was moments like this when he felt she was beyond him.
He had grown up knowing that she was Lady Margaret Jane Somerville, the daughter of one of the most influential lords in the country, and he only the son of the gamekeeper who managed his land. But it wasn’t only social status that caught his breath in his throat and restrained him from telling Margaret how he felt. It was these wild, beautiful moments that he was terrified to ruin.
He knew her better than anyone, and he knew that if he reached out right now to pull her to himself, to tell her of the secret affection he had held for years now, to tell her how beautiful she was and how enchanting, she would shrink back into herself and her friendship would be gone from him forever.
He smiled at her. “Maggie, should we head back to the house?”
“Not yet,” she said, looking up at him with an impish light in her eyes. “And you know Father hates it when you call me that.”
“Do you hate it?” he asked.
She looked at him for a long moment and then shrugged. “I rather like it. He sees it as too casual for a fine lady such as myself.”
“Then I will refrain from the term in the presence of your father,” he said, “but shall reserve the right to use it here on the cliffs where no one is listening.”
She threw her head back and cried out in a loud, clear voice. “Can anybody hear me?”
The wind swept her words away, and she slipped down from her horse to the ground below. Nigel followed suit, coming around the side of his own mount to see her.
“I can hear you,” he said.
“Yes, but you always hear me, so there’s nothing new there.” She peered down towards the beach and brightened noticeably. “Follow me,” she said. “I think I see someone standing down there.”
The two left their horses tethered to a rock and wound their way down the long path, making use of the switchbacks to ease their passage down the steep cliffs. Margaret managed them with ease, bunching her skirts up into her fists and taking light, leaping steps from one stone to another as she did so. Nigel walked a little in front of her, ready to catch her if she fell. But she never did. They had only been walking for a short while, however, when Margaret pulled up short and stopped, shading her eyes at the figure standing below.
“I think that’s Molly,” she said, frowning. “Do you see the pale hair?”
Molly Smith was a girl from town, the daughter of a fisherman, who had taken up with Margaret and Nigel when they were children. She was a simple enough girl, and yet Margaret had opened her heart to her and the two seemed to be bosom friends.
Nigel had seen the way Lord Somerville looked down on these attachments, but he knew that the older man was only waiting until Margaret was officially introduced into society, hoping that she would be distracted by all the proper friendships London would have to offer with people of the same status.
Margaret had never mentioned this and didn’t seem to see anything odd about her friendships. Now she began waving furiously to the blonde woman standing below them, calling out her name. Here, somewhat down the path of the cliffs, the wind was shielded and her words carried an echo out across the inlet. Molly looked up, and Nigel saw at once that it was indeed her standing alone on the beach.
She stood for a long moment as though trying to guess who was on the cliffs, and then recognition must have hit for she waved in response.
“Come up!” Margaret called, pointing with exaggeration to the top of the cliff. “Join us.”
“I don’t know if she understands you,” Nigel said.
Margaret cupped her hands over her mouth and called out more clearly, “Come up!”
Molly dropped her own hands and stood for a long moment, looking at them. Then she gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head and took a few steps back from them. Margaret turned to Nigel.
“She’s been like that lately,” she said. “So stand-offish. It’s as though she has no need of our friendship anymore.”
“Don’t take it personally,” Nigel said, waving once more at Molly and then starting back up the cliffs. “A lone woman on the beach? Perhaps she wants some time to think about her life in a whimsical, romantic fashion. You