will never forgive myself."
"I would never forgive you if you hadn't," Jordan said with a teasing smile in his voice. In the glow of the lighted coach lamps, huge aqua eyes brimming with tears lifted to his face, searching if, silently beseeching him for more comfort, and Jordan responded automatically. Reaching forward, he lifted her off the seat and onto his lap, cradling her in his arms like the distraught child she was. "It was a very brave thing you did," he murmured into the soft, dusky curls that brushed his cheek.
Alexandra drew in a shuddering breath and shook her head, unknowingly rubbing her cheek against his chest "I wasn't brave, I was simply too frightened to run away like a sensible person."
Holding the trusting child in his arms, Jordan was startled by the unprecedented thought that he might like to have a child of his own to hold someday. There was something profoundly touching about the way this little girl was snuggled against him, trusting him. Remembering that fetching little girls inevitably become spoiled young women, he promptly discarded the notion. "Why were you wearing that old suit of armor?" he asked for the second time that night
Alexandra explained about the jousts, which were a ritual whenever one of the O'Toole children had a birthday, then she made him repeatedly laugh aloud by describing some of her foibles and triumphs during today's lists.
"Don't people outside of Morsham have jousts and such? I always assumed people were the same everywhere, although I don't know it for certain, since I've never been beyond Morsham. I doubt if I ever will."
Jordan was shocked into momentary silence. In his own wide circle of acquaintances, everyone traveled everywhere, and often. It was hard to accept that this bright child would never see any place beyond this godforsaken tiny village on the edge of nowhere. He glanced down at her shadowy face and found her watching him with friendly interest, rather than the deferential awe he was accustomed to. Inwardly he grinned at the image of uninhibited peasant children throwing themselves into jousts. How different their childhood must be from that of the children of the nobility. Like himself, they were all raised by governesses, ruled by tutors, admonished to be clean and neat at all times, and constantly reminded to act like the superior beings they were born to be. Perhaps children who grew up in remote places like this were better and different—guileless and courageous and unaffected, as Alexandra was. Based on the life Alexandra described to him, he wondered if perhaps peasant children were the lucky ones, after all. Peasant children? It dawned on him that there was nothing of the rough peasant in this child's cultured speech.
"Why did your coachman call you 'your grace'?" she asked, smiling, and a dimple appeared in her cheek.
Jordan jerked his eyes away from the fetching little dent. "That is how dukes are generally addressed."
"Dukes?" Alexandra echoed, disappointed by the discovery that this handsome stranger obviously dwelled in a world far beyond her reach and would therefore vanish from her life forever. "Are you truly a duke?"
"I'm afraid so," he answered, noting her crestfallen reaction. "Are you disappointed?"
"A little," she floored him by replying. "What do people call you? Besides Duke, I mean?"
"At least a dozen names," he said, both amused and confused by her genuine, unguarded reactions. "Most people call me Hawthorne, or Hawk. My close friends call me by my given name, Jordan."
"Hawk suits you," she remarked, but her agile mind had already leapt ahead to an important conclusion. "Do you suppose those bandits specifically chose you to rob because you're a duke? I mean they took a terrible risk in accosting you on the road not far from an inn."
"Greed is a powerful motivation for risk," Jordan replied.
Alexandra nodded her agreement and softly quoted," 'There is no fire like passion, no shark like hatred, no torrent like
"I would never forgive you if you hadn't," Jordan said with a teasing smile in his voice. In the glow of the lighted coach lamps, huge aqua eyes brimming with tears lifted to his face, searching if, silently beseeching him for more comfort, and Jordan responded automatically. Reaching forward, he lifted her off the seat and onto his lap, cradling her in his arms like the distraught child she was. "It was a very brave thing you did," he murmured into the soft, dusky curls that brushed his cheek.
Alexandra drew in a shuddering breath and shook her head, unknowingly rubbing her cheek against his chest "I wasn't brave, I was simply too frightened to run away like a sensible person."
Holding the trusting child in his arms, Jordan was startled by the unprecedented thought that he might like to have a child of his own to hold someday. There was something profoundly touching about the way this little girl was snuggled against him, trusting him. Remembering that fetching little girls inevitably become spoiled young women, he promptly discarded the notion. "Why were you wearing that old suit of armor?" he asked for the second time that night
Alexandra explained about the jousts, which were a ritual whenever one of the O'Toole children had a birthday, then she made him repeatedly laugh aloud by describing some of her foibles and triumphs during today's lists.
"Don't people outside of Morsham have jousts and such? I always assumed people were the same everywhere, although I don't know it for certain, since I've never been beyond Morsham. I doubt if I ever will."
Jordan was shocked into momentary silence. In his own wide circle of acquaintances, everyone traveled everywhere, and often. It was hard to accept that this bright child would never see any place beyond this godforsaken tiny village on the edge of nowhere. He glanced down at her shadowy face and found her watching him with friendly interest, rather than the deferential awe he was accustomed to. Inwardly he grinned at the image of uninhibited peasant children throwing themselves into jousts. How different their childhood must be from that of the children of the nobility. Like himself, they were all raised by governesses, ruled by tutors, admonished to be clean and neat at all times, and constantly reminded to act like the superior beings they were born to be. Perhaps children who grew up in remote places like this were better and different—guileless and courageous and unaffected, as Alexandra was. Based on the life Alexandra described to him, he wondered if perhaps peasant children were the lucky ones, after all. Peasant children? It dawned on him that there was nothing of the rough peasant in this child's cultured speech.
"Why did your coachman call you 'your grace'?" she asked, smiling, and a dimple appeared in her cheek.
Jordan jerked his eyes away from the fetching little dent. "That is how dukes are generally addressed."
"Dukes?" Alexandra echoed, disappointed by the discovery that this handsome stranger obviously dwelled in a world far beyond her reach and would therefore vanish from her life forever. "Are you truly a duke?"
"I'm afraid so," he answered, noting her crestfallen reaction. "Are you disappointed?"
"A little," she floored him by replying. "What do people call you? Besides Duke, I mean?"
"At least a dozen names," he said, both amused and confused by her genuine, unguarded reactions. "Most people call me Hawthorne, or Hawk. My close friends call me by my given name, Jordan."
"Hawk suits you," she remarked, but her agile mind had already leapt ahead to an important conclusion. "Do you suppose those bandits specifically chose you to rob because you're a duke? I mean they took a terrible risk in accosting you on the road not far from an inn."
"Greed is a powerful motivation for risk," Jordan replied.
Alexandra nodded her agreement and softly quoted," 'There is no fire like passion, no shark like hatred, no torrent like
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