Rescuing Mr. Gracey (12 page)

“Hold,” he shouted into the dark.

Terrified to do otherwise, Mary turned toward him again.

He shook his head, looking perplexed. “Never has a lady tried to escape my company with such frequency. My ego has been sorely battered, yet I insist you suffer my escort until you are safely arrived at home.”

Her frame bent like a tree battered by wind. The weight of the evening combined with the guilt from his accusations caused her eyes to fill with bitter, confused tears. “I’ve treated you terrible,” she squeaked, emotion clogging her words. She was too tired and cold and weary of the life she lived.
Do not cry, Mary Smyth. Hold on to that much!
A childlike hiccup bubbled up instead.

Mr. Jordan groaned. She heard him approach and then felt the gentle touch of his thumb urging her chin up. “I caused this sadness, and that knowledge deservedly thrashes me beyond endurance.” His breath warmed the air; his frame shielded her from the cold wind. Gliding his finger over her cheek, he captured an escaped tear. “I take blame for bumbling so much of this evening,” he whispered. “Please forgive me.”

His kind, gentle eyes unraveled all resistance. Mary wobbled and tilted forward, finding herself wrapped in a pair of strong arms that absorbed her shivers. Soft wool from his greatcoat snuggled her cheek, while the wonderful scent of cloves and clean rain erased the stench of laundry.

Hiccupping again, tears rolling down her face, she pondered why his stroking hand upon her aching back did not seem threatening or forward. Mary’s eyes closed as she embraced the sensation of his gentle hand stroking her hair and drifted within the comfort of his gentle touch and strong, hypnotic heartbeat. Burrowing deeper, she exhaled worries and suspicions and exhaustion, if only for one brief moment.

By slow degrees, something changed. His breathing had become more rapid; his hand had stilled. She felt the lightest brush of his lips upon her hair. Her eyes opened. Though she should be frightened, something—a hunger…a forbidden craving—awakened.

Clenching the soft wool lapel with one hand, she pulled back enough to observe him within the moon’s bright light. Slowly, hesitantly, his thumb touched her chin, stroked her cheek. Confusion flitted across his brow and into his narrowed eyes. By the slowest, most painful degree, he drew closer, and she realized, quite outside herself, that he was going to kiss her.

      
Kiss me…kiss me
.

Mary jerked, flinging herself out of his embrace. No!
You’re practically engaged to Sean!
She tripped five steps back and swiped where his finger had singed her cheek. Without concern for the cart, Mary rushed toward the footpath.

He’ll seduce ya in a blink if ya don’t recover yourself
. Running blindly toward the steep path, she tried to gain urgent distance from his exquisite ability to dismantle her thoughts.

In spite of the never-ending, stress-filled journey and her insults and her rejection of him, he still followed her. Of course he would. A noble man like he always persevered, no matter how abused.

She tried to hurry faster, but it was too dark, the cliff-like path too steep, and she did not have the benefit of the lantern. Exhausted, her legs cramped with the effort to climb. She stumbled, nearly toppling from the path.

Forcing herself to slow, the cart’s abrasive sound just behind her, she landed upon the ridge.

“Miss Smyth. Please don’t be annoyed with me,” she heard him call behind her.

Fleeing from the hammer of her own heart, the dangerous, sweet burn that lingered from his touch, she increased the distance between them, bashing through forest trees.

In spite of her best effort, Mr. Jordan managed to join her, the yellow lantern light waving back and forth, dark to light, light to dark.

The wind blew warmer and southerly, the shy full moon totally emerged from dark clouds so that it cast bright white light upon the night travelers. She slid a wary peek at her companion. Mr. Jordan’s head was low, as if he too struggled with a problem.

A moment later, he drew a deep breath and spoke. “I have mishandled this evening badly. Though you are rightly frustrated, it is my hope you will allow my escort tomorrow, for I cannot abide you walking alone.”

He must be insane.
What would compel a man like him to this torture, especially considering he should be in a ballroom somewhere with a beautiful woman on each arm? To Mary, there was only one answer. “I am not your responsibility, sir, and do not need your pity.”

