it in an abandoned hayloft, on the narrow bunks in their family’s wagon, or beneath the stars. Oliver, the eldest brother, had informed Severin that they were skipping some of their usual stops in order to get distance from Staffordshire. Apparently, the family typically made stops to do patchwork and other chores for a number of farmers. In return, they would be offered hospitality, and Oliver bemoaned missing out on Farmwife Jenkins’ baking in particular.
Severin couldn’t help but be impressed by the vast number of skills the Sheridans possessed. The tinkers he’d come across in London had specialized in mending and hawking tin. Around the campfire last night, Milton Sheridan had told him country tinkers were different.
“Aye, me da taught me tinwork, as ’is da did before ’im. But tinkering ain’t limited to that.” Milton had taken a puff from his pipe, letting out a wreath of smoke that hung in the firelight. “The travelling life is about bein’ free as God meant us to be. Free from the shackles o’ society and ’aving the skills to stay that way.”
“The skills,” Severin learned, included everything from horse trading to picking crops to cleaning chimneys. Indeed, the Sheridan boys had made a game of it last night. They each had to list an ability they possessed in turn, with no repeating, and the last brother to name a new skill would be the winner.
That had been Godfrey, with his contribution of “candle-making.”
To which Oliver had replied, “Let’s not forget skirt-chasing, eh, the only thing Godfrey be actually good at.”
Godfrey had launched himself at Oliver. Which had led to the other lads jumping in with joyful whoops. Fancy had watched on, shaking her head in fond exasperation.
Watching her sleep now, her lashes dark fans against her cheeks, Severin felt an unwelcome stirring of possessiveness. She looked so damned feminine and small curled up in a corner, her braided head resting against the velvet squabs. Her bruise had faded to a yellowish color, and she’d lost some of the jumpiness she’d had right after the attack. Still, Severin took care not to startle her.
He had also observed that she seemed different from the rest of the family. Physically, she was more delicate, although she could have taken after her mama whom Severin understood had died in recent years. In her manner, Fancy seemed quieter than her kin, more apt to observe her family’s shenanigans than jump in.
She’d grown more comfortable with him during their journey. He saw more of her wit and sense of humor. She was easy to talk to…perhaps too easy. Although he wasn’t one for chitchat, he found himself answering her questions about his work, what it was like to live in London. He spoke a little about his aunt and siblings, and she never pushed, seeming to understand his desire for privacy. She emanated a natural, unaffected warmth that both drew him and made him wary.
For a woman who’d claimed to be experienced in the ways of the world, she had an uncanny air of innocence about her. Maybe it was just her eyes. Those doe-like orbs radiated purity: an untainted spirit. At any rate, what business was it of his how worldly she was? She could have slept with one man or a hundred, and it would still be none of his business.
Then why do you get hard looking at her? his inner voice accused. Why do you burn to know what she tastes like…all over?
His intensifying fantasies about Fancy were proof positive that he needed to get her to safety and himself back to London. Before the journey, he had written his man of business and his aunt, letting them know of his delayed return. According to Milton Sheridan, the remaining trip to Northumberland would take under a week. Surely Severin could put a leash on his lustful impulses until then. Once he saw Fancy safely settled at the tinkers’ camping ground, he would leave.
The coach arrived at a clearing. In the distance, Severin saw a dilapidated stone farmhouse, the decaying fencing and fallow fields conveying that it hadn’t been inhabited for some time. The Sheridans’ wagon had rolled to a stop in front of the house, next to a similar wagon painted bright yellow and green.
“Gor, that looks to be the Taylors’ caravan,” Tommy said excitedly.
From the grin on the adolescent’s face, Severin assumed this was a good thing.
“Friends of yours?” he inquired.
“Aye, the Taylors be friends o’ me da’s and ’is da’s before that. We