Page 40 of Where the Heart Leads
He frowned at her, the gesture little removed from his earlier scowl—an expression that somehow fitted his new face, the clean, austere lines smudged with soot, the lean squareness of his jaw somehow more dominant beneath the prickly growth of a day-old beard. The beard roughened his cheeks. His hair was an uncombed tumble of golden curls; he never normally looked windblown and rumpled, but now he did.
As if he’d just rolled out of some doxy’s bed.
The thought flashed across Penelope’s mind; she instantly banished it. Closing her mouth, she found she had to swallow; her throat had grown unaccountably dry. Her gaze continued traveling over him, across his shoulders and chest, clad in a threadbare jacket with a thin, limp, cotton shirt beneath. No cravat or collar hid the lean length of his throat.
His long thighs were encased in workman’s breeches; worn, scuffed boots were on his feet. He was the very picture of a rough-and-ready lout, a navvy who worked about the docks and warehouses doing this and that—whatever paid best at the time.
A certain dangerous quality emanated from him. The aura of a male not to be crossed.
Too dangerous to cross.
“What?” Through narrowed eyes, he challenged her.
She held his gaze—the only thing instantly recognizable about him—and knew that under the rough clothes and equally rough behavior he was still the same man. Reassured, she smiled mildly and shook her head. “You’re perfect for the part.”Of escorting me in my flowerseller’s disguise.
She didn’t voice the latter words, but if the sharpness in his gaze was any guide, he’d understood her meaning.
He humphed, then folded his arms across his chest, put his head back, and lapsed into uncommunicative silence.
Her smile spontaneously deepening, Penelope looked out the window so he wouldn’t see.
As the carriage rattled on, she pondered that dangerous quality she sensed in him; it wasn’t a characteristic he’d assumed for the role but something intrinsic, inherent in him.
Her earlier thoughts returned to her, now colored by a deeper insight. In view of her strengthening suspicion that Barnaby Adair was as one with her brother, cousin, brother-in-law, and their ilk, it seemed obvious—as demonstrated by the present situation—that with such men, the sophistication they displayed when going about their tonnish lives was the disguise. It was when they stripped off the outer trappings of polished civility—as Barnaby now had—that one glimpsed the reality concealed.
Given that reality…she wasn’t entirely sure what to do with her revelation. How she should react.
Whether she should react at all, or instead pretend she hadn’t noticed.
They passed the journey in silence, she busy with her thoughts, fueled by burgeoning curiosity.
The carriage eventually halted outside Griselda’s shop. Barnaby uncrossed his long legs, opened the door, and stepped down. He hunted in his pocket and tossed some coins to the driver—leaving Penelope to descend from the carriage on her own.
She did, then closed the carriage door. Barnaby cast her a sharp glance, checking, then, thrusting his hands in his pockets, he slouched up Griselda’s steps, flung open the door, waited for Penelope to join him, then—stepping entirely out of character—he extravagantly bowed her through.
“Strewth!He’s a toff!”
The muttered words came from the jarvey on the box.
Pausing in the doorway, Penelope glanced at Barnaby’s face as he straightened and looked at the driver; the lean planes appeared harder, more edged, than she’d ever seen them. As she watched, his blue eyes narrowed to flinty shards. A muffled curse from the driver was immediately followed by the sound of hooves as he whipped up his horse and rattled away.
Without waiting to catch Barnaby’s eye, she swept on into the sanctuary of the shop. She wasn’t at all sure she didn’t share the jarvey’s reservations about the man who followed at her heels.
Griselda had heard the tinkling bell. She came through the curtain behind the counter, set eyes on Barnaby—and very nearly stepped back. Her eyes widened, unconsciously matching those of her two apprentices who’d been working on the table between the counter and the curtain. They were now frozen, needles in midair.
After a fraught moment, Griselda’s gaze shifted to Penelope.
Who smiled. “Good morning, Miss Martin. I believe you’re expecting us?”
Griselda blinked. “Oh—yes, of course.” Coloring faintly, she held back the curtain. “Please come through.”
They went forward, Barnaby at Penelope’s shoulder. She noticed he even moved differently—more aggressively. They passed the two girls, who dropped their gazes.
In frank amazement, Griselda shook her head at Barnaby when he halted before her. She waved them on. “Go on upstairs. I’ll join you in a moment.”
Penelope started up the stairs. Behind them she heard Griselda, voice muffled by the curtain, instructing her apprentices on their day’s work.
Stepping into the parlor, Penelope paused. Barnaby moved past her; he went to the bow window and stood looking out over the street. She seized the moment to study him, to examine again the fundamental hardness his unaccustomed guise allowed to show through.
