the best of it ...”
Alex watched with some admiration as Octavia managed to coax the girl out of her cocoon with a few more encouraging words. “Now please help Nicholas gather some wood for the fire while I make some tea.”
Emma bit at her lower lip but she rose and stumbled off after the boy without further complaint.
“Well done,” he murmured when Octavia returned to begin fixing their last bit of gruel. “You have a deft touch with … difficult people.”
She ducked her head to hide her smile. “Indeed, I find that all it takes is?—”
Her reply was cut short by a loud cry. Both Alex and Octavia jumped to their feet, but he was first to sprint through the tangle of thorns and dead branches to reach the prostate child. Emma had lost her balance atop a fallen tree and tumbled to the ground below. There was a tear in her coat where a broken branch had snagged the material and her face had several nasty scratches across her left cheek, now thoroughly awash in a stream of tears.
“I want to go home,” she sobbed.
Alex knelt down and gathered her in his arms. “Of course you do, sweeting, and that is where I mean to take you.”
Her head burrowed deeper against his shoulder, and he was amazed at the surge of protectiveness that coursed through him as Emma’s arms came around his neck. He, who had thought precious little of anything but his own amusements for more time than he cared to remember, was suddenly aware that he would commit murder with his bare hands if any man dared lay a finger on Emma, or the others.
He gently massaged her quivering shoulders. “Look at me, Emma,” he coaxed.
Her tearstained face slowly rose a fraction.
“I thought you said you wanted the heroes to cry, not the heroines.”
She tried to stop sobbing. “I—I’m frightened, Mr. Leigh.”
“I may not be as chivalrous as Valancourt,” he continued in a soft voice, “but I promise you that no harm will come to you.”
“You are ever so much better than that nodcock, Mr. Leigh,” she said through her snuffling. “You are the nicest hero I can ever imagine.”
“Why don’t you call me Alex. It seems we have become a family of sorts, at least for a time, so we might dispense with the formalities.
A tentative smile came to her face. “Oh, I should like that very much—Alex.”
The sound of snapping branches caused all of them to start. “Is Emma all right?” cried Nicholas, sliding to a halt with a stout length of wood clutched in his hand.
“She is just fine,” answered Alex. “Are you recovered enough to go back?” he asked of her.
Emma brushed away her tears and nodded.
“That’s my brave girl.” He pressed a light kiss on her cheek.
Her mouth dropped in confused wonder, then she began to giggle. “You are all prickly, Alex.”
He ran a hand over his dark stubble. “Yes, well, my valet must have overslept this morning. I shall have to speak to him about such a regrettable lapse.”
She giggled even louder.
