Page 22 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)

“You want me to do what?”

Practically steaming, Morgan stood with hands on hips, head cocked, and jaw slack as she glared at Steadman.

He stood before her in his ruffian disguise, looking more dashing than he had a right to.

He recoiled slightly from her sharp response but continued to examine her in a manner that appeared far from platonic.

“Perhaps I should explain my points more carefully,” he said.

“Do you think?”

He waved to her to follow him away from the inn’s entrance. She reluctantly followed as he began again.

“Point one. We must steal the wheat. Point two. To steal the wheat, we require strong backs and willing dispositions. Point three. Young lads seeking an escape from the boredom of Broad Chalke would fit the bill nicely.” He stopped and bowed toward her with a flourish.

“And point four, young men are far more likely to help a lovely woman than a man of a certain notoriety.”

She waited until he returned upright. “Then I misheard. I thought you wanted me to recruit these boys, but then you mentioned a lovely woman.”

He crossed his arms and shot her a frown of reproval. “Of course I meant you.”

She mirrored his affronted stance while drawing her worn pelisse tighter to cover her dress. “I question your judgment on the subject of loveliness, then.”

“Given my reputation and many opportunities, I am something of an expert on the matter. And you are absolutely lovely despite what your father told you or your country yokels failed to appreciate.”

His affirmation ignited a wave of warmth that exploded from Morgan’s chest to course through her extremities. However, she remained determined to stand her ground. “My father would have argued that point strenuously.”

“And I might have planted a fist in his chin to demonstrate my opinion of his strenuous point.”

Morgan smiled and let her arms fall to her side. “Have you always been this charming?”

“Since childhood, as I told you earlier.”

“I still think you were a naughty boy, then.” She sighed. “Very well, Mister Beau Monde Highwayman. I will do your bidding, no matter how foolhardy the plan or disastrous the result. Then you will see what a failure of a woman I am.”

His eyes grew soft, warm, empathetic. “I wish you could understand how wrong you are.”

A tremor rushed through Morgan as his expression trended perilously close to the look. She wondered what he saw that she did not. And she wanted desperately to become what he saw. She began walking again in self-defense.

“Speaking of wrong. How can we possibly steal from a lord given that contracts were signed for the wheat, even if under duress, and not expect to face consequences? Surely, the law is not on our side.”

Steadman fell in beside her and shook his head adamantly. “Even if the law does not favor us, justice does. When law and justice are at odds, always choose justice. The law will catch up in time.”

Morgan wrestled with her ongoing reluctance as they continued walking. “Are you certain these boys are willing to steal from a lord?”

“They will not know about that particular detail. You must not tell them.”

“Is that not a lie?”

“No.” He paused. “Yes. But a lie for a higher cause is… is…”

“Still a lie. I see your point, though. It is best that we protect their innocence.”

“Exactly. I’m glad you thought of that.”

She cast a faux glare at him. “Very well. Just tell me what to do.”

He held up his palms to her. “Easy, now. Just do what you did to Three-Finger Jack. Unleash your cleverly disguised and well-hidden feminine charms.”

“I possess no feminine charms.”

His expression grew abruptly serious, almost offended. “Again, despite what you have been told, you possess ample feminine charm. Far more than you believe.”

She yanked her eyes away from his handsome face, nearly overcome by his show of support. She almost believed his opinion over the countering voices in her head. Her tongue locked as a result. After a moment of silence, Steadman laughed.

“Besides, if you do not charm them, then I must.”

His levity lifted her gaze from the dust, and she smiled wryly at him. “I dare you.”

In response, he handed her his hat, unwound his cravat, and draped it over his head like a bonnet. “Oh, Mr. Brady!” His tone was singsong. “You are such a vigorous and dapper fellow. I imagine you might hoist a heavy bag of grain with great ease given your impressive physique.”

His absurd playacting nearly drew a guffaw from her. She put his hat on her head, poked out her elbows, and began to swagger. “Of course, Miss Steadman. I hoist weights in my sleep and eat nails for breakfast. And I must commend your astonishing eyelashes.”

“Oh, these eyelashes?” He made a great show of batting his lashes at her. “Are they having the desired effect, kind sir?”

“If by desired effect, you mean causing me to question the presence of your brain, then yes, m’lady.”

