Evie ducked her head and made a small movement of her shoulders. “I don’t c…care to discount things before they’ve been proven one way or the other.”
“Which goes to prove one needn’t always grow out of their childhood cleverness,” Whit commented with a smile and a gentle tug on Kate’s bonnet ribbon.
“The woods are safe enough,” he continued. “But I’ll have to ask you ladies to stay away from the far north pasture for the remainder of the party.”
“That pasture is more than three miles away,” Kate murmured. “Why…Oh! Have the Rom returned, then?”
“Just this morning, I was informed.”
“Gypsies! Here?” Mrs. Jarles spun her head about as if expecting one to pop out from behind the nearest tree.
“Not here,” Whit assured her. “Not at the moment.”
“But on your land! You’ve allowed them on your land?”
“I have, as I do every spring and fall when this particular clan passes through. As they keep to themselves, I see no harm in it.”
“No harm in it?” Mrs. Jarles very nearly screeched. “We could all be murdered! Murdered in our own beds!”
“Would you prefer the parlor?” Whit inquired with a politely interested tone.
Mirabelle covered a surprised laugh with a cough, but even over the distraction she could clearly hear Mrs. Jarles wheeze out a loud breath.
“I beg your pardon?”
Whit shrugged and reached for another piece of cake. “You seemed so set against the deed being performed in your bed, I thought you must have someplace else in mind.”
“I…I…” Mrs. Jarles stammered and blinked rapidly.
“Personally, I’d just as soon be asleep,” Whit said nonchalantly. “If one must be cut open by a drove of murderous gypsies, one would probably be better off being unaware of the whole nasty business.”
Evie and Kate turned bright red with suppressed laughter, while Mirabelle debated whether she could contain her own mirth long enough to see how the conversation—such as it was—played out.
Mrs. Jarles drew herself up as far as her position on the blanket, and sadly inconsequential height, allowed. “The indignity—” she began, and in such a way that Mirabelle was uncertain whether she was referring to Whit’s comments or her possible death at the hands of the gypsies.
“Would hardly signify,” Whit assured her easily. “As you and everyone you know would be dead.”
“Scattered about the house in their literal and figurative deathbeds of choice,” Evie spluttered out in one quick breath before turning a brighter shade of red and gaining her feet. “Excuse me, I need to…I need…”
The remainder of her sentence was drowned out with a coughing fit and the sound of her quickly retreating steps.
“I’ll just go see if she’s all right,” Kate mumbled and followed her friend’s retreat with a coughing fit of her own.
“How odd,” Whit commented, biting into his cake. “I wonder if perhaps the cook used a heavier hand than usual with the spice. Between the marauding locals and poor food, I shan’t take offense, Mrs. Jarles, if you choose to cut your visit short.”
He sent a wicked glance at Mirabelle. “You look a little peckish yourself, Mirabelle. Do you need to follow Kate and Evie?”
Mirabelle bit her lip, hard, and shook her head. Then nodded, grabbed her cane, and made a stumbling escape.
Mrs. Jarles would not have been surprised to discover that there was a man hiding in the cover of the trees. A man who was no stranger to murder. A man who knew all too well what it felt like to steal life from a sleeping form.
But he hadn’t come today to kill.
He’d come to watch, as he always watched.
And to yearn, as he always yearned.
No, Mrs. Jarles would not have been surprised to see the dark form crouching in the woods. She would have been very surprised, however, to learn that someone else knew the man was there.
Eleven
The picnic ran later than expected—as all successful outings do—and the sun was making its golden descent by the time Whit again helped Mirabelle into the curricle.
“What are you looking for, Whit?”
“Hmm?” Whit turned his attention from the trees and started the horses forward with a soft flick of the reins. “Nothing. Thought I saw a deer, a buck.”
“Why didn’t you say something? The children would have loved to have seen a buck.”
“I only just noticed—”
“You’ve been peering into the woods for the last twenty minutes.”
“My mind’s been wandering a bit. Have your eyes always been chocolate?”
“I…” She was too startled by the question to consider that its purpose was to change the subject. Confused, she reached a hand up to touch her cheek. “They’re brown.”
“No, they’re richer than brown. Perhaps it’s only noticeable in candlelight or when the sun turns gold.”