Free It Takes a Hero by Elizabeth Boyle Page B

breath.
    "Not Rebecca, you dolt," Esme said. "The postmistress, Miss Stone."
    "Oh, it's just that I thought—" He stopped when out of the corner of his eye he saw her smiling. "I didn't mean—"
    "Of course you didn't, Mr. Danvers. Of course you didn't."
    Rafe didn't like the way she chuckled as she finished her assurances, but he said nothing further and walked in companionable silence.
    The spring evening couldn't have been more perfect as the days started to stretch longer, leaving the night to steal what time it could.
    He'd always marveled at the serenity of the English countryside. After years on the war torn plains of Spain and the parched fields of Portugal, the green, fresh grass and the spicy scent of wild roses tangled in the hedges lulled him into Esme's confidence.
    "I didn't mean to imply that I thought Miss Tate was a prattle-box."
    Esme smiled.
    "It's just that she's—"
    "Yes?"
    "Nothing." He was most definitely better off not saying anything. Yet in the silence he found himself thinking of that annoying minx. How she'd teased him with impunity. The chestnut fire of her hair. He'd never been one for redheads, but perhaps he'd just never seen a shade he liked…
    Liked?
He shook his head. The day he found himself using "liked" and "Miss Tate" in the same sentence was the day he needed to hightail it back to London as fast as he could.
    "So how does one become a matchmaker?" Rafe asked, his silent reverie becoming more unnerving than the notion that he could accidentally fall into one of Esme's marital traps.
    "By chance," Esme said, as if that was explanation enough. "Now you tell me, have you found who you are looking for?"
    Obviously Miss Stone had done her job well. Not only did everyone know who he was, they knew why he was here.
    So much for the element of surprise.
    "No," he said.
    "You will," she assured him.
    "Then you're here to help me?" he asked, putting on his most charming smile.
    The lady laughed and ignored his question. "That's the best you can offer? I was led to believe you were a charming devil." She shook her head. "You do need my assistance."
    "I do well enough," he said, feeling a bit affronted. He was starting to think that the English countryside was a foreign country when his London manners held no sway.
    "I suppose you might," Esme said after taking another assessing gander at him. "But not for what you were intended to do."
    "And what is that?" he asked without thinking.
    "Love someone."
    He flinched. What was it about this village that had him asking questions to which he didn't really want to hear the answers?
    "I don't think that's possible," he told her, meaning every word of it.
    "It isn't for you to decide."
    Rafe definitely needed to take control of this conversation before he indeed found himself matched and married. The direct approach seemed the best. "Do you know who the author of the
Miss Darby
novels might be?"
    Esme laughed. "No. And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. I rather like those books." She came to a stop before an arched gate. "Here you are."
    "Is this your home?" he said, glancing up the lane at the cozy looking cottage.
    "No," she said, pulling her hand free from his arm and straightening her shawl. "But it is where I leave you." Then she reached into her basket and pressed a bounty of long stemmed flowers into his arms. Before he could protest that the thorns were going to bleed him dry, she scurried up the road, whistling a tune not unlike the one Miss Tate had left ringing in his ears earlier.
    Rafe grit his teeth. There she was again, that vexing little minx invading his thoughts.
    Then she invaded more than that.
    "What are
you
doing here?"
    He turned around and discovered that perhaps he hadn't quite escaped Esme's intrigues.
    For the matchmaker had left him at the doorstep of Miss Tate.
     
    Rebecca stood on the path and stared at the man at her gate.
    His dark hair was brushed back, giving way to his sculpted features: the deep cleft in his chin,