it again. Try to kill the wretched thing, so it doesn’t come back! It was up there eating my bacon.’ And she gestured to a large flitch hanging from a beam.
‘You knocked it off?’ Somehow it didn’t surprise him. According to Greek myth Hippolyta had been a warrior queen, after all.
‘Well, of course I did! That’s my bacon!’ Her eyes were slitted with indignation and her cheeks pink. ‘Come in and sit down.’ Several curls had escaped her loose braid, coiling wildly around her face. They looked abandoned, and—he swallowed—voluptuous, as if they’d curl around a man’s fingers in welcome...
Trying to ignore this unprecedented leap of imagination, along with the unclerical leap of his blood, Alex walked in and sat down at the table, placing the woodcock on it. ‘Conventional wisdom,’ he said, disciplining himself to rational thought that didn’t involve half-naked Amazonian warrior maidens, ‘dictates that a young lady confronted with any rat, let alone one that size, is supposed to shriek and faint dead away.’
Polly snorted as she closed the door. ‘And let the brute nibble his way through my bacon? I don’t think so!’
He grinned. He simply couldn’t help it. And her eyes answered, brimming with laughter. His heart hitched, his breath jerked in, her name on his lips.
Polly.
Time slowed, stilled, and he rose and took a slow step towards her, quite why he wasn’t sure.
Her breath jerked in. ‘I’m not a young lady anyway.’
He stopped dead, the spell shattered. ‘The dev—the deuce you aren’t! What put that maggot into your head?’
‘It’s not a maggot,’ she told him. ‘It’s the truth. I work for my living, ergo I am no longer a lady.’
Several responses, none of them utterable by a man of the cloth, let alone before a lady, occurred to him. He bit them all back and said, ‘I work for my living. Does that mean I’m not a gentleman in your eyes?’
She frowned and he was conscious of a sudden desire to smooth the tiny frown lines away, banish them utterly. ‘That’s different,’ she said slowly. ‘The rules are not quite the same for gentlemen, are they?’
No. They weren’t. Nor were they always fair, or even sensible. ‘You’re still a lady,’ he said stubbornly. ‘Has someone treated you as though you weren’t?’ Because if they had—his fists clenched in a very unclerical and unchristian fashion. When he’d heard her cry out—his heart had nearly stopped, and he’d been prepared to tear anyone frightening her limb from limb. ‘You’re still a lady,’ he repeated. ‘No matter what your relatives may think.’
She leaned the broom back beside the cupboard. ‘Maybe. It doesn’t really matter. The children did well today.’
He listened as she outlined their progress, forced his brain to concentrate hard enough to make a few suggestions. And wondered if her hair was really as wildly alive as it looked, her lips as soft...
At last he rose to leave, no longer sure he could resist the temptation of finding out. ‘I should go. You aren’t worried about the rat coming back?’
She grimaced. ‘No.’
He didn’t believe her, but what could he do about it? He could hardly stay to defend her. The offer hovered on his lips—she could come back to the rectory for the night...Mrs Judd would be there, and— He stopped himself just in time. ‘Goodnight,’ he managed instead.
She went with him to the door and opened it. ‘Goodnight, sir. Thank you for your ideas about the scripture lesson. They were very useful.’
Hearing he’d said something useful about scripture amazed him. He couldn’t seem to think at all around her.
‘A pleasure. Goodnight.’
He breathed a sigh of relief that was near to a groan as the door closed behind him and he heard the bolts shoot home.
* * *
Halfway to the Rectory, he heard flying footsteps behind him.
‘Mr Martindale!’
He turned. She was running after him, holding the brace of woodcock.
He scowled. ‘Polly! What on earth are you doing? Where’s your cloak? You’ll catch your death!’
‘You forgot your birds.’
She held them out and his hands closed over hers. ‘No, I did not. They were for you. Now go back home to the warmth before you catch a chill.’
Before I kiss you.
Her mouth quivered and temptation beckoned. ‘You’re very kind,’ she said softly. ‘Thank you.’
He was an untrustworthy scoundrel apparently, because all he could think was how sweet her lips would taste, what it would be like to feel them tremble under his and, if they were at all cold, warm them for her. His hands tightened on hers, felt them tremble as he heard the soft, startled intake of breath...
‘Not at all, Miss Woodrowe. Goodnight.’ He released her, turned and walked away before he did something about finding out, right there in the dark village street.
Clutching the woodpigeon, Polly stared after the tall, lean figure. Her breath hitched, heart thudding against her ribs. For one startling, blinding moment, she had thought he was going to kiss her.
Susan called the following afternoon, arriving in the carriage just as the children left. Polly greeted her politely and invited her in. Susan gave the living room a derisive glance, then swung around, a pitying expression on her face. ‘You poor thing, Hippolyta. I mean, living like this!’ She shuddered. ‘And you actually sleep in here, too? How can you? Really, you must be ready to see sense now. Mama says that Lady Littleworth is still looking for a companion, you know.’
Polly shrugged. ‘This is my home, Susan, and I’m perfectly happy here.’ She would be even happier if there wasn’t that sneaking suspicion that she looked forward to Alex Martindale’s daily visits far more than she ought to, that they had somehow become the high point of her day. And not because so often when he called, he had something for her. The woodcock yesterday, a pat of butter, or a small pot of jam that he claimed Mrs Judd had asked him to deliver.
Susan looked disbelieving. ‘Happy? Here? But it’s so—’ She waved her hands about. ‘It’s so squalid! I mean, there’s only that frightful settle, or whatever you call it, to sit on, and nothing to do except teach the village children! What on earth do you do in the evenings?’
Apart from wondering if Mr Martindale is going to kiss me?
Polly also refrained from telling her cousin that she went to bed early to save lamp oil. ‘I read. And any mending I do is my mending.’
‘Oh.’ Susan’s wrinkled nose suggested that she couldn’t think of anything more ghastly. Probably because she had never faced the thought of being Lady Littleworth’s companion, or mending the sheets.
‘Should
