troupe employed by the city of London. ‘Twas a source of great pride and prestige to be a member of the group founded by the legendary Alford le Trompour.
Out of long-standing habit, Jamie looked the woman over a second time. She was tall, her figure unfortunately obscured by the concealing folds of the simple woolen gown that fell from shoulders to hem without a belt to cinch it in. He noted she was not wearing the badge. A substitute called to fill in for an ailing player? If so, she was not much skilled, for the instrument she held was the bells.
“Jamie?” Jo asked, plucking at his sleeve.
“Hmm. I am waiting for the music to begin,” he said without looking away from the girl. Not beautiful, he mused, studying her profile. But pretty. Her dark hair had been skinned back into a single braid, exposing her high forehead, slim nose and determined chin. At the moment, said chin was thrust out in a manner reminiscent of Jo in a fury, and her cheeks were flushed. Ah, a lass with fire. He liked that.
Jamie redirected his gaze to the source of her anger, a bull of a man with black hair and coarse, florid features. He mistrusted the man on sight. The bastard’s lips moved as he took the girl to task for something. In one hand, he held a trumpet, the other beat the air as he made his point.
The girl lifted her chin further and countered with a remark that turned her opponent’s face purple.
He is going to hit her.
Without waiting to confirm the hunch, Jamie dashed across the intervening space, shoving people from his path. But he was too late. Just as he leapt over the wooden rail separating the minstrels from the dancers, the brute lashed out with one massive paw, and the girl went down in a heap.
“Bastard!” Jamie launched himself at the man. The impact of flesh hitting flesh drove the air from his lungs and toppled them both to the ground. Jamie came out on top. Conscious that the man outweighed him by several stone, he got his hands around his opponent’s fleshy throat and braced for a fight. But the man lay beneath him like a dead fish, gasping for breath and moaning piteously. “Do you yield,” Jamie rasped.
“Aye…” the man said, choking. “P-please do not strike my mouth. I…the horn.”
Thoroughly disgusted by this craven display, Jamie lifted himself off the man and sat back on his haunches. “See you never strike her again.” Speaking of which, he turned his head and found the girl sitting on the ground a foot away, her eyes round as serving platters, one hand on her cheek. He crawled over to her. “Are you all right?”
She nodded mutely.
“Let me see.” He took her hand to move it aside, and something ruffled through him. A shock of awareness, a feeling of being connected. His gaze locked on hers, and for an instant the noise and lights faded away. “Wh-who are you?” he whispered, because the air had been punched from his body by whatever was happening to him…to them.
“Em…Emmeline.” She sounded as dazed as he.
“Emmeline.” He savored the taste of it on his tongue.
“Jamie!” His father grabbed hold of his shoulder, breaking the spell. “What happened?”
“I was rescuing the fair Emmeline from yon brute.” Jamie gave her his most dazzling smile. The one that caused ladies to melt at his feet. This lady looked cold as the North Sea in December. “You’ve not asked, but I will tell you ‘tis Jamie Harcourt you have to thank for saving you.”
Emmeline pulled free of his grasp. “I know who you are.” She glared at him with such hatred she stole his breath for the second time that night. Scrambling to her feet, she speared him with one last, damning glance and dashed off into the crowd that had assembled around the musicians.
“What is going on?” his father demanded.
Damned if I know, Jamie thought, staring at the place where the mysterious Emmeline had disappeared. But he meant to find out. No woman ran away from him.
James Harcourt was here! Her desperate gamble had paid off.
Emmeline hurried through the crowd in search of Toby to tell him the news. He’d come disguised as the minstrels groom and should be near the stables, but in her haste, she got hopelessly lost in the gardens. Dazed and winded, she sank down on a small, secluded bench to catch her breath and get her bearings.
James Harcourt had actually come to his mother’s birthday fete. Proving, she supposed, that there was a speck of decency in even the most evil of men. He charged in to rescue you from Uncle Markham, a sly voice reminded her.
Ha! Such an unprovoked attack proved Lord James was a man of violent temper and ungoverned impulses. Unprovoked? Well, he couldn’t know her foolish taunts had goaded her father’s brother into slapping her. She should have known better than to try the patience of one who had not only disliked her because he hated her father but was jealous of her talent, as well.
Poor Markham, her arrival in London a week ago had set his well-ordered world on its ear. She’d arrived on the doorstep of her estranged grandfather, half expecting to be tossed out Fortunately Alford le Trompour was not one to bear a grudge. He’d made her welcome and even cried over Celia’s death, despite the fact that she’d spurned his offers of friendship years ago. A stiffness in his limbs prevented Old Alford from getting about easily, so he’d turned the running of the Wait over to Markham, his younger son, but he still taught a few pupils.
“None of them is as gifted as you, my dear,” he’d told her as they chatted in his private chamber over a cup of wine. High praise from the man whose musical skills had made him a legend among players and leader of the famous Golden Wait of Harrowgate, the minstrel band chartered by the city.
“Thank you, sir.” She’d smiled briefly, recalling the magical summer when her father’s parents had come to Oxford to meet the children Cedric had never told them about. Small wonder, since his alliance with their mother had béen a lie and a sin. When he’d wed her, Cedric had neglected to mention the wife he already had. ‘Twas not until Olivia found out about them and followed him to Derry that Cedric’s sins had been revealed.
Cedric’s parents had been anxious to meet their only grandchildren, but embittered by Cedric’s betrayal, her mother had refused the old couple’s overtures of peace. Curious as she was to know her grandparents, Emmeline wouldn’t have defied her mother if not for the lute. The one her father had brought her; the only gift he’d ever given her. Gift, ha! It turned out the lute was a priceless antique Cedric had stolen from his father. Alford recognized the instrument as he was leaving her mother’s apothecary shop, but told her she might keep it.
Emmeline had felt bound to return the lute and sneaked out to the inn where Alford and his wife were staying. Alford had coaxed her into playing a song for him and then another. Her talent, raw and unformed, as he called it, had so impressed him he’d not only insisted she keep the lute but offered to teach her. Torn between loyalty to her mother and a soul-deep longing to make music, Emmeline had agreed. The lessons, given in secret, had opened up a whole new world for her, but the glimpse of heaven had cost her dearly. She’d deceived her mother and finally ended up hurting her nearly as much as Cedric had.
“I am sorry I could not come to London with you
