Pumpkinnapper Page 4

  Shifting nervously from one foot to the other, she remained in the doorway as he put his candle on the near side of the table.

  As in the other room, he opened the curtains a slit to peer out. “I thought the extra height would afford us a better view. But the land is so flat, we can see just as well from downstairs.” He picked up his candle, and she started into the hall, expecting him to follow.

  When she didn’t hear his footsteps, she cast a glance over her shoulder. Returning to the doorway, she found him where she had left him, his candle, held high, spreading light over the entire tabletop. He reached out to touch something. She put her hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Oh no, had he seen the rag doll?

  “Do you need to see something more?” she asked, her voice squeaky with embarrassment. He had made her that doll when she was eight and had fallen and scraped her knee. As tears had rolled down her cheeks, he’d picked her up and promised her a treat as he carried her to the vicarage kitchen. He had sat her on the table, and then gone into the front room. A few minutes later, he had returned with some scraps of cloth and string, a pen and an ink bottle. As her clucking mother tended her knee, he had twisted the cloth and string into a floppy doll, painted on ink eyes, a nose, and a mouth with a droopy smile. He had squatted on his haunches before her and held the doll up, its smiling face beside his. Then he had waggled his eyebrows, and she was lost.

  From that day, she had adored him.

  He jerked his hand back as if something had burned it. “No,” he said, his voice strangely quiet. His brow furrowed, he left the room and pulled the door shut behind him.

  Back in the parlor, he spread the curtains wide. “Sit here in the window seat. I’ll watch from the woods.” He opened the door that led to the kitchen. “I will leave this open so you can hear me if I want to come inside.”

  “Why not stay here? You’ll freeze out there.”

  “I have a better chance of catching the thieves if I am already outside. I’ll be fine.”

  “Wait a moment.” Her steps echoed as she ran across the hall. She returned with a faded blue counterpane and held it out to him. “Here, take this. It should make you a little more comfortable.”

  He took a deep breath as if inhaling the quilt’s scent. Then he cleared his throat and ran a finger along the fabric. “Is this coverlet from your bed? I cannot destroy a good quilt out in the damp and dirt.”

  “The quilt is old, and you are more important.”

  He hesitated before he accepted the counterpane, as if he didn’t want it. His hand brushed hers, and she looked up at him. His eyes were darker than normal, almost black. Did they contain desire, or did they merely reflect her own hope? She slowly released the coverlet and stepped away.

  He swallowed again. “Ah, yes.” He draped the quilt over his shoulder and crossed into the kitchen to put on his greatcoat and hat. As he opened the door, he glanced back. “Lock up after me. If I want to come in, I will tap lightly. Do not let anyone in except me.”

  The door closed behind Hank with a soft thud, followed by the click of the lock. He buried his nose in the quilt, and her rose perfume fogged his brain. The last thing he had wanted was to touch that coverlet. Damnation, it had taken every ounce of resolve not to drag her into his arms. When he had walked down the hall, he’d uttered a silent prayer of thanks at the sight of the closed bed chamber door. He wouldn’t survive another glimpse of her rumpled bed. Still, his mouth had dried as her bottom made that delightful little wiggle when she’d climbed the stairs ahead of him.

  But her upstairs room was even worse. He wiped perspiration from his brow as a wave of heat seared him. The rose fragrance was stronger, and all her possessions were there. Leaving had required all his determination, but at least the ground floor contained no reminders of her.

  Then she had handed him the rose-scented quilt.

  He groaned. Her bedclothes probably were bathed in that essence … as well as her own. His body tightened, and he spun around and raised his fist to pound on the door. To the devil with the pumpkinnappers. Let them steal the whole damned pumpkin patch.

  His hand stopped before it hit the wood, and slowly, he lowered his arm to his side. For a long moment, he leaned his back against the door and gulped frigid air to cool his fiery blood. All he wanted was to catch Emily in his arms, rush to that neat bed upstairs and rumple it with her, surrounded by everything that was hers.

