‘Becky, by all that is holy, it is you!’
Terror fought with vague recognition but she could not speak, feared a recurrence of the nerves she had managed to conquer since her father’s death.
‘What is it, Becky? Is it that you do not know me?’
‘Pip…Pip Hurst?’ she managed to croak.
‘Aye! When I saw you leaving I determined to make myself known to you.’
‘I’m surprised you should recognise me after so long a time. I am much changed.’
‘Indeed you are…’ His blue eyes washed slowly over her face and then slid to her slender neck and throat, before pausing a moment as they took in the swell of her bosom in the tight bodice. They skipped lower, scanning her narrow waist and the curve of her hips to finish their exploration at the sensible shoes protruding from beneath her grey skirts. ‘You’re very much a woman now.’
Rebecca drew herself up to her full height and said in a prim voice, ‘It would be strange indeed if I were not, Master Hurst. After all, like you, I have seen twenty-four summers. Your appearance has certainly changed, although your habit of putting me to the blush remains!’
‘Ha!’ He laughed. Then his smile vanished. ‘But you’re not blushing, and I have never forgotten that you were the prettiest maid I had ever seen…’
About the Author
JUNE FRANCIS’s interest in old wives’ tales and folk customs led her into a writing career. History has always fascinated her, and her first novels were set in Medieval times. She has also written sagas based in Liverpool and Chester. Married with three grown-up sons, she lives on Merseyside. On a clear day she can see the sea and the distant Welsh hills from her house. She enjoys swimming, fell-walking, music, lunching with friends and smoochy dancing with her husband.
More information about June can be found at her website: www.junefrancis.co.uk
Previous novels by this author:
ROWAN’S REVENGE
TAMED BY THE BARBARIAN REBEL LADY, CONVENIENT WIFE HIS RUNAWAY MAIDEN PIRATE’S DAUGHTER, REBEL WIFE THE UNCONVENTIONAL MAIDEN
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
Man Behind
the Façade
June Francis
Chapter One
Oxfordshire—September 1526
Rebecca Clifton rested her aching back against a tree and bit into an apple without taking her gaze from the players on the green. A saucy riposte from the one disguised as a hag caused laughter to ripple through the crowd a few yards away. The happy entertainment brought back memories of her girlhood and a particular day she had passed at a boatyard, in Deptford, when she had accompanied her father to his current place of work. A master-carpenter, he had been employed by the Hurst Boatyard to work on a ship that Henry VIII had commissioned for his navy. It was a place they had visited every summer since she was eight years old, as it was then the boatyard was really busy. Then, as now, she had remained in the shadows, listening to a story unfold. Reminded of the guilty pleasure she had experienced as she’d watched Phillip Hurst, nicknamed Pip, the youngest of the Hurst brothers, wielding a hammer under her father’s tutelage, a grim expression on his face. The muscles in his arms and back had rippled in the hot sun and perspiration had darkened his mane of flaxen hair.
Although naïve to the ways of the world, even then she had considered him almost too handsome for his own good, with a silver tongue that he used to good advantage when he had a mind to do so. His honeyed words had set her heart aflutter and for weeks she had shyly followed his every move that summer ten years ago. Well, she smiled to herself ruefully, she had been young and impressionable then and those years were behind her.
But what was she doing letting her mind wander? She had missed the character’s next sally which had raised another gale of laughter. She must concentrate because she had stayed behind to enjoy the entertainment. Life held too few of these pleasures to pass them up so lightly. The performance came to an end and the actors took their bow, their eyes scanning the crowd, smiling, as they were applauded enthusiastically. The actor who had played the hag caught her gaze and gave her a cheeky wink, which made her blush and look away, moving her attention to a youth who was doing the rounds with a hat. She dropped a coin into its depths, wishing she had more to give. Soon there would be more feasting—another roasted hog being on offer as well as other tasty morsels. But she was hesitant to remain here in Witney much longer. The sun was setting and she must return to Minster Draymore, a short distance away, before dark.
She had passed the church of St Mary on the very outskirts of the town when she heard her name being called. The voice was slightly breathless, as if its owner had been running. Her pulses quickened as a hand seized her shoulder and whirled her round. Sapphire-blue eyes outlined by kohl gazed down into hers. ‘Becky Mortimer, by all that is holy, it is you! ’
Terror fought with vague recognition, but she could not speak, and feared a recurrence of the nerves she had managed to conquer since her father’s death. ‘What is it, Becky? Is it that you do not know me?’ The man before her removed the wig, revealing a thatch of damp, darkened flaxen hair. She watched, transfixed, as he thrust the wig beneath the cloak he carried over his arm and wiped the carmine from his lips with a rag he dragged from his sleeve. ‘Do you recognise me now?’ he asked softly.
‘Pip…Pip Hurst?’ she managed to croak.
‘Aye! When I saw you leaving I determined to make myself known to you.’
‘I’m surprised you should recognise me after so long a time, I am much changed.’
‘Indeed you are…’ His blue eyes washed slowly over her face and then slid to her slender neck and throat before pausing a moment as they took in the swell of her bosom in the tight bodice. They skipped lower, scanning her narrow waist and the curve of her hips to finish their exploration at the sensible shoes protruding from beneath her grey skirts. ‘You’re very much a woman now.’
Rebecca drew herself up to her full height and said in a prim voice, ‘It would be strange, indeed, if I were not, Master Hurst. After all, like you, I have seen twenty-four summers. Your appearance has certainly changed, although your habit of putting me to the blush remains!’
‘Ha!’ he laughed. Then the smile vanished. ‘But you’re not blushing and I have never forgotten that you were the prettiest maid I had ever seen.’
‘You flatter me, just as you did then.’
‘I spoke the truth.’
He sounded so sincere that her heart seemed to flip over as she recalled once more that distant memory, which now seemed like only yesterday. Pip’s father’s employees had taken time out from their work to eat their midday meal of bread and cheese and, as her father, Adam Mortimer, had also left the yard, they had called upon Pip to tell them a tale. The tension that had been so present in his features when under her father’s eye had relaxed and he had become a different person as he began to spin a yarn.
‘I remember that day when you told the men your own version of the ballad of Robin Hood, acting out the parts and putting on different voices,’ she murmured. ‘You caused much merriment and I kept praying that neither of our fathers would return before you had finished.’
‘I am glad I amused you, because you were far too serious a child,’