He appeared to swallow a laugh. “Oh, but m’lord. I have no brain. I donated it to a charitable foundation seeking functional brains for members of Parliament.”

“I recall your brain, now. Clearly, no great loss.” Unable to maintain the theatrics any longer, she snorted a laugh.

Her reaction opened the floodgates, and they both laughed until they halted in the road to wipe away tears.

She turned to him, thinking to say something clever, but found him inches away.

Steadman’s laugh trailed into nothing. His hands rose to softly grip her elbows and his lips began to dip toward hers.

There he paused. She blinked with joyous alarm, unable to think.

“Why…” She cleared her clogging throat. “Why are you holding my elbows?”

He looked at his hands, seemed to be surprised by what they were doing, and released her elbows. He retrieved his hat from her head and began walking again while retying his cravat. “Clearly, I am confused. Now, let us keep moving. We are nearly there.”

Morgan followed in the throes of tortured question.

Why was he treating her so kindly? Was it merely a ploy to earn her cooperation?

Or was it pity? Surely, his assertion of her charms was desperately overstated.

He was a man ripped from a heroic tale, perfect in appearance and a beacon of well-rounded manhood.

He could have any woman of his choosing.

Why flirt with her at all? While doubts swirled, though, she failed to bury a growing fancy that he might see her as something more than just a means to an end.

***

Steadman lengthened his stride as if to leave the dissonance of Morgan Brady behind, but she managed to keep pace.

He had nearly kissed her. Again. This time, however, there was no urgent rescue required, no desperate plan to execute.

Conflicting rationales crashed together in his swirling thoughts to form a jumble of perplexing paradoxes.

She was his investigative partner. She was a woman.

She was his friend. He had no female friends.

She claimed to be plain. But she was not.

What some might describe as “handsome” was more to him a beauty of classical proportions.

She was Venus de Milo. Da Vinci’s La Scapigliata.

Titian’s La Bella. Her features were timeless, carved in marble yet warm with life.

That she was clearly unaware of her rare beauty, even skeptical of its possibility, galled him.

What despicable fools had convinced her that she was anything other than spectacular?

Their arrival at the smithy saved him from a breakdown of his cognition.

He glanced back to find Morgan doggedly tracing his steps, her head down and skirt hitched to avoid the mud of the road.

He followed the ringing sound of iron-on-iron emanating from beneath an open-walled smithy.

A young blacksmith, no more than five-and-twenty, held a horseshoe over a blackened anvil while a teen apprentice struck it repeatedly at the blacksmith’s direction.

A second young apprentice energetically pumped the bellows to fire the forge.

They appeared to ignore the visitors until the smithy called a halt, plunged the horseshoe into a tub of water, and tossed it onto a pile of other shoes.

As one, the three young men folded their arms to eye Steadman and Morgan with suspicion. Steadman leaned near Morgan’s ear.

“Time to put those charms to work.”

She rolled her eyes with a sigh, donned a warm smile, and approached the blacksmith. “Good morning, sir.”

“Ma’am.”

“I see you have acquired quite a collection of horseshoes. What else do you forge?”

He stood tall and mopped his brow, though his eyes remained narrowed. “Most anything. Hinges, handles, buckles. Fire grates, decorative filigree, fence rails. Hammers, plowshares, axes. You name it, we make it.”

She stepped nearer to examine the forge. “An elaborate device. I assume you must balance the fuel, air, and water appropriately for the job at hand. Is that right?”

The apprentices raised their brows at each other and the blacksmith’s eyes brightened. “Why, yes.”

“Can you show me?”

In a voice swelling with pride, the smith set about describing the inner workings of the forge.

She asked clarifying questions about every component.

As he watched the scene unfold, Steadman applauded her tactic.

Rather than flirting, she had engaged the man’s pride in his work with a show of interest. However, the more questions she asked, the more he became convinced that her interest was no act.

It was just Morgan being Morgan—curious, respectful, genuine. He found it all disturbingly appealing.

“You can ask my associate, Worm.”

The mention of his ridiculous alias woke Steadman from his mental wanderings. “Ask me what?”

“If you wish to commission a work,” said the blacksmith. His question was hopeful but prepared for bad news.

“Has your business suffered from the crop failures?”