  Even the doll. His lust-fogged brain cleared. That she still had that doll confounded him. Imagine keeping a ragged toy he’d used solely to distract a child from her tears.

  His mouth curved into a grin. Had she kept the doll because she harbored tender feelings for him? Mayhap he had more of a chance that he had thought. Hope surged through him and he straightened.

  But first, the pumpkinnappers.

  Keeping within the house’s shade, he edged to the corner and examined the scene before him. Across the road, the moon’s white disk had sunk halfway below the horizon, the shadows of stunted grain stalks lengthening into spears in the waning light. Still looking across the road, he paced a slow step away from the cottage. Stiff-edged fingers flicked his side and he jumped back, sucking in a breath. A short, cut-off squeak pierced the night quiet as the owl whose wing had brushed him captured its mouse prey and soared above the treetops.

  Hank ran a hand over his face and cursed. This time, he looked to all sides before he left the house, but no other movement disturbed the midnight silence. Crouching, he ran the short distance to the wood’s edge.

  Under a bush opposite the door, he stretched out on his stomach in the depression he had dug the previous night. He wound the quilt over his shoulders, again burying his nose in the soft fabric. He closed his eyes and inhaled more rose scent as visions of Emily crowded his mind.

  Ah, when this adventure was over, they would resume where they had left off so many years ago, and—

  “Ow!” He jerked and rolled to the side as what felt like a dull-edged stick jabbed his battered backside.

  Behind him stood Henry, eyes bright with malice, his bill angling in for another peck.

  Hank balled his fist and swung at the goose. With a startled honk, the bird backed away.

  “Get away, you hell-spawned beast! Watch the house, not me.”

  Henry tilted his head to the side and waited until Hank’s little tirade was over. Then, he swooped in for another peck. Hank swatted at him again. The goose retreated, only to stick his bill in the air as he marched to the house and disappeared around its corner.

  Damnation, how could such a cumbersome bird move with so little sound? Hank cursed as he shifted inside his frigid nest.

  By now, the moon had set and the stars twinkling overhead spilled a meager light over the landscape. His eyes adjusted as he rearranged himself in yet another futile attempt to find a comfortable position. Just as well Henry had disturbed him. He couldn’t spend all night dreaming of Emily, much as he would enjoy it.

  Peace enveloped the night-shrouded pumpkins. An owl hooted in the distance, followed by a deeper silence. Leaves rustled in a light breeze, lulling him with their raspy whisper.

  Suddenly, a louder-than-normal rustling sounded behind him. Moving with deliberate slowness, he leaned on his elbow and twisted around.

  His fists clenched. That damned Henry approached. Hank could have sworn he tiptoed. “Why are you here again?” he hissed as the goose halted. Henry stood as if politely awaiting a break in the conversation. All of a sudden, his bill opened, and his head shot out for another bite. Hank batted his bill away. Shock in his eyes, the goose retreated.

  “What did you expect, you overstuffed bag of feathers? That I would let you maul me again?”

  Henry took another step back, then turned and vanished around the side of the house.

  Once more, Hank settled into the cold dirt. Deuced bird. But at least he kept circling the house. I hope he pursues the pumpkinnappers with as much enthusiasm as he does me.

  As the clear ni
ght lengthened, Hank’s breath frosted before him, and ice crystals bloomed on the uncovered ground beyond his hiding place. He blew on his gloved hands and tucked the quilt more tightly around his shoulders, glad Emily had given it to him—and not only for her scent.

  But this time, he waited for Henry. At long last, the goose sauntered into view, his head down as he pecked at the ground. Then, as if an alarm bell had rung, his head shot up and he arrowed straight to Hank, bill open for another nip. Hank leaped up and aimed a punch at the bird. Henry, faced with an adversary larger than he was, stopped, then backed up a step.

  “Devil take you, Henry!” Hank hissed again, remembering at the last moment to keep his voice down. He advanced on the bird and the goose backed away farther. “Good, be afraid of me; you should be.”

