Page 57 of The Traitor
He tucked her hand around his arm and patted her knuckles, as if he understood what a troublesome question he posed.
Mr. Brodie was a pestilence of a man, but he’d given Milly insights into her prospective spouse nobody else could pass along, save St. Clair himself. Then too, when he referred to St. Clair, his voice held both respect and affection.
Much as Milly’s did. On that thought, she allowed Mr. Brodie to escort her back to the baron’s side, the unsent inquiries crackling softly in her pocket.
***
Across the plot of lavender, Milly led Michael Brodie around the gravel paths. She’d link arms with him and tow him along for a few paces, then pause and bend to sniff at a plant or examine a flower. Michael waited with a patience Sebastian knew was foreign to his nature, then let himself be led off to some other clump of shrubs.
“She’s pretty, your lady.”
The head gardener was a man by the name of Kincaid, a big, fussy, cheerful soul who’d served on the Peninsula and knew more about hard work than about plants. Kincaid might have been forty, he might have been sixty, and his weathered, sandy blond looks and bright blue eyes would change little if he lived to be eighty. Sebastian had never seen him with clean fingernails or wearing a frown.
“She’s beautiful,” Sebastian said. “She’s also trying to bolt before I can get her to the altar.” The professor had passed along that tidbit, resorting to Spanish to convey his message, lest Freddy or one of her spies overhear him.
“Skittish, then. The smart ones know how to lead us a dance, don’t they?” Kincaid winked and strode off, a man in charity with the world—and him six months sober, too.
Except Milly did not believe herself to be smart, and Sebastian knew in his bones she hadn’t sent inquiries to agencies in the North as any sort of game. He marched himself across the field, intent on securing the would-be fugitive—also on rescuing his friend.
“Brodie, turn loose of my baroness.”
Michael’s expression was bemused. “She’s not your baroness yet, and she says your soil is too damp for your weeds.”
Milly straightened and dusted her hands together. “They are herbs, Mr. Brodie, and they keep the fleas from your bed and the infection from your wounds. Show some respect.”
Michael’s consternation was a lovely addition to a pretty day. “Listen to my baroness,” Sebastian said, taking Milly’s hand. “I certainly intend to.”
They left Michael among the shrubs, his bemusement blossoming into a smile.
“Michael smiling is an unnerving proposition,” Sebastian said as they moved between rows of plants. “Puts one in mind of Lady Freddy going quiet, or the professor lapsing into Russian.”
“Marriage to you is an unnerving proposition.”
His Milly had such courage. “Marriage to me, or marriage in general?”
“Both.”
He closed his fingers more snugly around hers. “You will tell me why.”
“You need a baroness whom none will find fault with, St. Clair. I am a nobody, though for the most part, I’ve been happy in that state.”
“Sebastian. You are to be my wife, and that gives me the privilege of hearing you say my name. For years, I was Robert Girard, some fool Frenchman with a reputation for nastiness and no family to speak of. Please call me Sebastian.”
“Robert Girard? Those are your middle names, aren’t they?”
“They are. Why would you recall something so inconsequential?”
Against his palm, her hand was dusty and warm.
“Your very name could not be inconsequential to me, any more than you’ve brushed aside my name as a silly exercise in penmanship. Where are we going?”
“Out of the sun.” They were engaged. According to the contradictory and labyrinthine rules of proper English behavior, they could now be alone together for brief periods. Unfortunately, privacy was in short supply on a small horticultural farm. Sebastian led Milly to the drying shed, a building larger than its name would suggest, but upwind from the stables, the fields, and anything else that might pollute the fragrances captured there.
“Come harvest time, this place will be full to bursting with bundled herbs hung up to dry. The scent then is intoxicating.”
“It’s lovely now.” Milly leaned close to an old wooden workbench, sniffing the surface. “That is remarkable.”
“It’s a cutting table, which you can no doubt tell from the scars, but it absorbs the oils of the plants year after year. Why are you afraid to marry me, Milly?”
