Page 18 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)

Steadman awoke from restless and troubled sleep with a desire to make right a crumbled world.

The cause and subject of his determination were the same—Miss Morgan Brady.

The woeful expression of loss on her face the night before had plagued his dreams. He had awakened time and again thinking of her hair, of its wavy amber hue, imagining how it might appear cascading past her shoulders.

He failed in every attempt as her blasted suit interfered with the vision.

“Good morning, sir.”

Morgan greeted him before he spied her waiting at the breakfast table.

The earnest manner of her eyes, the prominence of her sculpted cheekbones, the softness of her voice—these all conspired to obliterate the last vestiges of Mr. Brady.

He continued to be confounded by why it had taken him so long to notice how feminine she was.

And how astonishingly beautiful she was.

He straddled a chair to join her. “Good morning to you. Did you sleep well?”

“Not particularly.” Her puffy eyes told the tale of lack of sleep and perhaps a few tears.

“Nor did I. But I have a notion to help us both.”

“Oh?”

He gave her a warm smile. “Rather than moping about the inn or Broad Chalke at large, I propose a short journey to a magical place.”

A slight smile erased her grim expression, threatening to reveal those elusive dimples. “I do like magical places.”

“Then we are of an accord.”

“I believe so.”

***

Steadman spurred his horse off the road just outside the hamlet of Coombe Bisset and led Morgan into a thicket of trees along a well-beaten path.

Just as he remembered, the trees crowded the trail ever closer with each stride of his mount.

Within a half mile, the press of green formed a natural tunnel through the dense wood.

He glanced back at Morgan to find her eyeing the branches closing ranks overhead.

“Nearly there,” he said. As if by premonition, the trees before him abruptly thinned before thrusting him into a cathedral of the forest. Immense yews, twisted with age, formed the columns, while their gnarled branches stretched toward one another to form a wooden mesh of ceiling.

Morgan’s gasp from behind him marked the moment she entered the domain of the yews.

Her appreciation pleased him. No, not just that.

It awakened a yearning that confounded him.

He desperately wanted to hold her in his arms. Instead, he led her into the midst of the arboreal giants before dismounting.

She followed suit, still staring in wonder and running a hand across a weathered trunk.

“What is this place?”

“The locals call it Great Yews.”

Morgan smiled. “What a clever name. How did they ever think of it?”

“I haven’t the foggiest notion.” He chuckled. “What the name lacks in imagination, it makes up for in accuracy.”

She removed her hat and cut dark eyes at him. He studiously avoided her gaze, as he might avoid staring into the sun.

“This place is as magical as you promised.” Her husky voice was soft, like velvet. “A favorite of yours?”

“Yes, since boyhood. It was here that I developed my penchant for playing Robin Hood. As my band of Merry Men was imaginary, they always did as I told them. I miss them, if for nothing else than their reliability.”

He looked again Morgan’s way to find her studying the interlocking branches overhead, hat in hand and lips parted in wonder.

Her wavy hair fell back to gather on her coat collar, hinting at the glory she had surrendered to save her family.

For an instant, he envisioned her as Maid Marion, a denizen of the woods and intrepid partner of Robin.

The thought ignited a startling warmth in his chest. Befuddled by his reaction, he yanked his eyes away and began to walk.

“Come, Morgan. I wish to show you something.”

A few dozen steps brought them to the largest of all the yews, the bishop of the cathedral. One side contained an immense hollow large enough to conceal a standing man. He motioned toward it. “This was my fortress. I held off thousands of desperate foes from this hollow and remain undefeated.”

“Thousands, you say?” A single brow arched playfully. “And of what ilk?”

“Bands of cutthroats, swarms of pirates, Roman legions, and the like.”

“And you withstood them all? How brave and efficient you were. A regular William Wallace.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“Of course. Mr. Wallace was executed most gruesomely.”

He laughed. “Well, I don’t suppose you entertained such flights of fancy as a child.”

She shook her head and avoided his eyes. “I did, but of a different nature.”

“You don’t say?” He lifted his chin. “What nature?”

“It is nothing.”

