Page 13 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

This statement was amply confirmed as they watched a bit of the rehearsal. The colonel had lined up a group of local men and informed them that they were a procession of monks moving to the sound of a harp and chanting. They were to walk meditatively, with their hands in the sleeves of their monks’ robes and their heads bent in the hoods. Since there were as yet no robes, and no harp or chanting, this proved problematic. Also, the colonel once or twice strayed into a parade-ground roar that caused two of the men to snap to attention and salute.

“I always think of Colonel Patterson as a large man,” Fenella murmured. “But he isn’t.” Indeed, he was shorter than most of his amateur actors, but so upright and energetic that he seemed bigger. A lined face and white hair didn’t matter in such a dominating personality, she thought. His plain blue coat, riding breeches, and boots gave the impression of a uniform.

“You feel as if he’s carrying a swagger stick,” said Chatton. “Even though he isn’t.”

“I wonder what happens if someone doesn’t follow his orders?” Fenella replied.

“I don’t think we want to find out.”

They exchanged a look that held more sympathy than they’d shared before. She was surprised at how gratifying this felt.

The time came for their scene. The colonel allowed a moment for greetings, shaking Chatton’s hand and offering Fenella a nod and a glance from twinkling gray eyes. Then Fenella was given a much-used broom from the back of the hall and told to imagine that she was standing under a stone archway in the ruins of the old abbey on Lindisfarne. “Rush up to her like a marauding Viking,” the colonel said to Chatton.

He trotted over.

“A Viking,” repeated the colonel. “Bent on looting. Bristling with weapons. More than likely spattered with the blood of murdered monks.”

Chatton blinked. He tried it again.

“You aren’t at a tea party!” growled Colonel Patterson. “Have you heard the phrase ‘ravening horde’? You’re part of one.”

The marquess bit his lower lip—whether in chagrin or to keep from laughing, Fenella couldn’t tell. He backed up, gathered himself, and essayed another rush, baring his teeth and shouting, “Charge!”

“Charge?” echoed the colonel.

“Slipped out.” Chatton looked sheepish.

“Well, see that it doesn’t do so again. But that was good enough for now. Rather effective snarl. See that you practice.” Colonel Patterson turned to Fenella, who had very nearly laughed. “Miss Fairclough, you are furious and determined to defend your home.”

Fenella swung the broom and caught Chatton on the shoulder, rocking him back a step.

“Hold on!” cried the colonel. “You mustn’t actually hit him.”

And then they spent a good deal of time working out how she was to repel the supposed invader with a swipe that looked like a leveler but stopped short of striking him. Chatton had to flinch and fall at just the right moment, so that it appeared he’d been felled by her stroke, when it hadn’t actually touched him.

It was quite difficult, Fenella found. To make a wide swing with the broom and stop short was more tiring than simply flailing about. She was relieved when Colonel Patterson finally said, “Yes, all right. That will do for now.” She started to lower the broom, thinking they were finished, but he continued. “Now, Chatton, you leap up and return to the fray. Miss Fairclough, you try the same trick. But, Chatton, you knock the broom from her hands this time. Thus and thus.” He guided them through the movements. “And then you grasp her arms to keep her from hitting you.”

Roger did as he was told. Fenella’s arms felt slender and supple under the cloth of her gown. Her face was inches away. He hadn’t been so close to her in… Had he ever been so close? She wore a heady flowery scent.

“And now, Miss Fairclough, you spit at him,” said Colonel Patterson.

“Spit?” She looked startled.

“This is a barbarian invader, come to steal everything you have. He’s killed your defenders. Set your church on fire. Now he’s dared to enter your house and laid hands on you.”

Fenella’s blue eyes flamed. She bared her teeth and spit, though to the side rather than in his face.

It might have been funny, but it wasn’t, Roger thought. Had he been an invader, he’d have been taken aback by the fiery spirit she’d revealed. A man might be proud to have such a woman defending his native land. Surprised by an impulse to pull her closer, he went still.

“Good.” Patterson nodded. “Now, this next part is a bit tricky.”

A boy ran into the room. “The monks is calling for ale, Colonel, sir. Saying they was promised a drink for their trouble.”

Patterson scowled. “Stay where you are,” he commanded. “I’ll be back in a moment.” And he followed the boy out the door.

Did Patterson mean he was to keep hold? Roger wondered. Such was the colonel’s influence that he hesitated to let go. But she was so near. The slightest move and her breasts would brush his chest.

Once he’d noted this, Roger could think of nothing else. Except the feel of her under his hands and the brilliance of her gaze. How long had the colonel been gone? It seemed like forever, and yet not long enough. He should say something. The silence was becoming awkward.

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