His Runaway Lady

‘Probably not. That’ll set you back a couple of days, I shouldn’t wonder.’

Fell shook his head resignedly—at her clumsiness, no doubt, she thought with a hot rush of embarrassment—but didn’t release her from his hold. Instead, all the breath left Sophia’s body as in one smooth movement he gathered her in his arms and lifted her, steadying her against his chest where the unbuttoned shirt proudly displayed the expanse of honed muscle so mesmerising the first glimpse of it had made Sophia blush to the very tips of her ears. Now she found herself touching it, actually coming into contact with the still-wet skin Fell had doused with cold water, coarse damp curls mere inches from her face that felt so hot she now feared it might melt away entirely.

‘What were you doing out here? Your leg needs rest.’

She felt Fell’s voice rumble through that chest as he carried her towards the open kitchen door as easily as if she were a sack of feathers, each word vibrating in her ear to make her flush anew. Her own voice was unfortunately squeaky when she tried to reply, her throat as dry as a desert as the sensation of Fell’s sculpted arms around her almost robbed her of the ability to speak.

‘I thought it felt a little stronger today so came to see if you wanted a drink. It’s so fearfully hot outside and with the fires lit the forge must be unbearable.’

Fell lowered his head as he ducked through the cottage door, bringing his stubbled jaw down to almost touch Sophia’s face. She could have turned and kissed him at that distance, so close were his set lips to hers, and the very idea of doing so sent a sharp, unladylike thrill right through her breastbone to pierce the softness within.

Sophia stiffened in his grasp, her spine turning to marble at the dangerous direction of her thoughts.

Don’t be ridiculous. He’d be horrified—and I’d sooner lose my mind than do something so clearly unwanted.

Still, the urge to reach out and trace the hard line of his profile hovered at the edge of her consciousness, an instinctive desire she shied away from in alarm. If there was a less appropriate reaction to being so close to a blacksmith Sophia certainly couldn’t name it, her scandalous enjoyment of resting against a warm, work-toned chest something she never knew could stir in her quiet soul. Even the smell of him was tempting, a combination of coal soap and smoke that danced around him as Fell carefully placed her down on one of the low benches beside the kitchen table and turned away, his attention already moved on to the task at hand.

She watched as he took the rabbit from Lash and inspected it closely, her revulsion at the sight tempered by worrying thoughts that nipped at her composure.

Not since the death of her father had Sophia known what it was to be treated with the gruff kindness Fell had shown her since he’d scooped her from the forest floor. He hadn’t once raised his voice or seemed resentful at being made to sleep outside and, on more than one occasion, had even deigned to ask how her leg was faring, far more than she would have expected from her own mother, let alone a relative stranger with no reason to care. It was frighteningly tempting to think she might abandon her pretence in the face of Fell’s apparent sympathy, his consideration for her a shadow of the warmth she’d ached for so hopelessly for so many years—yet the dangers that lurked made her hold her tongue.

Fell might be friendly enough while he had nothing to gain, but how was she to know he wouldn’t drag her back to Mother for the promise of a heavy purse? Surely he wouldn’t turn down the prospect of a handsome reward for the sake of Sophia’s pleas—what man would choose her happiness over a pile of coins, or be moved by the sight of her tears? Nobody was above acting out of cruelty or selfishness. Sophia knew from bitter experience it was safer to assume Fell was like the rest, putting his own interests above those of the young woman who expected nothing different. Perhaps it was unfair to tar him with that brush, having so far only treated her fairly, but it seemed so unlikely anyone would break the mould of Sophia’s understanding. She was far more able to believe in the wickedness of people than the notion they might be something better.

Don’t be foolish just because he showed you some decency. In your desperation for tenderness you’d put yourself at risk of discovery, all for a man you’ve barely known five minutes.

Sophia frowned, almost too consumed by her thoughts to notice Fell rolling his sleeves up to the elbow. The movement unveiled his forearms, scattered with black hair, and she felt another prickle of that heat in her cheeks.

It’s not just his kindness you’ve a weakness for, though, is it?

It was a ridiculous thing for her to notice, she chided herself with swift discomfort. All the legitimate worries, guilt and fears that circled in her mind day and night should have made it impossible for her to register anything else, yet for some accursed reason the solid shape of Fell’s arms called to her, impossible to ignore and unsettling in the extreme. It wasn’t proper or decent for a lady to acknowledge a man even had arms, but her eye didn’t seem to grasp that message, even occasionally straying to visit Fell’s shoulders or daring a flick towards his unique face.

The mismatched colours of his eyes was something that grew more fascinating each time they fixed Sophia with their uncanny scrutiny, strange and intriguing—and far more attractive than any blacksmith should be allowed. Sleeping in his bed was almost too intimate for words, the idea of fitting her body into the hollow made by his frame something that didn’t bear thinking about.

‘You can watch if you like. It might be useful for you to learn how to prepare a rabbit for eating.’

