power to make even a strong man crave more.
He wanted her to take the garment and go somewhere, anywhere far away from him. But instead of tripping off about her business, she plopped back onto the stool and grabbed up a little basket brimful of sewing gewgaws.
She was threading a needle by the time he recovered from shock. "I thought I would keep you company," she explained. "There's nothing more dreadful than being sick and alone."
She was mistaken. There was something far worse, he thought grimly—the mere idea of letting anyone see him made weak and vulnerable by his wounds. Even animals had the sense to drag themselves off to holes or dens to lick their wounds in private. He schooled his face into bored lines, hiding any evidence of his acute unease. "I wouldn't dream of being such an inconvenience to you. Go about your business."
"How thoughtful of you. But distracting you from your discomfort is my business at present. I confess there's not a great deal to do, traveling about in my little house like this. I tidied up the camp while you were sleeping, and had my breakfast. I even poked about a little to make certain those wicked men who shot you were nowhere nearby." The tiniest of lines at the corner of her mouth betrayed the nervousness she was trying to hide—fear of the men who had hunted him down.
The thought of her running afoul of the assassins made Redmayne exceedingly irritated. "And what would you have done if you had found them?" He asked in accents frigid enough to create ice crystals in a pot of boiling water.
"Why, enchanted them with a fairy spell of course," she replied with a wicked twinkle in her eyes. "That is one of the advantages of being fairy-born."
Now he was to be afflicted with her sense of humor? "Miss Fitzgerald..." He was going to tell her not to be ridiculous. But didn't even acknowledging such a statement make him seem equally absurd?
"So you see," she went on cheerfully, "I have absolutely nothing to do at the moment but stitch and enjoy your company."
"I take my meals alone."
"Poor lad. Far too busy with your duties to seek out even such small comfort as conversation, I would wager. But there's nothing you can do here, either, so you can just rest."
Perhaps he could drag himself on his belly away from camp, Redmayne considered, even such an indignity looking ever more attractive. Hell might take the form of a talkative angel after all.
"So would you like to tell me about yourself?" she asked. "You must have had many grand adventures."
He'd sooner have been roasted over a bed of hot coals than give her any more glimpses of the man he was. Likely even Mistress Sunshine would be sobered by such enlightenment. If he couldn't dislodge her from his side, his only option was to distract her inquisitive mind. But how? He groped for a moment, then seized on a solution with some reluctance.
"I'd prefer to talk about you, madam." Far preferable to the truth: I wish you would leave me the devil in peace. And most people would rattle on about themselves ad nauseam. "What could possess a lone woman like you to wander about in this fashion?"
"Oh, I wasn't alone at first. My papa was with me."
Redmayne spooned up some of the gruel, determined to eat it in record time. There was always the hope that once he was done with the vile stuff, she'd take herself off to scrub the dishes or some such. "Did your father have some sort of itinerant job that made it necessary? A tinker? A peddler?"
"Papa was a barrister."
Redmayne stilled, eyes narrowing. The woman had managed to get his attention. What the devil was a barrister doing wandering around in a painted cart? And yet there was so much about this woman and the contents of her wagon that was inconsistent with the life of a traveler. The cultured tones of her voice, the aura of a lady, instead of the half-wild look he'd seen in the eyes of every Gypsy he'd ever run across. Even the china bowl that he held could have presented itself at any
He wanted her to take the garment and go somewhere, anywhere far away from him. But instead of tripping off about her business, she plopped back onto the stool and grabbed up a little basket brimful of sewing gewgaws.
She was threading a needle by the time he recovered from shock. "I thought I would keep you company," she explained. "There's nothing more dreadful than being sick and alone."
She was mistaken. There was something far worse, he thought grimly—the mere idea of letting anyone see him made weak and vulnerable by his wounds. Even animals had the sense to drag themselves off to holes or dens to lick their wounds in private. He schooled his face into bored lines, hiding any evidence of his acute unease. "I wouldn't dream of being such an inconvenience to you. Go about your business."
"How thoughtful of you. But distracting you from your discomfort is my business at present. I confess there's not a great deal to do, traveling about in my little house like this. I tidied up the camp while you were sleeping, and had my breakfast. I even poked about a little to make certain those wicked men who shot you were nowhere nearby." The tiniest of lines at the corner of her mouth betrayed the nervousness she was trying to hide—fear of the men who had hunted him down.
The thought of her running afoul of the assassins made Redmayne exceedingly irritated. "And what would you have done if you had found them?" He asked in accents frigid enough to create ice crystals in a pot of boiling water.
"Why, enchanted them with a fairy spell of course," she replied with a wicked twinkle in her eyes. "That is one of the advantages of being fairy-born."
Now he was to be afflicted with her sense of humor? "Miss Fitzgerald..." He was going to tell her not to be ridiculous. But didn't even acknowledging such a statement make him seem equally absurd?
"So you see," she went on cheerfully, "I have absolutely nothing to do at the moment but stitch and enjoy your company."
"I take my meals alone."
"Poor lad. Far too busy with your duties to seek out even such small comfort as conversation, I would wager. But there's nothing you can do here, either, so you can just rest."
Perhaps he could drag himself on his belly away from camp, Redmayne considered, even such an indignity looking ever more attractive. Hell might take the form of a talkative angel after all.
"So would you like to tell me about yourself?" she asked. "You must have had many grand adventures."
He'd sooner have been roasted over a bed of hot coals than give her any more glimpses of the man he was. Likely even Mistress Sunshine would be sobered by such enlightenment. If he couldn't dislodge her from his side, his only option was to distract her inquisitive mind. But how? He groped for a moment, then seized on a solution with some reluctance.
"I'd prefer to talk about you, madam." Far preferable to the truth: I wish you would leave me the devil in peace. And most people would rattle on about themselves ad nauseam. "What could possess a lone woman like you to wander about in this fashion?"
"Oh, I wasn't alone at first. My papa was with me."
Redmayne spooned up some of the gruel, determined to eat it in record time. There was always the hope that once he was done with the vile stuff, she'd take herself off to scrub the dishes or some such. "Did your father have some sort of itinerant job that made it necessary? A tinker? A peddler?"
"Papa was a barrister."
Redmayne stilled, eyes narrowing. The woman had managed to get his attention. What the devil was a barrister doing wandering around in a painted cart? And yet there was so much about this woman and the contents of her wagon that was inconsistent with the life of a traveler. The cultured tones of her voice, the aura of a lady, instead of the half-wild look he'd seen in the eyes of every Gypsy he'd ever run across. Even the china bowl that he held could have presented itself at any
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