Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,15

couldn’t ever remember playing any games like that. He vaguely remembered a set of toy soldiers. “I think we played War. Since I am the youngest of my brothers, I always had to be the French.”

She patted his arm and removed her hand. Immediately, he wanted to tug it back again. “That is too bad. But then I suppose you could enact a dramatic death scene on the field at Agincourt. Lots of moaning and groaning and spilling a bladder of sheep’s blood at just the right moment.”

Who the devil was this woman? What sort of children carried around sheep’s blood to enact death scenes?

“Quite.”

“Well,” she said, and he could hear in her voice she was preparing to leave. “I suppose I should return to the vicarage before Mr. Higginbotham notices I’ve gone. There is probably some chore or other I was tasked with this morning which I’ve clearly forgotten and which he will waste no time in asking if I’ve completed.”

Nash wondered what sort of chores she was required to complete. He wondered if she resented her parents leaving her with Higginbotham, and if he was a relative or a complete stranger. But she was leaving, and Nash would not ask her to stay. And he certainly would not ask when she would come back again.

He started to rise to his feet. “Good—”

“Shh!” Stiffening suddenly, she clutched his arm and squeezed it tightly. “Do not move,” she whispered. “Do not speak.”

Four

Pru thought she must have allowed her imagination to run wild again. When she’d been a child, her parents had chastised her for that more times than she could count. But then she had never seen things that were not there before. She had imagined a bump in the night was a spirit or sparks from a fire were fairies dancing, but she had never imagined a peacock.

She closed her eyes and opened them again. The bird was still there. Its majestic tail feathers were lying flat and out of sight in the hedgerows from whence it had emerged, but she would have recognized that bright blue breast anywhere. She had seen peacocks in Constantinople and Cairo. Never had she expected to see one in Milcroft.

“What is it?” Mr. Pope asked, not even bothering to lower his voice.

The peacock jumped at the sudden sound and then turned and melted back into the overgrown shrubbery. She turned to scold Pope and noticed he had drawn his pistol again. Really, the man was impossible.

“I told you not to move or make a sound. And then you made a sound and moved.” She pushed at the pistol. “You can put that away. He’s gone.”

Mr. Pope lowered the pistol but seemed to hesitate before putting it back into his coat pocket. “What was the danger?” he asked.

“No danger,” she said. “Unless I am going mad.” She said that last bit under her breath, but not quietly enough.

“There was nothing there.” He turned to look at her directly, and for what must have been the dozenth time today, she found it difficult to catch her breath. She knew he could not really see her. Langford had said Pope had some vision left in his right eye, so perhaps he could see something of her, but she still felt as though Mr. Pope saw her much more clearly than other people. For one, he looked at her. Most people looked past her. She was not pretty or even interesting to look at, and most people’s eyes skimmed right over her. A man like Pope would not usually even give her a moment’s attention. It was a bit dizzying to be so close to a man with his looks. He was still pale and thin, but he looked slightly better than he had on Saturday. And even pale and thin, that black hair falling over his forehead and one eye and that beautiful blue eye she could see were arresting. He had thick black eyebrows as well and short black stubble on his jaw. He might be thin, but he was powerful. She had felt the strength of his forearm even under the layers of his coat and shirt.

It would take little more than a few weeks of hearty meals and exercise before he was quite the prime specimen of maleness. She sighed, just imagining it.

“Miss Howard, I do not appreciate your games.”

She frowned. What was he going on about? Oh, yes. The peacock. “I was not playing a game, Mr. Pope. I saw him, but