Fell glanced at her sitting near the table, a trace of another grin flickering on his lips to make her blink. He had the most engaging smile she’d ever seen, no trace of the cold malice of Septimus’s or Mother’s angry sneer. It was a smile to gaze at, to appreciate the soft upward curve roughened by a chin full of dark stubble…

She brought herself up short before her mind could wander any further off course. Probably the last thing in the world she wanted, aside from to set foot in Fenwick Manor, was to have anything to do with what was about to happen at the kitchen table and she swallowed down a wave of queasiness at the thought.

‘Thank you, but I think not. I’ve never been able to bear blood—I believe that’s what made me faint in the forest the day you found me. The very notion makes me feel quite light-headed.’

‘You might wish to turn around then. I don’t want you stretched out insensible under the table.’

Sophia spun hurriedly as Fell reached for a knife gleaming in its wooden block. As if confused by her squeamishness Lash came to sit at her feet, peering up at her as she reached to stroke his ears with an unsteady hand.

‘It doesn’t trouble you, obviously.’

From behind her came a grunt of agreement. ‘Not in the least. All my dogs have been good hunters and as soon as I could be trusted with a knife my mother taught me how to deal with their gifts. The odd rabbit made us a bit more popular in the rector’s kitchen when winters were lean.’

The sounds at her back made Sophia wish she could stop up her ears, but the embers of her curiosity glowed brighter than her disgust. Fell hadn’t spoken of anything personal before, in fact barely stringing three words together over the past five days, and the chance of learning something more about the man who intrigued her so despite her best efforts was too tempting to ignore.

‘Your mother taught you? Is that not unusual?’

She heard the soft sound of Fell’s shirt moving as he shrugged. ‘She had no choice but be the one to teach me how to be a man. Practically everything I know came from her.’

‘Not from your father?’

There came an unpleasantly moist noise that made Sophia’s insides twist.

‘No idea who he is.’

Unseen by the man behind her Sophia’s brows contracted in a frown. How could such a thing be possible? She must have misunderstood. The identity of one’s father was one of the most important things in deciding one’s place in the world, the family name key to fortune and reputation. Her own papa had been both handsome and rich—no wonder Mother had wanted to keep him all to herself, not willing to share him even with the child they created together. If Sophia hadn’t come along things would have been so different, so much better for all concerned, a truth reiterated to her so many times she couldn’t remember a time she hadn’t known it.

‘Surely you must. Your mother must be able to recall the name of her husband, even if you never met him.’

Fell gave a dry laugh, finding some grim amusement in her words. ‘How can I put this delicately enough for a lady’s maid? I was born on the wrong side of the blanket, Marie. My mother was a young Roma girl who had the misfortune to meet a man who put a baby in her belly without intending to marry her and we’ve both had to bear that shame ever since.’

Sophia’s eyes flew wide as a flood of pure, burning mortification swept over her like a wave, slamming the door shut on any coherent response she might have made.

Stupid girl!

Mother’s venom rang in her ears, the constant refrain never more appropriate than at that moment. How had she stumbled into a conversation about legitimacy, of all things, the most taboo, unmentionably vulgar subject no lady should ever entertain? A Romani mother would account for Fell’s name and the pleasing distinction of his hair and skin, an interesting discovery Sophia would gladly have learned more about, but the circumstances of his birth was something entirely different, a secret a man of her own class would have taken to his grave.

When she didn’t reply Fell filled the silence with studied indifference that didn’t fool her for a moment. ‘I’ve asked Ma about my father many times, although she’s never been willing to discuss as much as his name. She was—is—the very best of mothers, but I won’t pretend her silence hasn’t irked me something fierce over the years. If she desires to keep her past a secret, I’ve no choice but to assume she has good reason. She’s been both mother and father to me and I’d defy any man to do better.’

Sophia took a breath, attempting to force some of the blood from her cheeks back to her brain. Shock and distinctly upper-class horror still ran through her at Fell’s confession, but with great effort she managed to tamp it down. It wouldn’t do for him to see her prim surprise, perhaps more suited to a lady than Marie the maid.

Carefully disguising the unsteadiness of her voice, Sophia chanced a nod. ‘She sounds like a singular woman. Does she live close by?’

‘She is that and, in truth, I’ve no idea where she is at present.’ Another noise Sophia would have been happy not to hear came to make her shudder. ‘The Roma are like the wind—impossible to pin down and never sure which direction they’ll move in next.’

He appeared at her shoulder, reaching for a seasoned-looking pot standing on the range, and Sophia angled her face away to avoid a glimpse of his hands.

‘You don’t move with her?’

Fell retreated again, but not before she caught the shake of his head. ‘She always struggled with living in one place and as soon as I was old enough I told her she could leave the village without me. I’ve made a life for myself here—not much of one, but it’s mine. I built the forge myself with my own two hands after the old smith I was apprenticed to died and it’s the one thing I’ve ever been proud of. It’s where I go to forget that I don’t truly fit anywhere else and it’s my biggest sorrow I’ll never have a child to pass it on to when my years are done.’

