A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)(28)

Thorne rolled to the side, blocking her from their view. She tried her best to evaporate into the air. Meanwhile, he gruffly scolded the men for the mishap and ordered them back to work.

When they were gone, Badger came out of hiding and attacked Kate with puppyish vigor, licking the melon juice from her wrist and cheek.

Thorne stood and paced the small area. “Damn it.” His hands were still faintly trembling. He balled them in fists. “Are you well? I didn’t hurt you?”

“No.”

“You’re certain? I want to know the truth. If I hurt you in any way, I’d . . .” He didn’t complete the statement.

“I’m unharmed. I promise. But how are you?”

He kept pacing, dismissing her question with a small flick of his hand. As if his own well-being were completely irrelevant.

“Has . . . that ever happened before?” she asked.

“I’m not mad,” he said. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Of course not. Of course not. It was an absurd accident. I mean, what are the chances? A melon, of all things. A soldier is trained to react to bombs, grenades, cannon fire. No one’s prepared for a melon. I understand completely.”

He drew to a halt. He wouldn’t look at her.

She closed her eyes, frustrated with herself. “That was a thoughtless thing for me to say. I don’t understand at all. I can’t possibly imagine what it is to go to war.” She approached and laid a tentative touch to his sleeve. “But if you’d ever want to tell someone, Thorne, I am a good listener.”

His cold blue eyes held hers for a long moment, as though he were considering. “I’d never burden you with that.”

“It might as well be me. I am your betrothed, for the time being.”

“Still?”

She nodded. There was no denying that something between them had changed. They’d survived a battle together—even if it had been an imaginary siege. The fearful pounding of her heart had been very real, and the same was true of the cold sweat on his brow.

She had long been accustomed to thinking of Thorne as an enemy, but after that incident . . .

They were on the same side.

The two of them, against the melons of the world.

Kate smiled. With her fingertips, she flicked a seed from his sleeve. “You have to admit, this solves one problem. They’ll all believe the engagement now.”

“That’s one problem solved, perhaps. But several more created.”

She gathered his meaning. Her pristine reputation was now spattered in melon pulp. Unless she were proved to be a Gramercy and offered a living outside Spindle Cove—it would be nearly impossible for Kate to call this betrothal off.

Kate declined Thorne’s offer of an escort home and hurried back to the rooming house. By the time she arrived at the back entrance, the late morning sun had dried the moisture from her sticky frock. She took the back stairs two at a time, ducking into her room to wash and change.

Exhausted from the morning’s excitement, Badger made a nest of her discarded gown and curled up to sleep.

When Kate had made herself presentable, she went downstairs and found the Gramercys assembled in the parlor. As she entered the room, she stopped dead in the doorway.

Oh, Lord.

The painting. It was still there, on the mantelpiece. Half draped, at least, to conceal all the flesh. She hoped no one else had taken notice of it. She would take it up to her room later.

“Why, Miss Taylor!” Lark looked up from a book. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Lord Drewe, being a conscientious gentleman, rose to his feet and bowed. “We weren’t expecting you yet. We thought you’d be occupied with music lessons, over at the Bull and Blossom.”

“Not just now. I thought I’d come and . . . sit with you, if you don’t mind.”

“Don’t be silly.” Aunt Marmoset patted an empty section of divan. “We’re in this village for you, dear. We don’t mind.”

“But please don’t let me interrupt,” Kate said. “Just be as you are, and go on as you were.”

From her seat at the escritoire, Harry laughed. She set her quill aside and sprinkled a letter with blotting powder. “We’re hardly busy. Lark’s reading quietly. Aunt Marmoset’s aging quietly. I’ve just finished venting my spleen with a scathing letter to Ames. As for Evan—” She swept a hand toward her brother, who’d taken a seat by the fire. “Evan’s sitting with his precious agricultural newspapers and trying to pretend he’s not a tightly wound ball of seething passions.”

“What?” Evan lowered his newspaper and regarded his sister over it. “I do not seethe.”

“Of course you seethe. You seethe the way other men drink brandy. A little bit daily as a matter of habit, and more than’s good for you when you think no one’s looking.”

With a bored sigh, Lord Drewe turned his gaze to Kate. “Do I have the appearance of a man who seethes?”

“Not at all,” Kate answered, studying his calm expression and unperturbed green eyes. “You look the picture of equanimity.”

“There, Harriet. Satisfied?” He raised his newspaper again.

“Don’t let appearances fool you, Miss Taylor,” Lark whispered. “My brother only looks even-tempered. He has fought no fewer than five duels in his life.”