A harsh laugh mocked her statement. “Believe me, Miss Smyth, pity is not the driving force here.”

Don’t listen to him, Mary…
“Do I need to be blunt again, Mr. Jordan? ’Tis not proper that a man of your station be seen escorting a laundress.” He simply must be made to understand that any relationship, even friendship, was impossible. Stating the obvious should end the charade.

A silent moment passed, and she hoped the discussion had finally ended. But then, abruptly, Mr. Jordan rushed ahead of her and flipped about. Blindly walking backward, he still managed to push the cart ahead of him by extending his arms behind him.

What kind of fool would do such a thing on a rutted, muddy road?

“Though a bumbling fool does not deserve the notice of a beautiful laundress, I courageously beg you to overlook my unworthiness, Miss Smyth, and reconsider allowing me to escort you tomorrow.”

What?
She knew her face crumpled with confusion as she deciphered his reversal of her statement. For a moment, she scanned his serious expression, and then she saw his mouth quirk upward into a teasing, adorable smile.

A bubble of laughter escaped.
“You play with me, sir.”

His smile beamed with relief, but then his eyes widened with shock, and his mouth dropped. Slipping, teetering, Mr. Jordan’s legs skated as the cart sailed ahead. He wobbled, his arms spinning like a wild windmill.

Seconds later, his feet were up and his backside splashed down.

Mary covered her eyes. She heard his grunt, then silence. She dared a peek. There he lay, flat on his back, every part of him drenched in mud except for his face. His expression, now stripped of all victory, looked baffled and conquered.

“Oh…sir. Oh my. Oh…sir. Are you injured?”

Expecting howls of outrage or streams of curses, she was stunned when, instead, he raised himself upon his forearms, tilted his head heavenward, and burst into loud, contagious laughter.

Mary joined the laughter, for the sight of an aristocrat lying in mud was quite outlandish. She extended her hand.

“Nay,” he said, waving her off. “I am filthy.” He released a playful growl. “This night is the second-lowest moment of good impressions, the dance last evening being the most demeaning.” He was still grinning, his gaze lingering on her face. “Yet your sweet laughter has lifted my spirits so as to make discomfort unnoticed.”

She smiled sympathetically. “You must be Irish to mock the moment that has so badly humbled you,” she said, smiling as she shook her head and giggled again. He did not seem a threat anymore. Instead, his self-effacing reaction endeared him as one she could have called a friend if he had been from her village and the times not so threatening. “However, I must take some responsibility for your accident. I knew that spot well, having fallen there myself.”

Mr. Jordan uselessly shook off mud as he rose. “Well, at least my clumsiness has dismantled your anger toward me. Is that not the truth?”

Mary pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped spots of brown mud from his chin. “Who could hold anger against a giant mud pie? I fear you won’t be laughing, though, once you see the damage to your clothes.”

He leaned forward, giving her greater access to his face. Mary’s hand froze. His grin widened. Staggered by her boldness, she shoved the little cloth into his hand and stepped back, her face aflame.

His voice lowered to a secretive whisper. “I much prefer you perform the task.”

She fluttered her hands over her cloak and drew it closer around her. “I doubt any effort will do much good. You sorely need a bath.”

He brought her cloth to his nose and inhaled, humming approval. “Ahhh. The elusive scent. I am enchanted by that fragrance.” Shockingly, he tucked the little tattered cloth into his jacket, then tapped the spot.

Mary tried to lick her lips, but her mouth had gone dry. She waved toward the east. “My home is just over the grassy field,” she stammered. “I would have you hurry home. You’ve suffered enough abuse. Thank you for your kindness.”

Lifting his own linen kerchief from his pocket, he wiped his face and hands. e sh”Not even a slight chance that will happen, Miss Smyth. Let us see what other mischief I can get into before night’s end.”

“You’re a stubborn man, Mr. Jordan,” she said, a bit of apology, a bit of laughter to her tone.

He bowed. “At last, Miss Smyth, you are resigned to my determination.”

