Page 5 of The Scholar’s Spy

“Excuse me…” There was a voice, a sharp surprised one, flavored with an unfamiliar accent.

Full of wariness and annoyance at the disruption, Abigail rolled over, bent her knees, and sat up to consider whoever had interrupted her. She, however, did not stand. Presumably, it would be someone asking for directions.

A man stood about four feet away, staring down at her with a look of confusion on his face. For some reason, Abigail suddenly needed to swallow, her body alert in the most unusual way.

The sunshine danced about him. Abigail noticed the starkness of his features, the raw strength of his muscular form. Immediately, she was grabbed by the bright severity of his blue eyes. Like cold ice staring back at her. He was around six feet tall, but broader than most other men she’d seen. The man—gentleman she supposed she should say, seeing how fine his clothes were, had removed his jacket and hat. He wore an opened waistcoat, and his white shirt clung to his muscled physique. He had rolled up his shirtsleeves and Abigail found her eyes moving immediately to his well-made arms. They were tanned and lightly haired with golden strands, which matched the tawny brown hair on top of his head. A sudden mad urge, the kind that Abigail had never experienced before, swept over her to reach out and touch his arms. To lick them, and taste the salty sweat on his forearms. Would his skin be soft to the touch or…?

“I took you for a man, huddled there down in the ditch,” the gentleman said. She still wasn’t sure where he came from. His accent was both soft and hard, lyrical in how it landed on the words he spoke. It was practically poetic. Then she realized what he had said about her being a man, and she froze uncomfortably. All of her curiosity died as his words permeated her mind. He continued, however, to survey her.

She forced herself to scramble out of the ditch. “Well, I’m not. A man.” She set about using her hands to brush at the more visible mud stains on her breeches. The annoyance at him interrupting her was matched and partly directed internally at her own gullibility in taking any kind of interest in him.

This made his eyebrows shoot up. Now that she was closer to him, Abigail saw that not only were his eyes surprisingly direct, but they were also the most beautiful of blue ice eyes she’d ever seen. A sharp contrast against his tanned skin. They were rather like the blending of frozen rain and the beaten storm clouds during a furious blizzard. Her annoyance redoubled and she kicked out a pile of stones she’d cleared earlier.

The gentleman watched her, a small half smile playing around his mouth. As if he knew she found him interesting—as if he were used to women smiling and flirting and was simply waiting for Abigail to have that proper feminine response too.

In annoyance, Abigail folded her arms over her chest, having forgotten that she merely wore a chemise and breeches. The movement caused her breasts to be lifted and created a curving valley between them. Abigail frowned, feeling the tension ripple through her but not wishing to break it.

“I’m here to secure a house.” The gentleman turned on his heel, giving Abigail his profile as he looked toward Lyme Regis.

A hideous vision occurred to Abigail—that this man, whatever he was called, might bump into Judith and somehow, he would end up in their house, hiring the place… after all, Judith said they needed money. What if her sister thought the two of them could leave and join Sophia and their mother in Bath? She shuddered at the idea.

“I don’t suppose,” he continued, “you might know of someone looking to rent a home.”

Seconds dragged by. Abigail realized she would need to speak, and that if she gave him the information he wanted, then he would be more likely to leave her alone.

“Raleigh House,” Abigail said. “The owners have gone overseas, and their house is available. Their man of business is called Donnell.” She made a vague gesture toward Lyme, hoping that would be enough. Surely if he could get into the center of the town, then he would find his way easily enough to whichever hotel he had rooms at.

With a courtly nod, the gentleman thanked her but did not pull away. “Would you be so kind as to show me the way to the Dower Royale?”

Oh, so he was wealthy, handsome, and carefree, Abigail thought dully. Her resentment toward him grew. Some people—it always seemed to be men—had all the luck. It was women like her they pitied but never did a lick for. In that moment, she wondered if she could prise a few pennies off him for giving him directions, but then they might bump into one another at church, and it would be yet another strange piece of behavior on her part, counting against her person. Abigail might not care for that overly—it would be another strike against her.

She ignored him as she crouched back down on the ground and collected her tools and jacket up.

Pulling her jacket on, she hid her tools in one of its large pockets and then stood alongside him. She raised her head to stare him down as she waited for another dispraising comment, but he smiled at her.

“Lead on,” he said. She wondered if he meant to try and charm her.

Despite herself, Abigail found that she took him on the longer route, the more scenic way into town, telling herself that it meant nothing. She simply wanted to stretch her legs. It meant nothing more.

Chapter Two

The woman walked next to him in silence, ignoring him every time Robert stole a glance at her. She was bizarre, Robert decided, rather like a gorgon or something similar that he remembered from his childhood. A majority of people asked to help a visitor would point out various sites, but his companion did none of that.

Instead, she strode along with purpose, her mouth practically pouting in what Robert initially thought was a sulk, but as they walked, he realized her mouth naturally formed into a rather delightful bowing shape. It was decidedly distracting. She also had a small cleft in her chin, which Robert decided was not appealing, yet it kept drawing back his gaze.

Finally tired of her silence, and of continually sneaking glances at her face as if he were a schoolboy, Robert said, “I should like to offer my apologies for my earlier mistake, Miss…”

“Abigail Fossey.” She pivoted, stopped on the spot, and offered her hand. It was offered in such a frank, masculine way that it rather shocked him. “And you are?” There was a confrontational element to her voice, as if she was awaiting some kind of challenge.

He took her hand. It was warm and snug. Since neither of them wore gloves, the contact felt immediately intimate.

“Robert—O’Sullivan.” His first lie. A false name, his mother’s maiden name, meant to give him some cover, and create the illusion of a new man, one of business and of leisure. Montacute had wanted him to use a false Christian name too, but it had slipped his mind when he finally had Miss Fossey’s hand in his. So, he would have to make the best of it. At least he hadn’t mentioned his officer rank.

Robert drew back first. He could still feel the touch of her skin, and then he realized it was because she had transferred some of the mud off her hand and onto his. Hastily, he hit his thigh, trying to dislodge the dirt and the sensation.

Most ladies would have apologized, or at least looked shamefaced, but Abigail just stood there studying him, refusing to look away. It was unnerving. Yet there was an oddly titillating element about her frankness. Surely, she knew it was good manners to look away.

“You’re Irish.” Her tone was flat. Robert couldn’t tell if this prejudiced her or not. Then again, it would bother a majority of people, including those from at least several rural areas of England, a great deal.