Surprise almost made Sophia turn around, only catching herself in the nick of time. Why would he assume he would never have children? He was still young and certainly comely enough to tempt a woman to wed him—a realisation that made her blush all the more.

‘Surely you’ve plenty of time to marry and have a family of your own, if it’s something you want so very badly.’

There came another of those dry laughs, this time with precious little humour, and although his voice was steady Sophia could have sworn she caught a whisper of stubbornly concealed sadness. ‘It’s the thing I want the most in all the world, yet I know it’s not to be. Do you imagine there’s a queue of fathers beating down my door for their daughters, or Woodford ladies lining up to wed the illegitimate son of a Romani maid? The villagers scarcely speak to me, let alone consider me a match for any of them. A Roma woman wouldn’t settle to village life either and I’d never be so cruel as to ask it of her. In the absence of a third option I’ve reconciled myself to remaining a bachelor. At least that’s peaceful enough.’

She heard him drop something into the pot and replace the lid before the sound of water splashing into a bowl suggested he was finally—mercifully—washing his hands.

‘And you? Do you have much in the way of family?’

The question hit Sophia squarely in the chest and she hesitated before answering. Sitting in the calm shade of Fell’s cottage with a dog at her feet and a bright gown on her back she could almost have pretended there was no sad little Sophia Somerlock, only Marie Crewe. It was so tempting to deny Mother existed, to dismiss her as though she had never been at all—but her claws were sunk too deeply into Sophia’s soul, her continual cruelty shaping Sophia’s very sense of self, and even miles away her daughter still shuddered beneath her spiteful shadow.

‘I, too, have only my mother. My papa died when I was six.’

It was Fell’s turn to pause. When he spoke, there was gruff sympathy in his voice that made Sophia finally twist to face him in confusion.

‘That must have been a terrible thing for such a young girl.’

He regarded her steadily and she saw she’d not been mistaken. Genuine compassion softened the lines of his weathered face, real feeling Sophia could scarcely comprehend. She’d never seen such pity directed at her before—it was always Mother who demanded consolation, insistent that nobody mourned Papa as keenly as her. Sophia was never allowed to show her sorrow or seek solace from her grief in anybody else—how dare she when she was the one who had spoiled everything by being born, when it was all her fault Papa lay in the churchyard, his grave crowned with flowers it was part of her penance to tend? She deserved no comfort and the look in Fell’s eyes unsettled her more than he ever could have known.

If he knew the truth of what had happened, there’s no way he would look at me so. He would turn in disgust and his revulsion would be my just deserts.

She flexed her hands from the tight fists they had clenched into without her noticing, nail marks marring her palms. So often her body acted of its own accord, finding painful little ways to punish her when the crushing weight of guilt became too heavy to bear. Small bruises, scratches and scrapes were forever appearing on her milky skin as if from nowhere, always the work of her own spiteful fingers and always ready to strike.

‘I suppose it was. I confess my life was never the same again.’

That much is the truth, she thought bleakly as Fell released her from his gaze to fix it on the scarred table.

While Papa lived the worst of Mother’s jealous malice had been contained, only seeping out in poisonous drips when his back was turned and Sophia was left unprotected. Once he was in the ground there was nothing left to stem the flow and she had been drowning in it ever since, the cause of her father’s untimely demise and never able to forget it. It was no wonder no man would ever want her for anything other than her fortune and the Thruxton name that had been thrust upon her: how could anyone be expected to love her, when even her own mother could not? How would anyone love her when she’d been a blight on so many lives that might have been happy without her?

Her confusion and sorrow must have formed a rigid mask on her face, for with another keen glance Fell artfully changed the subject.

‘That rabbit had a beautiful pelt. I can make you something from it, if you’ve a liking—although I can’t imagine a maid having much chance to wear furs.’

She peered up at him standing beside the table, face inscrutable again now the sympathy was hidden behind his usual brusqueness. There was real goodness in him, she realised with dawning wonder, the kind she had never dreamed might be shown to her and didn’t for one moment think she deserved. She’d lied to him to keep herself safe and had kept up that lie despite his kindness—all because of her fearful heart, now beating faster with both guilt and a growing appreciation for Fell she couldn’t understand.

The memory of her wardrobe, packed with expensive clothes, back at Fenwick Manor flitted through her mind to interrupt such thoughts and made her suppress a grim smile. Her collection of furs was the envy of all who saw them, proof of the wealth Mother was so eager to display. Septimus would have showered Sophia with gems, gowns and sables—and whatever horrors he saw fit to mete out on his trapped, friendless wife. A rabbit-fur stole might seem a poor thing in comparison to the luxuries she was used to, but she would rather that than a hundred gifts Septimus would lay at her feet if he were to discover where she had fled.

‘You’re so kind to offer, but I think you’re right—what reason would a maid have to wear furs?’

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