Her mouth hurt from so much smiling. “Very well, then. We must hurry so that you may return home.”

Fresh scents of rain and earth combined with the beautiful diamond dome above. The world seemed hushed with anticipation as Mr. Jordan crossed the field and then lifted the cart onto the village’s only road. After a moment of silence, he cleared his throat. “Please grant me a chance to walk with the prettiest belle in all of Ireland tomorrow. I know such a bargain may come at a wee price, but I willingly pay it for the opportunity.”

Mary started to huff a protest, but he waved a muddy finger in front of her nose, effectively silencing her. “You know already that I am a stubborn man and will not take no for an answer.”

Though she should not even consider the offer, their evening had forged a small seed of cautious friendship. She lifted teasing eyes toward the gentleman. “Indeed, as well as a man filled with the gift of blarney, for your compliments flow freely but are so exaggerated as to be absurd.”

He chuckled. “Yet I am determined to win your trust. Thus, I will share a little about myself.” He paused as if considering.

“Until last evening, Miss Smyth, you may have guessed I never danced a country step. Though you may think it odd for one professing to be from these surrounds, I will also share that even though I was born in Castlewellan, I have been gone a long while and thus have grown ignorant about country ways. I will need some time to reacquaint myself with the local customs.”

“Ohhhh.” She wanted to relax into his easy manner, but instinct warned that Mr. Jordan’s chameleon talent could, indeed, be the most frightening thing about him.

“You must also be aware, Miss Smyth, that I do not usually pursue women in the rain on a cold night. However, I find myself uniquely enchanted. If you think that is untrue, I can reveal fascinating tidbits that I have already begun cataloging about you.”

Her brow lifted. “Ohhh?”

He nodded, his smile broadening. “For instance, I’ve discovered that ‘ohhh’ means you are cautious, perhaps slightly doubtful, but also curious.”

Glancing sideways, Mary pressed her lips together. “Well then, sir. If we’re comparing each other’s behaviors, I’ve been noticin’ a few of yours. For instance, ya clear your throat whenever ya struggle with an explanation or are startled.”

He chuckled. “Oh-ho. Did ya know that most of the time, ya speak in the Queen’s proper English? However, when you’re nervous or angry, ye take on a thick Irish accent that could rival those who live in County Cork?”

Startled and curiously flattered at his perfect imitation of her accent, she laughed. “Aye. ’Tis true.”

“And further, Miss Smyth,” he murmured softly, “your rare laughter weakens my knees?”

Melted by the surprising compliment, she breathlessly replied. “Does it now?”

“Aye. Most assuredly.”

Her poor thumping heart threatened to jump from her throat. “Well, we cannot have that, else I’ll be carrying both you and the cart, and I don’t know how I’d manage it.”

His laughter was unexpectedly interrupted by a shout from across the field. “Miss Mary? What’re ya doin’ out so late?”

~ 8 ~

“And as we walked along the road

 
not fearing any harm…”

“Sean… I…” Mary waved a nervous hand over her disordered hair, then stuffed both hands inside her cloak. “I’m finishing deliveries.”

Sean frowned, his disapproving gaze shifting from her to Mr. Jordan. She shuffled guiltily. Had he heard her laughing with the stranger? “I… This is Mr. Jordan. Mr. Jordan, may I present Mr. Sean Dennison, a family friend.”

Each man waved his chin in a half nod as she tried to reclaim the cart. To her dismay, Mr. Jordan refused to relinquish the handle.

Mary skewered the irritating gentleman with a frown before giving Sean the benefit of her best smile. “I encountered Mr. Jordan while making deliveries, and he asked to escort me for safety.”

“Ha. Safety indeed!” Sean said, scowling at Mr. Jordan. “Have ya been wrestlin’ with me pigs, sir, or is this yar usual state of cleanliness?”

“I had a disagreement with a large hole in the road, and it won.”

With an unsatisfied huff, Sean turned and glared at Mary. “Do ya tink it wise to walk at night with a stranger?”

Mr. Jordan edged nearer to her. “If I may be so bold, what gives you the right to inquire as to the company she keeps?”