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“That one.”
August pulled down the thickest book he’d ever seen in his life and read the title.
Don Quixote.
“’Eavens above,” he breathed. “I’m to read this in a week?”
She shrugged. “It shouldn’t be too ’ard for ye. It be an easy read.”
Was she serious? The expression on her face certainly made him believe so. Well, if he wanted to see this woman again, he certainly had his work cut out for him.
“I don’t know what be more concernin’,” he said, noting the freckles chasing after each other across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. “That ye believe I be in need of an easy read, or that ye’ve declared this”—he heaved the book in the air—“an easy read.”
She laughed, that contagious, charming laugh, but her smile faltered as she looked over his shoulder, no doubt at her father. “’Ave we a deal, then?”
He paused, then sighed heavily. “Yes, Miss May. We ’ave a deal.”
“Excellent. And now that I’ve chosen me books, I think we’d better return to the others.”
August nodded with reluctant agreement. Neither of them turned to leave, however, and their eyes caught each other’s.
A moment passed between them, the same as when they’d been in the brambles, and a connection occurred without either of them saying a word. Was such a thing possible? He’d never felt that way with anyone before, so to feel that draw, that pull to Miss May after only a few hours in her presence, seemed odd in the best way possible.
“Before we return,” Miss May said, her voice quieter than before, “I wish to thank ye.”
He tipped his head to the side. “For holdin’ your books?”
“No, for speakin’ with me. And makin’ me feel more like I…” She sighed, shaking her head. “Father tells me not to speak ’bout books so often when I socialize, as it makes me…but it be all I can speak…” She stopped again. “I don’t speak very often to many people, and I don’t ’ave many…” Yet again, her words trailed off, and she stared at the floor. “Thank ye.”
August’s heart twisted. Between Miss May’s broken sentences, he was fairly confident he could piece together her fragmented words.
“Speakin’ ’bout books makes me odd.”
“They be all I can talk about.”
“I don’t ’ave many friends.”
To hear such words almost slip past her pink lips, he could hardly bear it.
“Miss May,” he said, dipping his head until she met his gaze, “it was me pleasure to speak with ye.”
The smile he was rewarded with made his heart take flight.
She curtsied, then ducked past him to sit beside her father.
August followed with her books in one hand and his enormous novel in the other, all the while regretting the fact that they had to rejoin the others. Because while he could justify spending time with Miss May that evening, he wasn’t certain he would not be able get away with it after that night.
Especially not now that Mr. May seemed to be, unfortunately, watching his every move.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.”
Sonnet 35, William Shakespeare
