Or perhaps the predictable, orderly, back and forth motion of pacing was anathema to this woman.
She put him in mind of a bedraggled spaniel, with her slight build, rapid movements, and curling hair hanging limply on either side of her face. Though, admittedly, far more attractive than any spaniel he had ever seen. The precise shade of her red hair was difficult to determine under such dim and damp conditions. He tried to imagine what she might look light bathed in the warmth of a shaft of sunlight, but gave it up as a bad job. Sunlight was unlikely to be granted them anytime soon.
When her wandering feet brought her within arm’s length of him, he held up one hand in hopes she might cease. Her jerk of surprise made him wonder if she had forgotten his presence entirely.
“The storm doesn’t show any signs of abating. Perhaps we ought to begin again.” He made a crisp bow. “Tristan Laurens.”
Her gaze raked over him, and for a moment, he thought she meant not to respond. “Mr. Laurens,” she said after a moment and curtsied.
Ought he to correct her? At the very least, he might have introduced himself as “Major Laurens,” as he’d not yet resigned his commission. “Lord Tristan” was entirely incorrect now, of course. Both Father and Percy were gone, had been gone for some time. Still, it felt strange to think of himself as a duke, stranger still to call himself Raynham. Men of seven and twenty did not usually acquire new identities in quite so abrupt a fashion.
In the end, he let her assumption stand. After the weather cleared, they would go their separate ways, and his rank would be irrelevant.
Her fingertips danced over the book she was holding. “I am Erica Burke.”
“Erica?” It was not a name he had heard before.
“Erica is the Latin word denoting the genus to which several common species of flowering shrubs belong.” His surprise at the explanation must have been evident on his face, for she continued, with a little grimace of resignation, “Heather. It means heather. My father named his children using Linnaeus’s Species Plantarum as his guide.”
Her Irish accent was distinct but not unpleasant. From Dublin, if he had to guess. And though he suspected her of having given a variation of that explanation many times, it did not have the air of a rehearsed speech. So she knew at least a bit of Latin and a little botany. An educated woman, then. A bluestocking? A pedant?
Or something more unusual, and more interesting, than either?
Though mildly curious about her siblings’ names, he focused his concern on the fact that her family had let one of their number out of their sight. A young woman wandering about alone faced dangers far greater than a little rain, especially in a time of war, when so many were desperate.
Having learned his lesson about speaking sternly, however, he dipped his head in a nod of greeting. “It is a pleasure, Miss Burke, to meet someone else who has known the travails of having been named by an eccentric father. Mine was a student of the Arthurian legends.”
That confession brought the twitch of a smile to her lips, quickly wiped away by a crack of thunder that shook the tiny cottage. “Oh, will this storm never end?” She began once more to move about the room, like a caged bird flitting from perch to perch.
“It will, of course.” He tried to speak in a soothing tone, though it was not something he’d often had occasion to use in the army. “But I think we must resign ourselves to the fact that darkness may fall before it does.”
“You mean, we must spend the night? Here?” A panicky sigh whooshed from her lungs as she sank onto a wooden chair. “Oh, when my sister discovers I’m missing, she’ll be furious.”
Furious? Not worried?
Seizing the opportunity, he righted her chair’s partner—though they matched only in being equally rickety—and seated himself near her. “You are traveling with your sister? How did you come to be separated?”
“We—my sister, her husband, and I—are bound for Windermere. Their wedding trip. There are two coaches in our party, and I believe the occupants of each must have thought me safely aboard the other. But I had—” She leaped up again, fingering the leather-bound book.
Dutifully, he got to his feet, as good manners dictated. He had not been away from polite society long enough to forget everything he’d learned. “I’m sure she will be too relieved to discover you are safe to upbraid you.”
The candle’s flickering light painted her face with shadow. Was she amused? Skeptical? “It’s quite clear, sir, that you do not know my sister.”
“No. I do not believe I have that pleasure.”
She laughed, a rather wry sound, and sat down again. So did he. A moment later, she was up, trying to peer through the narrow crack around the shutters. “How long will it take for them to reach Windermere?”
“They were driving into the storm,” he answered as he rose. “Several hours, perhaps, for although it’s not a great distance, fifteen miles or so, the roads in that direction are prone to flooding.” She turned from the window and a wrinkle of concern darted across her brow. “I expect they stopped somewhere along the way to wait out the rain,” he added, trying to reassure her.
“Oh.” Once more, she sank onto a chair. This time, he remained on his feet—wisely, it turned out, for she soon resumed her erratic wandering. “But then, mightn’t they have returned to that village a few miles back, expecting to find me? I have to go.”
“Absolutely not.”
The commanding note brought her to an abrupt halt. Her mouth popped open, preparing to issue an argument.
“I will personally see you safely reunited with your sister as soon as possible, Miss Burke.” Already, he feared he would regret
