The Maiden's Hand by Susan Wiggs Page B

he won her heart, he was doomed to break it.
     
    “You never finished explaining to me what you meant about the brigands,” Oliver said the next day.
    The three of them headed north, wary now in the winter sunshine, watchful for signs of more highwaymen. In the distance, pink-tinged clouds melted down onto the gentle Chiltern Hills, and forested mounds rolled out endlessly on either side of the road. Dry, frozen grass clung to thesloping sides of the hills, and sleepy hamlets huddled in thatched clusters along the river.
    Lark held her neck stiff and her chin high. Kit trotted up beside her. Saddle leather creaked as he leaned toward her. “Did you know them, Mistress Lark?”
    She could talk to Kit. She did not look into his eyes and feel as though she were drowning.
    “Not exactly. I think they were sent to stop us from reaching Blackrose Priory,” she said.
    “Really?”
    “Aye.” She had no choice but to admit her fears. “Spencer’s sole enemy must have learned what he plans.”
    “What does the gentleman plan?”
    She was keenly aware of Oliver’s presence behind her. She felt the heat of his stare like a ray of the sun.
    “I must let Spencer tell you that.”
    “You say he has an enemy. Who is that?”
    “Wynter Merrifield.” Lark paused as a cloud passed over the sun, then gave way to dazzling brightness. “His only son.”
    Kit gasped. “The man’s son is his enemy?”
    “Sadly, yes.” She remembered the coin Kit had found. Of Spanish origin, it had been. “More I cannot say. Spencer will explain all you need to know when we arrive.” She trotted on ahead, wishing the kiss had not happened, wishing she had not lain awake half the night thinking about his lips upon hers.
     
    When Lark moved out of earshot, Kit glared at Oliver. “What in God’s name are we doing?”
    “Helping a damsel in distress?”
    Kit studied her stiff figure riding in the fore. Mistress Lark rode as if she had a ramrod up her back. “She doesn’t look distressed to me. Why is she being so secretive?”
    “Because we’re a pair of rogues. She doesn’t trust us.”
    “And you trust her? Oliver, I need hardly remind you that she almost got us killed.”
    “It was exciting, was it not?” Oliver smiled, savoring the memory. “Swordfights have ever made my blood run hot.”
    “I worry about you, Oliver. I truly do.”
    He nodded at their silent leader. “She makes my blood run hot, too.”
    “Anything in skirts has that effect on you.”
    “Out of skirts is even better.” Oliver studied her. To the undiscerning eye, she resembled her namesake—a small, drab bird. Yet he knew better. He knew there was softness beneath her rigid exterior, the heart of a woman beating in her breast, and a host of dreams inside her, just waiting to be set free. “That one’s special.”
    Kit pushed back his hat and scratched his forehead. “Her? You’re mad. Look at her.”
    “I’ve been looking, and I know what you’re thinking. She’s small and dark and plain. She’s about the least worldly wench we’ve ever encountered. She has the disposition of a badger. And she bites her nails and quotes the scripture.”
    “And she fires your brand?” Kit demanded incredulously.
    “The challenge of her stirs my blood, Kit. It is no great feat to desire a woman who is fair and charming. But this one.” He nodded ahead, feeling a curious rapture. “If I could love her, I’d be capable of anything.”
    “She helped save you from hanging. It’s disturbed your judgment,” Kit said stolidly. Suspiciously.
    “That’s always been your problem, my friend. You lack imagination. You see only what is there on the surface. Mind, I don’t blame you for loving my sister, but Belinda’seasy to love. She’s pretty, she has a charming temperament, and she loves you in return.”
    Kit thumped his fist against his chest. “She does?”
    “Of course she does, you muttonhead, though I trow ’twas not your brains that won