Page 7

Grinning, Miss Slater waved back.

She liked children.

Evan wasn’t surprised. Hardly bigger than a child herself, Sophronie Slater embraced life with the same enthusiasm and innocence that children did.

A loud bang reverberated, causing a few nearby women to scream and men to swear.

Scowling, Evan craned his neck to see where the sound had originated. Nothing unusual or suspicious met his perusal. Noises of that caliber could send an edgy horse into a panic.

Miss Slater also swiftly glanced around, the pink feathers tucked into the rim of her pink bonnet fluttering in the breeze. “The air is so bracing here, the landscape majestic, especially the hillsides strewn with heather, and the people warm and friendly.”

She acted as if she hadn’t even heard the explosion or whatever it had been. Or else she had heard it and remained remarkably composed.

Evan grudgingly permitted a jot of respect for her comportment. The truth of it was, he’d never seen Sophronie Slater respond with histrionics, dramatics, or other female machinations.

What a bloody, blessed relief.

Regardless, she had a tongue sharp enough to strip the bark from a Scotch pine and a wit devilish enough to cause Satan to roll his eyes in vexation.

Recalling her previous jab about his temperament, Evan snorted. “That’s no’ what most people say about us Scots.”

“Really?” One red-gold brow raised impishly, mockery riddling her tone. She put a gloved finger to her chin and looked coyly thoughtful. “I suppose it’s a case of the proverbial rotten apple giving everyone a bad name.”

No need to ask whom she directed that barb toward, nor was there a need to point out she’d mixed her expressions. Although Evan might enjoy her reaction if he were boorish enough to do the latter.

Nae, he’d called a silent truce for the day.

If Miss Slater was on her best behavior today, then Evan would be as well.

“Father, do we have time to explore Scotland before we leave for home?”

“Perhaps a couple of days at most this trip, my dear,” Slater agreed with an affectionate glance. “But no more. We have the return journey to England and preparations to return to Virginia to complete.”

Something unnamable and highly peculiar battered Evan’s ribs.

“Ye’re returnin’ to America?”

Naturally, they must. The Slaters had been away several months. Evan scratched behind his ear. The truth he wanted to deny knifed into his gut like a rusty sword. He would miss the bickering and bantering with Miss Slater.

How could that be? She irritated him like no other.

No one enjoyed verbal sparring. Was he off his bloody, sodding head?

~*~

What a perverse conundrum.

“Aye, we are. At the end of the month,” Slater confirmed as he fell into stride beside Evan. “We’re taking several beautiful horses back with us.”

Including Beville’s broodmare that Evan had his eye on for two years. Miss Slater had bought the mare out from under him, but she’d not succeeded in getting her pretty hands on Eclipse. The Friesian had become Evan’s favorite mount. In fact, the horse was here today, tucked away in the stables.

As they made their way toward the enclosure, he surveyed the crowd. The usual rabble-rousers were present. The privileged dandies, coxcombs, and fops who drank too much, bet funds they often didn’t possess, heckled the jockeys, frightened the horses, and made lewd overtures to any female under the age of sixty.

As they approached the stables, Evan’s head stable hand, Brody McFarland, came forward.

“Yer Grace. Eclipse is in high fettle.” He sent a blistering glower and jabbed his thumb toward a cluster of finely dressed young bloods.

As Evan watched, two fribbles took long swigs from silver flasks, then passed them to their soused cohorts. Drunk as wheelbarrows before noon.