  But with an unexpected burst of speed, the goose angled his head and ducked under Hank’s flailing arm. His ridged bill gripped Hank’s damaged posterior for a few painful seconds before he released his hold and scampered out of reach. He glanced back once, and Hank could have sworn the blasted bird laughed.

  Cursing under his breath, Hank rubbed his throbbing backside and gave up. Enough goose abuse for one night. After waiting to ensure that all was quiet, he gathered the quilt and limped to the back door to tap a quiet knock. “Emily, let me in.”

  Almost immediately, the door opened and he slipped into the kitchen.

  “What happened?” she whispered.

  “Henry refuses to trust me. Every few minutes he comes over to peck—er, check on me. His unusual behavior will alert any observer. I’ll have to watch from inside.”

  She nodded and a brilliant smile lit her face. His heart pounded as he basked in its warmth. For a few seconds, he even forgot the pain in his backside. He unwound the quilt from his neck and one last wisp of rose fragrance tickled his nose as he draped it over a chair back.

  “Go back to the parlor.” He stuffed his gloves into his greatcoat pocket, and then removed greatcoat and hat and hung them on the peg by the door. “I’ll stay here.” He pulled the chair with the quilt from under the table and placed it on the pumpkin side of the house, halfway between the back and side windows. “In this position I can see both sides.”

  He grabbed another kitchen chair and followed her into the parlor. Placing the chair midway between the room’s two windows, he pulled the curtains on both casements wide. Through the open kitchen doorway, he looked back at his chair. “Now we can talk while we watch, and keep each other awake.”

  “Just a minute.” She caught up two decorative pillows from the settee before the fireplace and ran back to the kitchen and set them onto his chair. “I am so sorry Henry bit you again. Are you sure you are all right?”

  “Much better than last night.” Still, he lowered himself with great care onto the chair. Even with the pillows, his hip ached.

  She smiled, and her arm brushed his as she crossed into the parlor. Fire snaked all over his body. Was he the only one who felt this attraction? You had better remedy that, Hank.

  She seated herself, and they sat in silence for a few minutes and gazed at the pumpkins.

  Even though Emily was sorry Henry had bitten Hank again, she gave silent thanks to the obstreperous bird. Hank was with her now. She stole a peek at his profile. He stared out the window, his brow furrowed with concentration. Did he intend to remain silent all night? She worried her lower lip between her teeth. She had to start a conversation. But about what?

  Her stomach fluttering, she blurted out the first idea that sprang to mind. “Dust,” she said, her voice squeaking on the word.

  He cocked his head and glanced her way. “I beg your pardon. Did you say ‘dust’?”

  “Yes.” Embarrassment spread over her. Her flush must show on her face, but she was grateful the smoldering embers in the fireplace spread little light. “I read in the newssheets about the weather. The natural philosophers say a volcanic eruption last year on the island of Tambora in Asia has caused our terrible weather.” Her words tumbled one over the other, a torrent of rushing sound. Pray, Hank didn’t notice anything unusual.

  His boots scuffed the kitchen flagstones as he shifted position. “Asia is on the other side of the world. How can anything there affect us?”

  “The dust. According to the article, the explosion was immense. The volcano expelled huge quantities of dust into the air, and the particles obscure the sunlight, making the air colder. On the brighter side, the dust has also produced all the lovely sunsets we’ve enjoyed this year.”

  “Dust,” he repeated, his tone mystified as if thinking only a Bedlamite would want to converse about dust.

  The heat in her cheeks increasing, she cleared her throat and they both fell silent again.

  Good gracious. Dust? Who cared about dust? How had she thought up such a cork-brained topic?

  “Emily, I…” Hank’s words trailed off as she turned her head towards him. Light from the candle on the table beside him reflected in his eyes, transforming them into ebony pools. His face was shadowy and his expression indistinct. “I missed you.” His voice was low, and she had to strain to hear.

  “I missed you, too.”

  His chair legs scraped the floor as he faced his chair towards her. He leaned forward, his clasped hands between his knees. “Tell me what happened after I left for university.”

