no longer jumped at every sound of hooves and harness or shrank into her cloak at every stop to keep from being noticed. Still, she’d not feel truly safe until the gates of Dunsgathaic closed behind her. Only then would Branston’s reach recede and Corey be naught more than a bad dream.
They had just passed Grantham, the afternoon well progressed and dusk only now darkening the skies to the east when, drowsy with the motion of the coach, Callista put aside her book to lean against the window, head resting on her hand. More often than she liked, she found her gaze straying to David riding a little ahead of them, his horse tossing its head in the wind.
Where before she’d pitied him as the rain lashed his face and dripped under his collar, now she envied him the freedom and pleasure of the wind against his cheeks and the sun warm on his shoulders. She admired the easy way he handled his horse; the straight-ness of his back and the gentle touch he maintained on the reins. But she also noticed the experienced way he scanned the landscape for trouble, the flexing of his hand upon his thigh as though it sought the reassurance of a sword, and the grim set of his chiseled jaw.
Bianca Flannery was correct. He might play the pleasure-loving town dandy, but there was a dark heart hidden behind the quick smile and the twinkling eyes.
At one point, he looked back over his shoulder, and Callista drew into the shadows of the coach, a wild tingling deep in the pit of her stomach, her hands sweaty within her gloves. For a moment, she found herself back in the musty dim corner of the Fowlers’ entry hall, shivers of unexpected pleasure trilling up her spine as David’s lips moved slowly over hers in a kiss of tender seduction. What would it be like to feel his body pressed skin on skin against hers? To explore the hard planes of his chest and the rippled muscles of his stomach in a slow and sinful trail southward? To hear him plead her name as he buried himself inside her? As he possessed her body and soul?
The carriage lurched, breaking into the wild spin of her thoughts before the lush, wanton heat coiling up from her center overcame her completely. She shifted uncomfortably until the impetuous sensations faded.
So much for her equilibrium.
She snatched up her book, burying herself in the prose. This trip was fraught with enough perils. She didn’t need to add to them with silly girlish fancies. There was no real bond between them. David St. Leger offered his protection, but he had not done so out of honor or chivalry or for any tender emotion. They had made a bargain. And he was as much a fugitive as she.
He gave a shout to the postillion. Lowering her book for one last swift glance out the window, Callista saw David tether his horse to a sapling and disappear into the line of trees close to the road, a flash of sunlight off steel as he drew his knife.
Her tingles turned to knots. Hard and tight, they jumbled her insides as her mouth went dry. But there were no shouts or signs of trouble, the coach rumbled on, and soon the horse and the wood were lost around a bend.
Another mile and still no sign of David. She clutched her satchel to her chest, running her finger back and forth along the latch to calm her nerves. He was fine. There was nothing wrong. He would appear any minute.
As she fretted, the trees gave way to wide hedge-rowed fields and a low arched bridge, then a hill leading down into a long green meadow. Hundreds of feet had beaten the grass flat and churned great muddy swaths between a few scattered tents. Where the river looped away from the bridge, a group of four garishly painted wagons clustered together, mules hobbled to graze nearby. Two men worked to bring down a large blue-and- yellow-striped pavilion. Ropes coiled at their feet as they folded great swaths of canvas. A woman threaded past carrying a bucket of water, and a bearded giant strode from the nearest wagon, shouting orders, arms gesticulating.
Her finger stilled upon the metal clasp. She recognized that tent, that man.
Sam Oakham.
It was said that Sam could shoot the wing from a fly at a hundred paces and split a strand of hair from twice that distance. But it was his fists that earned him his bread and butter as he traveled from town to town offering to bare-knuckle fight any comers. For two long years after Mother’s death, Branston and she had made their lives among the itinerant players and fairfolk. Then Sam had asked for her hand in marriage following her seventeenth birthday. Her brother had refused the proposal, and soon after, they had left the road for lodgings in Bath. She’d not seen the fighter since.
A face appeared in her window, nearly stopping her heart in a wild moment of panic.
Dirt-smudged and rumpled, David leaned down in the saddle. “Miss me?” He grinned, though Callista noted that the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, which remained troubled.
“Where did you go? I was worried sick.”
He shrugged. “When the need arises . . .”
But Callista had seen the knife, caught the intent in David’s eyes. Something more than the call of nature had lured him into those woods.
He motioned toward the empty meadow. “Looks as though we missed all the fun. Fair’s over and packed up.”
She turned to fling one last sidelong glance out at the pavilion and the wagons and the man in his shirtsleeves bellowing orders. “I’ve not missed it at all,” she murmured.
“More wine?” David held the bottle over Callista’s glass.
She looked up from her dinner of stringy beef and burnt potatoes. They had decided to stay at this shabby down-at-heels tavern on the edge of town rather than the more comfortable posting inn near the market cross. Less traffic to notice them. Easier to escape should difficulties arise. Even so, the taproom was full, and David had offered the barman extra coins for a private room and his silence.
“It’s no Clos de Vougeot, but it’s better than the beer—barely,” he said.
She placed her hand over the rim of her glass. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to intoxicate me.”
“With this? Doubtful.” He leaned back in his chair. Poured another glass for himself. That had to be the fourth or fifth. He didn’t seem any the worse for wear, and after years spent living with Branston, she definitely knew the signs. Still . . .
“Should you be drinking so much?” she asked.
His eyes locked on hers, and she cringed.
“This isn’t a lovely spring fete for me, either,” she replied. “I’m just as uncomfortable and just as hunted. At least, if they catch us, you’ll only be killed.
For a moment he stared at her as if unsure how to respond. Callista’s nerves jumped and she dug her fingers into her skirt, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut. It wasn’t like her to talk back. She’d learned long ago to keep her own counsel and let none see what she truly felt. It must be fatigue and the awful weight of her fear making her waspish and presumptuous.
He continued to eye her, but she sensed no anger in his expression. If anything, it was amusement. Laughter lurked in his gaze and his mouth twitched. “Point well-taken, Miss Hawthorne.” He reached once more for his wineglass, but at a stern look from her subsided. “You win. No more wine.”
Instead, he pulled a chunk of wood from his coat pocket, a knife from a sheath at his waist. Slowly, he drew the blade across the wood. A long, thin shaving fell away. Then another. And another, the delicate curls falling on his lap and at his feet.
“What are you doing?” she asked, pushing her plate aside to lean her elbows on the table.
He looked up, a corkscrew curling up over his palm, knife stilled in his hand. “Not drinking.”
“I mean with the wood. Are you . . . whittling?”
He lifted his brows and a smile crooked a corner of his mouth. “Can’t pull the wool over your eyes, can I?”
He continued to shave at the wood, a little thinner at one end, rounder at the other.