“Oh, no, Morgan. I have divulged my childhood fantasies to you and accepted your deeply wounding taunts for my efforts. I insist you give me satisfaction by returning the favor.”

She looked up at him with those startling but wary eyes, the debate behind them palpable.

Then she knelt to pluck a yew seed from the ground to examine.

“If you must know, my childhood speculations centered on my origin. I always fancied that I belonged to another family, one that treated me kindly. Or perhaps even a noble family. And that they were searching for me still.” She tossed the seed to the ground and looked up at him again with a sad smile.

“As I said, it is nothing. I await your best taunt.”

Despite the open invitation, Steadman failed to dredge up even a light-hearted set down. Her large eyes invited something other than teasing.

“Well,” he said. “I will pray they find you.”

His response clearly surprised her, for she turned from him to sweep her gaze across the grove and stumbled to change the subject. “Who…who owns this wood?”

“Lord Radnor. Longford Castle lies near, just a brief walk.”

She turned slowly to engage him again, her eyes narrowing. “Is that your family? Your home?”

Her arrow struck too close to the heart. Instead, he did what he always did when running away. He climbed a tree.

“What are you doing?”

“Climbing a tree, clearly.”

“Clearly.”

When he reached a large branch, he looked down at her. She approached the trunk and tentatively lifted her hand. “May I?”

A wave of warning crashed through his senses.

She had already infiltrated his closely guarded defenses with her earnest friendship.

Now, she offered a hand. He decided adamantly to decline the offer before he spontaneously reached down to clasp her hand.

It proved warm and soft, just as he’d feared.

With a heave, he hoisted her onto the branch.

She scuttled away to hug the trunk, either afraid of the height or fearful of his nearness and her rash decision.

Her stare indicated the latter and gave him a lingering view of the green ring around her dark eyes.

Then, without warning, a smile consumed her, and she began to laugh, dimples on full display.

“I can’t believe you pulled me up. What were you thinking?”

Her exclamation oozed with life—the elusive life he had struggled for years to find. He became immediately unsettled. “Apparently, I wasn’t thinking.”

Without another word, he swung down from the tree and held up his arms. Her eyes went wide, but she settled on the branch and leaned into his hands.

He lowered her to the ground as if she were a hot coal.

His forehead broke into a sweat. Perhaps Morgan was a hot coal.

When her lips parted in a soft ‘oh,’ he belatedly remembered to pull his hands away from her.

“Well then,” he said. “We should consider returning to Broad Chalke and our surveillance of Three-Finger Jack. Before we get hurt.”

Her smile faded a bit, enough to communicate her disappointment. “I suppose you are right, as usual.”

“Of course, I am always right. About time you realized that.”

However, he felt distinctly that he might be hopelessly and perilously wrong.

***

Morgan again trailed Steadman on foot as they followed Jack from the tavern under the cover of darkness, though this time their prey took a different route.

She welcomed the surveillance if for nothing else than to set aside an afternoon of distracting thoughts.

During those hallowed minutes alone with Steadman at Great Yews, her world had shifted perceptibly on its axis.

For a startling, shining moment as they perched together on a limb, he had looked at her differently for the first time.

As if, perhaps, she was a woman and not an unkempt boy.

A plain woman, but a woman, nonetheless.

She had tried all afternoon to convince herself of the fallacy of her suspicions.

However, the more she had failed, the freer she had felt.

Regardless of her waffling on that subject, she had become convinced about another.

Steadman was connected somehow to Lord Radnor and Longford Castle.

That conviction consumed her even now. The desire to investigate his family origin slowly consumed her.

Maybe an understanding of the dynamics at Longford would lend her insight into why Steadman would flee a gentle life at an influential house for a career of muddy roads, stophole abbeys, and isolated farms. Lost in thought, she came to an abrupt halt to avoid stumbling into Steadman.

He had stopped at a corner, staring ahead.

“Hold,” he whispered. “Jack is entering a house.”

“How many mistresses can one man have?” she mumbled.

“One is too many.”

His comment brought a smile to her lips. “Do we wait again?”

“No. The house stands alone with nothing behind it. We can circle to the rear for better observation and eavesdropping. Follow me.”