  “Oh, nothing much.” She shrugged. “Lindsell is a small town. I suppose our goings-on were of no interest to you, because you never returned. At least I never saw you.”

  “On all the school holidays, my father dragged me to London. I could never get back here.”

  Why didn’t you try harder?

  “I did return after I finished university, but you were gone. The townsfolk said you had married.”

  “Yes, I wed Tobias when I was seventeen. He was between voyages, on a visit to his parents in Maldon. He attended an assembly here. We courted and married, then moved to Portsmouth. He died two years ago.” She smiled as she remembered the good times. “He was such a kind man. I miss him.”

  Hank gritted his teeth as jealously engulfed him. Damn Metcalfe. The man had left Emily penniless, and yet she missed him. How could he compete with her memories?

  He unclenched his teeth. “Your late husband—I met him once. I was at the Admiralty when he reported on the battles with the Corsairs.”

  “He died a hero fighting them.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m sorry.” No, I’m not.

  “Unfortunately, we never had much. I moved in with Charlotte in London. Together, we worked on her botany experiments. When she married the Earl of Lindsell last winter, she kept me on as her companion.” She looked down and pleated her skirt. “I suspect she felt sorry for me.”

  Her restless hands twisted the fabric. “Oh, I felt so horribly out of place, but I had nowhere else to go. With Papa dead, Mama has very little money, so I could not live with her.” She stopped worrying at her skirt and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “Charlotte asked me to try these new seeds right before she and the earl left on their bride trip. From the timing, I think she invented the task to help me. So, Mama and I moved here.”

  Damnation, if he had but known, he could have assisted her somehow.

  She lifted her head, a wan smile on her face. “And you, Hank? What about you? I read the newssheets. The gossip columns often mention you, escorting yet another lovely lady. How many times did I read about ‘The Catch of the Season’, season after season? But I never saw a marriage announcement.”

  “True. I never found anyone I wanted.” Except you.

  “What about the dashing Miss Clark? According to the on-dit, you two were to wed.”

  “No, Miss Clark and I did not suit.” He curled his lip. What an understatement. Miss Clark was a conniving schemer who had wanted only his title and money. And fool that he was, he had been eager to hand her both when she’d found a fish with a bigger title. He had even prolonged his stay in London to dance attendance on her. Until last mont
h, when she had at last given him his conge. At first, he had been devastated. But after his seething emotions had calmed, the only feeling her defection had engendered was vast relief.

  His breath hissed through his teeth as a blinding flash of insight streaked through him. Miss Clark had attracted him because she physically resembled Emily. Every lady he had considered as a possible wife in the past ten years had reminded him of Emily, either in form, behavior or both. How had he not noticed?

  She was still looking at him, puzzlement knotting her features. “Are you well?”

  “Yes, yes,” he mumbled and turned back to the window.

  How to deal with this marvelous revelation? Uncertain of his course of action, he sat in silence, staring out the window, as totally new thoughts and emotions jumbled in his mind.

  They spoke little more that night. In the house, the only sounds were the occasional squeaks of their chairs as they shifted position. Outside, a nightjar uttered its churring cry. The wind rose to whistle through the cracks in the upstairs windows and to flutter the leftover leaves on the trees.

  Once in a while, Henry strutted around the house. At one point, he stopped and glared into Hank’s window. Startled out of his reverie, Hank smirked at the goose and shut the curtains. As childish as the action was, he enjoyed it.

  His eyelids were drifting shut when Emily gulped in a breath. In a flash, he was alert and at her side. She grabbed his hand, apparently unaware of her gesture, and he smiled. A good omen?

  She pointed at moving bushes at the forest edge. They waited, frozen with anticipation, but nothing more than a fox ambled out of the woods. The fox stared and sniffed, pawed at the ground a few times, then retreated among the trees. She relaxed and her gaze fell to her hand wrapped in his. She swallowed and pulled away. He released her hand with reluctance.

  Only when the eastern sky grayed with the first hint of dawn did he leave.