"Come here, Miss Maybrey."
"My lord, what . . . ?"
He reached up to pull her out of the wagon. Her startled, feeble resistance only caused her to fall heavily against his chest. Her gasp and protest were cut short when he stooped down to pick her up and hold her high against his chest.
A searing anger burned away embarrassment and fear. She struggled against the strength of his arms around her.
"My lord! Put me down at once! How dare you! Put me down, I say!"
"In a moment, Miss Maybrey."
"What are you doing? What gives you the right? Who do you think you are? You go beyond yourself, my lord."
"Do I?" he asked in a calm, almost laughing tone that sent the heat of her anger burning brighter. "My only wish is to see you across the bridge without that terror."
"Noble sentiments, my lord, that to another might be an excuse but not to me. It will not work. I told you. Bridges make me nervous, but it is something I deal with. I do not ask others to do so, nor do I accept anyone's effrontery that they know more than I. You, my lord, are too full of a sense of self."
"Am I?"
"Yes. Now put me down at once!"
"Certainly, Miss Maybrey." He set her down and turned to walk toward the wagon. Which was on the other side of the bridge!
"What? . . . But . . ." Jocelyn floundered. Then as suddenly as her anger grew bright, it dimmed. She began to laugh. She laughed until she could no longer stand. She sank down onto the cold, hard-packed earth.
Tarkington had used her anger, her preoccupation with his effrontery, to carry her across the bridge. She'd had no opportunity for fear to tie her mind and heart into coiled knots. Not only had her anger burned away, but also her fear of him! What a predictable fool she'd been! She buried her head in her arms. At least she now understood his actions when they stopped to gather the mistletoe. He'd said he would make her crossing less traumatic. She supposed emotions like anger were less traumatic. He'd set it up very nicely. He should have been in the military. He'd shown his political acumen to be as good as always.
She sighed wearily and looked up as she heard the jangle of the wagon reins.
"Miss Maybrey?"
"Coming my lord," she said, her voice and face bland. She climbed up into the wagon, pulled a corner of the lap robe across her legs, and sat stiffly staring straight ahead.
"My apologies, Miss Maybrey."
"Nonsense, my lord. Come, Lady Anne, cuddle up against me. It is turning colder. I fear the wind has picked up."
The rest of the trip back to the manor was made in silence. Not even Lady Anne made a sound, burrowed as she was up against Jocelyn. By the time they reached the manor, Lady Anne was sound asleep. A footman would have taken the child, but the marques waved him away and came around the wagon to take her from Jocelyn's arms. As they passed the precious burden between them, their arms touched. Jocelyn's eyes flew to the marques. He met her glance, but she could not read what she saw there. Quickly she looked down at Lady Anne, and when she was certain he had her full weight, she pulled away.
She entered the house after the marques and was surprised to discover he had not immediately taken Lady Anne to the nursery. Instead he stood in the hall talking to someone in whispers lest they wake the child. Curious, she stepped to the side to see past the marques.
"Father!" she exclaimed, then clamped a hand over her mouth. "Father," she said again, this time on a whisper, "you're early! I did not expect to see you and Mr. Bayne until tomorrow! Mr. Bayne did come with you, didn't he?"
"Aye. The meeting was canceled. Too many complained of its proximity to Christmas. It's been rescheduled for after Twelfth Night, if you can imagine that long a delay. Bah! Charles has gone on to see his mother." He scratched his head. "Some dust up, or another bit of nonsense, I gather from the garbled message he received from her addle-pated maid."
Jocelyn blushed, last evening's impassioned defense
"My lord, what . . . ?"
He reached up to pull her out of the wagon. Her startled, feeble resistance only caused her to fall heavily against his chest. Her gasp and protest were cut short when he stooped down to pick her up and hold her high against his chest.
A searing anger burned away embarrassment and fear. She struggled against the strength of his arms around her.
"My lord! Put me down at once! How dare you! Put me down, I say!"
"In a moment, Miss Maybrey."
"What are you doing? What gives you the right? Who do you think you are? You go beyond yourself, my lord."
"Do I?" he asked in a calm, almost laughing tone that sent the heat of her anger burning brighter. "My only wish is to see you across the bridge without that terror."
"Noble sentiments, my lord, that to another might be an excuse but not to me. It will not work. I told you. Bridges make me nervous, but it is something I deal with. I do not ask others to do so, nor do I accept anyone's effrontery that they know more than I. You, my lord, are too full of a sense of self."
"Am I?"
"Yes. Now put me down at once!"
"Certainly, Miss Maybrey." He set her down and turned to walk toward the wagon. Which was on the other side of the bridge!
"What? . . . But . . ." Jocelyn floundered. Then as suddenly as her anger grew bright, it dimmed. She began to laugh. She laughed until she could no longer stand. She sank down onto the cold, hard-packed earth.
Tarkington had used her anger, her preoccupation with his effrontery, to carry her across the bridge. She'd had no opportunity for fear to tie her mind and heart into coiled knots. Not only had her anger burned away, but also her fear of him! What a predictable fool she'd been! She buried her head in her arms. At least she now understood his actions when they stopped to gather the mistletoe. He'd said he would make her crossing less traumatic. She supposed emotions like anger were less traumatic. He'd set it up very nicely. He should have been in the military. He'd shown his political acumen to be as good as always.
She sighed wearily and looked up as she heard the jangle of the wagon reins.
"Miss Maybrey?"
"Coming my lord," she said, her voice and face bland. She climbed up into the wagon, pulled a corner of the lap robe across her legs, and sat stiffly staring straight ahead.
"My apologies, Miss Maybrey."
"Nonsense, my lord. Come, Lady Anne, cuddle up against me. It is turning colder. I fear the wind has picked up."
The rest of the trip back to the manor was made in silence. Not even Lady Anne made a sound, burrowed as she was up against Jocelyn. By the time they reached the manor, Lady Anne was sound asleep. A footman would have taken the child, but the marques waved him away and came around the wagon to take her from Jocelyn's arms. As they passed the precious burden between them, their arms touched. Jocelyn's eyes flew to the marques. He met her glance, but she could not read what she saw there. Quickly she looked down at Lady Anne, and when she was certain he had her full weight, she pulled away.
She entered the house after the marques and was surprised to discover he had not immediately taken Lady Anne to the nursery. Instead he stood in the hall talking to someone in whispers lest they wake the child. Curious, she stepped to the side to see past the marques.
"Father!" she exclaimed, then clamped a hand over her mouth. "Father," she said again, this time on a whisper, "you're early! I did not expect to see you and Mr. Bayne until tomorrow! Mr. Bayne did come with you, didn't he?"
"Aye. The meeting was canceled. Too many complained of its proximity to Christmas. It's been rescheduled for after Twelfth Night, if you can imagine that long a delay. Bah! Charles has gone on to see his mother." He scratched his head. "Some dust up, or another bit of nonsense, I gather from the garbled message he received from her addle-pated maid."
Jocelyn blushed, last evening's impassioned defense
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