Ever His Bride by Linda Needham Page B

generosity; she
probably hadn’t gotten a crumb from them this morning. He supposed
he ought to feed her. He didn’t want her fainting, or rumors to
spread that he’d let his own wife starve. That wouldn’t do at
all.
    “Come, Miss Mayfield.” He stepped from the
carriage onto the crowded walk in front of the Bank.
    Branson moved in to help her down the step,
but Hunter stuck his gloved hand out and she allowed him to help
her down. Her own gloves were worn and fawn colored, and looked
small inside the black leather prison he’d made of his own hand.
She lifted her green gaze to him for the briefest moment, and he
was transported suddenly to a misty meadow. He missed the pressure
of her touch when she yanked her hand away.
    She stood on the curb and chewed on her lower
lip as she surveyed the block. She set her ever-present portmanteau
on the ground and adjusted her bonnet. “How long will this take,
Mr. Claybourne? I have business in Fleet Street.”
    “Come,” he said, taking her elbow as she
stared up at the edifice.
    He’d taken only a half-step when she gave a
shout, then bolted from him into the oncoming crowd. Her uncle had
escaped him, but he damn well wasn’t going to let her get away too.
He caught her before she’d passed another hitching post and held
fast to her waist, a tantalizing expanse made more so by her rapid
breathing.
    “Let me go, Claybourne!” She squirmed and
tried to twist out of his hands.
    “You can’t run from me, woman.”
    “I’m not running, you blockhead! Someone just
stole my bag!”
    He glanced up from her anger and saw the
thief shifting through the crowd, trying to look like a part of the
noontime foot traffic. Damned parasite.
    Felicity watched in amazement as Claybourne
handed her his hat, then adroitly zigzagged through the oncoming
press of people. His progress was easy to follow; he was a full
head taller than anyone else, his raven hair darker than rail iron.
She wouldn’t have expected such agility from a man of his
temperament. But it was brawn, not neglected muscle, that flexed
beneath his coat. She wondered witlessly how that supple strength
would play against his linen shirt. A thoroughly indelicate thought
about a complete stranger, but he was her husband now. It was
probably quite all right for her to wonder what he looked like
without his shirt.
    Even so, she felt that same flush creep out
of her neckline and quickly changed the direction of her thoughts
to the subject at hand. The two ragged boys, one nearly grown and
the other not more than ten or eleven years old. The larger had
elbowed her and the smaller had sped away with her bag. Her paltry
stash of ready money was still in the purse dangling at her waist,
but her portmanteau contained all of her clothes and all her
writing from the last month of travel. She hoped Claybourne would
catch at least one of the little thieves, hoped most of all that he
wouldn’t hurt them. He seemed capable of any kind of violence.
    Claybourne came suddenly striding toward her,
wrestling with something, frowning ruthlessly and parting the sea
of people as easily as a steamship cuts through water.
    “Is this the one?” he asked, shoving a ragged
boy to the ground at her feet, tearing the already tattered sleeve
with his carelessness. The boy cowered dramatically and a space
grew like a desert island around them as the crowd gathered quickly
for the spectacle.
    “Well, is this the thief, madam?” Claybourne
repeated, his dark eyes glittering in misbegotten triumph, his
breathing steady but outraged.
    “I don’t know. . .” she said, not at all
pleased with Claybourne’s rancor. She’d been the man’s victim for
the last twenty-four hours and knew exactly how the lad must feel.
“You needn’t frighten him, Mr. Claybourne. He’s just a boy.”
    “Look up . . . boy.” Claybourne lifted
him by the upper arms to Felicity’s level.
    “Mr. Claybourne, you’ve torn his shirt.”
    “And he has stolen your