Page 9 of The Major’s Mistake (Intrepid Heroines #7)

Miranda pushed away her empty cup. “If you could have seen Ju—His Lordship’s expression!

It would have been quite funny, had not …

” Her words trailed off and her own face became more serious.

“Well, perhaps I dare hope the experience has given him his fill of small children. It is hard to imagine that the marquess will care to subject himself to any more such unpleasant occurrences. No doubt he will soon tire of the novelty and return to London.”

Lady Thornton’s brows came together. “Miranda, I should not count on it. I got the distinct feeling that Julian is not about to forget about his son so easily.”

Her niece shot up from her chair. “Justin is not his son—he is my son!” she cried.

“It is I who have birthed him, who have nursed him through illness and who sought to teach him to be an honorable person. Rank and fortune do not give His Lordship the right to march in here and think to take command. I’m not one of his foot soldiers—or his wife, anymore. ”

“Calm yourself, my dear,” said Lady Thornton gently. “We have Julian’s promise that he means to do no such thing, and I believe that we may take him at his word. Despite whatever else you think, he is an honorable man.”

Miranda’s eyes dropped to the carpet. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that I questioned his integrity,” she stammered. “It’s just that it is still all so very … confusing.”

“I know it is. But for Justin’s sake, you and Julian are going to have to figure out a way to put aside the hurt and resentment of the past and deal with the present—and the future.”

Miranda gave a heavy sigh. “I shall try.”

But her face betrayed what she really thought about the chances of that ever happening.

This time, the tear was a bit bigger. “Damnation,” muttered Miranda rather loudly as she struggled to disengage the bramble from the thin material of her gown.

A chuckle came from behind the hedgerow. She whipped around to find a man of average height and wiry build already out of his saddle and coming towards her. “Perhaps I may be of some assistance.”

She shrunk back.

His keen hazel eyes seemed to catch the slight movement.

He stopped. “You needn’t have any fear on my account.

I simply mean to help.” With that assurance, he continued on and knelt down by her side.

Miranda couldn’t help but notice that though his fingers were thick and scarred, their touch was surprisingly gentle. He had her free in a matter of moments.

“Is that yours?” He was pointing to the large willow basket filled with roots and cuttings that she had dropped amid the tangle of thorns. She nodded and he reached over to extricate it as well. Taking her arm, he helped her back to the well-worn cart path.

Miranda smoothed at he skirts of her worn gown in some embarrassment.

He seemed to sense the source of her discomfiture. “Briar patches are devilish things—and being stuck like that has brought out far worse language from me, I assure you, ma’am,” he said with a grin.

Her lips gave a twitch despite her resolve to keep her distance. “That is very gentlemanly of you to say,” she murmured

He laughed. “Well, I certainly ain’t no gentleman, as you can see, but I appreciate the sentiment.” He held out his hand. “The name is Sykes. William Sykes.”

She hesitated a fraction before taking it. “How do you do, Mr. Sykes.”

He looked at her expectantly.

“I am Mrs. Ransford,” she added with obvious reluctance.

Sykes tipped his cap. “A pleasure, Mrs. Ransford.” He made no effort to return her basket. “Perhaps I might carry this for a way—it’s a mite too heavy for a slip of a female like yourself to wrestle with.”

Miranda’s mouth compressed. “I’m quite used to it, you may be sure, sir.

Besides, I shouldn’t want to take up any more of your time than I already have.

” She hoped the iciness of her tone would put a damper on any further offers of help.

But far from discouraging the man, her reply only elicited another grin.

“Oh, no trouble at all. I’m at loose ends this afternoon and would be happy to oblige.

I’ll just fetch my horse and walk with you for a bit .

” Before she could raise any further objection, he had already wrapped the reins of the big animal around one hand and fallen in step at her side. “Now which way are you headed?”

She indicated the path to the right.

“Do you live near here?” he inquired as they began to walk along the path.

“Not far.”

Sykes cleared his throat as it became clear that conversation was not going to be an easy thing. “Does your husband have a farm or?—”

“I live with my aunt,” she said rather sharply. “And my son,” she added pointedly, as if that might discourage his interest.

One eyebrow came up in question, but he forbore to press the topic as it was obviously one which she wished to avoid. An awkward silence stretched over some minutes.

Finally Miranda spoke up. “Forgive me. I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Sykes, but I‘m afraid I’m simply not very sociable. I prefer to … keep to myself.”

“I don’t mean to trespass where I’m not wanted, ma’am,” he answered quietly. “It’s simply that, well, I’m new in the area, and I thought I might make some acquaintance of my neighbors.”

She looked down at her scuffed half boots, feeling rather churlish. Perhaps a bit of conversation was not too much to ask. He did not appear to be like most men, trying to press his attentions on her in the most obvious of ways.

A sigh escaped her lips.” Well, I fear I shall be able to give you precious little in the way of information as we have only recently come into the area.”

“Where did you live before, that is, if I am not prying?”

“In Scotland.”

Sykes looked as if he found that an interesting piece of news, but refrained from pressing her any further on personal matters. Instead, his eyes fell to the contents of her basket “By the way, what is all this?” he asked with a quizzical expression .

“Herbs and roots mostly, along with some barks and moss.”

“What are they for?” A twinkle came to his eye. “You are not by any chance one of those Scottish witches who toil over a cauldron—Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting, Lizard’s leg and owlet’s wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.”

Miranda couldn’t hide her surprise. “You are familiar with Shakespeare?”

“Aye. My employer is fond of reading. In our travels we have passed many an hour with the Bard or Marlowe to raise our spirits.”

“It sounds as if you have an interesting employer..”

“Oh, me and the guv suit each other pretty well. He’s fair, he’s principled, he’s even-tempered and not at all toplofty, as many of the swells of his rank can be.

“He certainly sounds to be quite the perfect gentleman,” she remarked dryly.

He grinned. “I must sound like a swooning female, singing His Lordship’s praises, but Lord knows, there’s enough of them sort in London, dangling after him now that he’s the marquess.

It’s one of the reasons he is up here, to get a little space to breath and get used to being back in England—you see, we’ve been off on the Peninsula for quite some time and?—”

Miranda looked away quickly and fought to steady her breathing. After a few more strides, she halted abruptly at the edge of a copse of beeches. “If you please, I shall take my basket now.”

Sykes stopped as well, a look of puzzlement on his grizzled face that quickly changed into chagrin. “Forgive me, ma’am, if I touched a raw nerve. I know that many a husband perished in the fighting and?—”

“Good day, Mr. Sykes.” The words were barely out of her mouth before she wrenched the basket out of his hands and hurried off into the shadows, leaving him utterly puzzled as to what he had said wrong.

The burly figure slid back off the rocky ledge into the shelter of several large boulders.

“It’s that tall cove again, the one with the bad leg,” he muttered to the other man who was huddled low to escape the biting wind.

His companion tugged his thick wool cap lower over his stringy locks. “What’s a swell like him doing here around the border? Don’t recall ever seen his face round these parts afore.”

The other man took a surreptitious pull at the small flask cupped in his hand.

“How often do the English landowners bother to show their pretty faces on the estates they milk dry,” he said with a bitter laugh.

“No doubt he’s simply been forced to rusticate to the country for a time.

” His hand came up to wipe his lips. “However, we can’t be too careful.

We better let McTavish know about this.”