Page 5 of Her Noble Groom

Chapter three

J ames vaulted onto the roan and scanned the beach. Thomasse’s father was still some distance from the cottage, dragging the cockboat across the sand. The man’s clothes were soaked and torn, his wet hat and hair plastered to his head. After rowing through rough waters, he must be exhausted.

James rode over. “My offer still stands.”

Her father dropped the cockboat and wiped his brow. “No need. It is not much farther.”

The man’s resistance to his kind gesture piqued James’s curiosity. If it was a matter of stubborn pride, he did not wish to press the matter. “Thomasse warms herself by the fire. I will bring food later.”

“Your generosity is admirable.” From the man’s accent, it was apparent he was a member of the English gentry.

“Might I inquire your name, sir?” James asked.

Her father looked back toward the bay, avoiding James’s gaze. “Why do you need to know?”

“No particular reason. I know everyone around these parts, and you are new here.”

Clearing his throat, the man said, “Call me Nicholas.”

James frowned. After suffering such misfortune, why did the man behave as if he, James, was a threat? Something must be amiss, in which case questioning him further would be futile.

“Pleased to make the acquaintance.” James touched his coif. “You are certain I cannot lend a hand?”

Nicholas grabbed the rim of the cockboat, struggling to get it moving again. “As I said before, I will do it myself. ”

“As you wish,” James replied.

He wheeled the roan about and urged the horse forward, cantering across the sand and up the path over the hillock behind the cottage.

As he rode, he pondered Nicholas’s strange behavior.

The sense of distrust did not square with a man allowing a stranger to ride off with his daughter.

For a moment, James had thought Nicholas recognized him.

If so, James did not recall having met the man before, but then it would have been under very different circumstances.

James’s thoughts returned to Thomasse, recalling the feel of her body nestled in his arms. It had been nigh two years since he had held a woman so close. Despite her scent of salt water and seaweed, it felt good.

The familiar ache grew as memories of Becca surfaced, but he shoved them aside. It had taken so much inner strength to heal after losing her—he could not let some drowning maiden threaten that.

When he arrived at the stable, he found Seigneur de Carteret brushing down his prized destrier, Magnar—a magnificent black warhorse.

The seigneur glanced up. “James, at last. I had begun to worry.”

“I spotted a cockboat in trouble. I reached the shore just in time to save a lady from drowning,” he said, as he dismounted the roan.

“An English damsel and her father have come ashore. There was a ship just beyond the bay. She said the captain put them off. Some mischief must be afoot, for who would abandon passengers in the midst of the Channel?”

“Odd, indeed.” De Carteret stroked the destrier’s nose. “Did they offer any details?”

“Very little, although they are certainly not of the common folk. The man gave the name of Nicholas. There was a moment when I thought he recognized me, but I cannot place him.”

De Carteret set aside the brush and leaned against the stall door. “Nicholas, you say? Did you bring them to the manor house?”

James shook his head. “They are at my cottage. Since I no longer live there, I saw no harm in letting them stay a night or two. Given the recent invasion by the French, I hesitate to bring strangers to the house. The safety of your family is my primary concern.”

De Carteret clapped James on the shoulder. “Your caution is well placed. The chaos of this occupation consumes all my time. I suspect there is much more to their story. I will depend on you for that. Take them victuals from the cookhouse. We do not want them starving.”

“Certainly not,” James replied. “Perhaps they will be more open to questioning upon my return.”

“You have my full confidence,” de Carteret said, as he quit the stable and headed toward the manor house.

Gratified by the seigneur’s trust, James gathered supplies for the newcomers. Heading to the back corner of the stable, his step faltered. There, he had stashed away a small box, nearly forgotten now. He gathered his courage and moved aside an old saddle and pitchfork and pulled it out.

He opened the lid and drew out Becca’s blue cotehardie and shook it out.

Her brush slipped to the ground and lay at his feet.

He pressed the worn blue wool, softened from wear, against his cheek, before stooping to retrieve the brush.

He ran his finger across the carving on the back—flowers, leaves, and hearts—remembering how he had lovingly made it for her as a wedding gift.

Could he let them go? These were all he had left of her.