Page 21 of These Violet Delights
This slice of the forest was narrow, and as the sun rose, Violet realized she was being led to a small clearing. It occurred to her only then that she was in danger; if this stranger was indeed intent on starting a fire on Pressmore’s grounds, then they were capable of other sorts of violence. She paused mid-step, peering into the clearing, listening to the crunch of twigs and leaves and the fluttering wing-startle of birds scattering overhead. A chorus of shrieks from the birds surprised her, and she gasped, reaching for a branch to steady herself before moving more carefully through the densely packed wood. Then, in the gloom of the clearing ahead, a jangle like a pocket full of coins—no, reins. A horse. The beast, chestnut brown, whickered and tossed its head, then accepted its rider and eased through a gap in the trees. Eventually, there would be a path that cut through the forest and led to Cray Arches, a narrow lane used by the Pressmore staff to easily ferry goods from market to house.
She made it to the clearing in time to see the horse andrider disappear for good. Slumping, she accepted her defeat, deciding she might be able to send a rider from Pressmore to intercept the stranger in the village. She plucked up her nerve and left the clearing, though she went but ten or so paces before also accepting she was turned around and quite lost.
Damp and tired, she turned herself toward the brightening sky, orienting herself to the east. If she pushed forward that way, eventually she would meet the edge of the forest where the road from town ran along the stream. Once she found water, the rest would take care of itself. She trudged forward, colder by the minute, the fear receding and leaving behind an empty feeling. By the time she reached where the trees were thinnest and the trickling of the stream could be heard over her heartbeat, she must have seemed a foundling raised by fairies, her feet so caked in mud and leaves they looked like ungainly shoes, her nightgown and robe torn and dragging.
She broke free of the forest just east of the bridge, stumbling down a steep embankment toward the mist blanketing the water. She plunged her feet into the shallows, gasping from the snap of the freezing water, bending over to rub the muck from her ankles. Her hem was mangled, and she shook her head; she had to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Yet Violet turned from the stream quickly, knowing she shouldn’t dawdle. She had to get back to the house and send someone after the rider, even if their lead was significant and the search hopeless.
Her laughter drew a noise from the wider part of the stream, well beyond the bridge and the banks, and she stood straighter, watching a large shape cut across the water, slicing through it with almost eerie precision. Several deranged thoughts crossed her mind, including that she could be witnessing the first shark to ever reach the placid waters ofWarwickshire. The shape reached the clump of reeds poking up from the waterline across the bridge from her, and through the mist, she watched it rise up and resolve into the shape of a man. The mist held him briefly in a gauzy tousle of ivory streamers, maintaining his modesty for the amount of time it took Violet to realize she was gawking at a naked person.
And not just any naked person, but Mr. Alasdair Kerr.
My God,she thought, covering her mouth with one hand and her eyes with the other.What a structure.
She heard an intake of breath, then his snorted laugh, and finally the rustle of clothing. Peering between two fingers, she discovered that he had managed to tug on his breeches.Thank God.
And yet, a twinge of regret.
The obliging little beads left behind after his swim drew her eye to every bulging contour of his chest, every dark hair, every angle chiseled into his sides.
“Miss Arden,” he called, taking a few steps toward her until his toes were back in the water. He had found his spectacles and perched them back on his nose, squinting. “Are you quite well?”
“No!” she squawked. “I…” She wiped both palms down her face and went to stand on the other side of the stream from him. Her cheeks burned until they hurt. It pained her to think he could draw this kind of reaction from her. “There’s been a fire at Pressmore,” she stammered. “I went after the culprit but lost him in the woods just there.” Turning, she pointed.
“A fire?” Mr. Kerr hurried back to his pile of clothes and grabbed his shirt, tugging it over his head in one efficient movement. Though it eased the heat in her cheeks, Violet couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry at the loss of such a sight. “Is everyone accounted for? Is anyone harmed?”
Of course he would deeply feel the gravity of such a thing.
“N-no,” she answered, moving toward the bridge. “But I must return there right away and tell the family what I saw.” In her haste, her steps were bungling, and she slid, then slipped, tumbling down the shallow embankment until she caught herself awkwardly on her right foot. The surge of pain flickered up her leg, and as soon as she put weight on the foot again, she found it too tender to bear her.
“Ooh!” she exclaimed, hissing. She hopped forward, then grabbed the post of the bridge for support. “Never mind that, I mustn’t be delayed.”
“If there is a criminal lurking in the woods, then I insist that you allow me to escort you home.”
Violet’s hackles raised at his tone: commanding, certain, leaving absolutely no room for argument. Yet when he appeared again through the mist, marching across the bridge, there was genuine concern written across his face. He pulled on his boots and jacket, then nodded toward the silhouette of the estate in the distance.
“Please,” he added, seeing her expression. “Set your distaste for me aside. You should not be alone. More than that, you appear injured, Miss Arden.”
“It’s nothing,” she assured him, then risked a look at her right ankle, which had rapidly begun to swell. To prove her capability, Violet began limping and then jumping on her good foot across the road and away from him.Ow, ow, ow.
“Am I to stand and watch you hop and hobble clear across two fields?” he asked, stifling a laugh. “Madam, I cannot allow it.”
The pain made a similarly compelling argument.
Violet sighed and stalled, gesturing him forward with a souring expression. How odd—he had been devoid of emotion during their last encounter, and so the sound of his laughter now came as if from someone else entirely. It dragged her backto the past, to this same bridge but sunnier days and rosier smiles. Her chest throbbed at a loss she could not tally or define, and it worsened as Mr. Kerr came to her, coughed nervously into his ham hock of a fist, and bowed his head.
“With your permission?”
Violet nodded, unable to meet his gaze.
“If you can forgive the state of me, that is,” he added, a bit red in the cheeks himself.
“The state ofus.”
“Indeed, I thought a spirit of the forest had come upon me; I did consider swimming away and abandoning my clothes altogether.”
“Oh, no, sir,” said Violet, grinning and indicating her swollen leg. “You were never in any danger. I had only come to wash away my mud boots. I don’t know how you stand to be in the water this time of year. You should be a block of ice!”
She flinched as he reached toward her, but it was just to carefully pry away a glob of wax that had dried to her throat. The quick, crisp release of the hardened wax was almost pleasurable.
