Page 17 of A Stroke of Luck
“She would call it being pragmatic, sir.” Nonny sighed. “She says we must always be on our guard if we wish to survive.”
“Aye.” chimed Perry. “And she would not like it at all that you call her tender. She says that despite her appearance, her skin is tougher than armor, and people make a big mistake in assuming otherwise.”
As there was little he could say in argument to that, Prestwick let the matter drop and shoveled on in silence. It seemed the martial Miss Greeley had good reason for her sharp tongue and steely demeanor.
He owed her a debt of thanks, he reminded himself, which he intended to pay off quite handsomely. But other than that, her welfare was not his responsibility. Yet for some odd reason, the realization made him rather sad.
Five
“Well now, ain’t this cozy.”
Zara nearly laughed aloud. Though the grizzled little valet had more cause than most people to see the glass half empty rather than half full, he certainly maintained an optimistic outlook on things. Somehow, as she shook the worst of the dog hairs off the mangy blanket and spread it over the hay, she couldn’t quite imagine that his fastidious companion would voice the same opinion about their present accommodations. Indeed, watching the duke gingerly pick his way around a mound of old chicken droppings, she fully expected a caustic comment to explode from his lips at any moment.
She could hardly blame him if it did. Why, even she, who was used to some rather rustic conditions, would hardly call the stone barn a comfortable spot to be spending the night. For one so obviously accustomed to every luxury that money could buy, it must seem a veritable hellhole.
To her mild surprise, he took a seat upon an overturned bucket without complaint.
“I would not go quite so far as to call this cozy, Stump,” she replied. “However, it affords a roof over our heads, and given thebank of clouds I saw blowing in from the west, I think we may be grateful for the protection before the night is over.” Sweeping bits of chaff and dried grass from the tiny hearth opposite the storage racks, she began to lay out a few bricks of dried peat. “Mr. McTavish says we may kindle a small fire, if we are careful of the flame.” She doubted it would be of much use in warding off the pervasive chill, but a bit of flame might at least help brighten their tired spirits.
Another quick glance around showed that the labors of the day had taken a toll on everyone. The valet, for all his show of hearty cheerfulness, was looking pinched with fatigue, while her brothers, who normally could be counted on to keep up a stream of lively chatter, were unusually subdued.
As for the duke, he was silent as the surrounding stones, yet oddly enough, his expression did not appear sulky or spiteful, but simply … thoughtful.
What, she wondered, could be going through his head?
Perhaps he was contemplating committing murder with his bare hands? His raw and blistered hands, she added with an inward grimace. Good Lord, no doubt those long, well-tended fingers had never experienced such abuse. Indeed, his distinguished digits had probably never been called upon to lift anything weightier than a silver salver or champagne coupe. But she had to hand it to him—for all his condescending carping and peevish preening he had not sought to shirk the duties she had delegated to him. Rather, he had dug in and showed surprising stamina, conquering both the unwieldy spade and the teasings of her siblings.
She hadn’t expected such a gritty display of fortitude from a fop. Or such an intriguing show of intelligence. What a pleasure it had been to discuss music! She had forgotten just how stimulating such an exchange of ideas could be, especially with someone who shared a real interest in the subject. His articulateinsights had made it clear he was no mere dilettante, repeating bits of bon mots he had overheard at some ball or musicale …
“Are you celebrating some sort of victory?”
She started at the sound of his low words, the flint slipping from her fingers. “W—what do you mean?”
“You were humming the first movement ofEroica.” Through the hazy flickering of the smoky peat, she thought she detected a smile. “Which was, as you know, first entitledBonaparteby Beethoven, in homage to the triumph of revolutionary ideas. The composer, however, soon revised his opinion.
Zara quickly turned toward the drying racks, now filled to the very top with the fresh peat they had cut, hoping the dim light would hide the rush of color she felt flooding her cheeks. “I—I suppose I do count this day’s work as a triumph. A small one, perhaps, but still a step forward rather than a retreat.”
He gave a short bark of laughter as he crumbled the last bit of his bread between his fingers. “I imagine it would take Admiral Soult and the entire French fleet to make the Admiral of the Amazons haul in on her sails and alter course.”
The casual quip struck a raw nerve. That he saw her as a bristling ship of the line, all flashing gunpowder and roaring cannons, should come as no shock. What took her aback was how much it hurt to be viewed as naught but a bellicose hellion of the high seas.
May Poseidon be skewered on his trident!What did she expect—that the Duke of Prestwick would have found their brief conversation interesting or her company enjoyable?Ha!And Charybdis might turn into a placid little water sprite!
Her face took on a self-mocking grimace. Though embarrassed to admit it, even to herself, she had for a short time that afternoon actually entertained the notion somewhere in the back of her head that the two of them might come to be … friends.
Friends?Her wits must be pickled in brine if she really thought that would ever come to pass. The duke might relax the strictures of propriety enough to be on familiar terms with a loyal retainer, but such a highborn, starchy gentleman would never, ever be friends with an unconventional hoyden and two scrappy brothers who knew not the first thing about how to go on in Polite Society!
To her dismay, she felt the sting of salty tears against her lids.
Good Lord, there was no point in succumbing to a fit of girlish vapors, she chided herself. After all, she was hardly a pattern card for maidenly manners. She had taken every opportunity to jab a proverbial saber in his well-tailored rump! And as for her appearance—why, her hair must resemble a tangle of writhing sea snakes and her clothing the remnants of storm-torn sails. No matter the angle, perspective, or diffusion of light, she did not remotely resemble the sort of elegant young lady he spent time with London.
She sniffed. They, no doubt, were all perfectly coiffed, perfectly polished, perfectly poised, and perfectly able to converse with ease on music, art, and literature at the drop of a butter-soft kidskin glove.
For some unaccountable reason, the thought made her feel perfectly awful.
“Stop crumbling that bread,” she snapped, her own raw feelings giving a brittle edge to her tone. “Unless you wish to have mice crawling up your legs.”
“Mice?” echoed Prestwick faintly. With a slight jerk, he stood up and flung the rest of the crust out the open window.
