while he removed the long leather riding coat he wore.
‘Here...take it... I’m used to braving the elements,’ Luke said firmly, settling the garment around Fiona’s shoulders before walking off.
With no time to properly protest Fiona pressed together her lips and held on to the garment by its lapels. It trailed on the ground, so long was it, and she tried to hoist it up a bit to prevent the hem collecting mud. The leather held a scent redolent of her dear papa’s study. Once the room had been crammed with cracked hide sofas and cigar smoke, but all had been removed and sold since Cecil Ratcliff had married her mother.
Jerking her mind to the present, Fiona quickly slipped out of her soaked cloak and, with Mr Wolfson’s replacement garment about her narrow shoulders, she gave her own a good shake to dislodge water from the woollen surface.
The two gentlemen and young Bert were hanging the ladies’ outerwear on sticks they’d rammed into the ground about the perimeter of the fire, creating a humid atmosphere as steam rose from the clothes.
Luke returned to Fiona and took her cloak to hang it up.
‘I’m famished,’ Valerie Beresford moaned, fiddling with the pins in her straggling hair. ‘I hope that Mr Williams will bring us back some food.’
‘He will,’ the absent fellow’s nephew assured the company. ‘He’ll turn up with every possible thing to make you comfortable.’
‘A refund on the fare would make me easy,’ Mr Jackson snorted. ‘The contraption could not have been roadworthy to sustain such damage. I took a look at that pothole that overset us. It was not so great an impediment for a vehicle in good order. Highway robbery indeed! These coach companies charge a ransom for inferior transport.’
Mrs Jackson joined her husband in carping about the cost of their tickets and Valerie Beresford added to the debate, making poor Bert sidle off into the shadows, looking chagrined.
Having found a low tree stump that might serve as a seat, Fiona dusted a pool of moisture from it with a gloved palm, then sat down with a sigh to wait for Toby to return.
‘Whereabouts in Dartmouth are you headed, Miss Chapman?’
Having stretched Fiona’s cloak over two staves to aid its drying, Luke had strolled closer to her to ask his question.
After a slight hesitation Fiona told him. She realised there was no reason not to. Mr Wolfson didn’t seem a person given to gossiping. Besides, they would never meet one another again after today so it was unlikely that any confidence she bestowed would be of note to him. Even were it to be repeated, who would care—apart from a few people dear to her—that Fiona Chapman, spinster, had left home, so unpleasant had her life become, to take up employment as a governess.
She had heard her chosen profession could be quite wretched and lonely. A governess was not quite a servant, yet neither was she a member of her charges’ family. Her position fell somewhere in between, and she risked being resented by her inferiors and despised by an employer who’d deem her presence an irritating necessity. And the children might be horrors, too...but Fiona was confident she was a capable, resilient sort, content with her own company if no other were to be had.
‘Are you travelling on business or pleasure?’ Luke asked, turning Mrs Jackson’s coat so the lining faced towards the fire.
‘Business...’ Realising she was staring, Fiona dragged her gaze from where his linen shirt, dampened by drizzle, clung to the muscled contours of his ribs. The buttons at the throat were undone and his swarthy skin gave him a dangerously foreign air. Yet he was a refined Englishman, of that she was sure, although he’d disclosed nothing about himself.
Luke turned to glance at her with an elevated eyebrow, wordlessly requesting more information about her plans.
Again Fiona was tempted to tell him and that was odd for she was normally an extremely private person. In one way she found this gentleman’s virility daunting, yet his confident, capable manner was soothing too. The dark, romantic atmosphere of flame-daubed shrubbery and the sound and scent of spitting kindling was having a peculiar effect on her, she realised. She felt enchanted, bound to this good-looking stranger’s side, and willing to confess her life’s secrets until he chose to draw a halt to their conversation.
‘I’m on my way to take up a position as a children’s governess,’ Fiona said.
‘You’re brave, then, as well as...foolish...’ At the last moment Luke had substituted something truthful yet unflattering for the compliment that had almost rolled off his tongue. He’d astonished himself by being uncharacteristically familiar with a genteel woman he barely knew. Fiona Chapman wasn’t beautiful... She wasn’t even conventionally pretty despite the sweet halo of fawn curls fluffing about her heart-shaped face as the glow of the fire dried her off. Earlier, when her hair had been sleek with rain Luke had thought her a brunette and her features, though small and regular, were nothing much out of the ordinary. Yet something about her was undeniably attractive to him...and he’d almost told her so.
The spell had been broken; Fiona shot to her feet from her makeshift stool, wondering if he was being sarcastic. She was sure he’d been on the point of calling her beautiful and she knew she was nothing of the sort. Fiona came to the depressing conclusion that Mr Wolfson, despite his worthy practical skills, had a shallow side and it was hardly the time or place for insincere flattery.
‘Foolish?’ she echoed coolly, hoping to convey she wasn’t impressed and wasn’t playing his game. ‘Pray, why do you think that of me, sir, when we barely know one another?’ No doubt he believed she’d be better served seeking a husband to care for than children to tutor.
‘You’re travelling alone, aren’t you?’
‘I am,’ Fiona crisply owned up.
‘Then I’ll amend what I said and call you extremely foolish. These are dangerous roads stalked by violent criminals, as I’m sure your coachman or Mr Jackson must have told you by now.’
‘Even could I afford her, how might a lady’s maid protect me from such as highwaymen?’ Fiona snapped. ‘A female dependant would be a burden, not a comfort, to me for I would fret constantly for her safety as well as my own.’ Fiona spun away, ready to march off after her parting shot. She’d taken just two steps when hard fingers clamped on her wrist, arresting her.
‘And who will you burden with your safety, Miss Chapman? A middle-aged coachman, or a youth unable to handle a gun correctly? A farmer who has his wife to attend to? Me...?’
Fiona twisted her arm free, glaring at him with tawny eyes that held a feral spark. ‘I expect no one to look after me, sir. Least of all you. I can care for myself.’
‘Can you indeed?’
The murmured words held a soft mockery that brought high spots of angry colour to Fiona’s cheekbones. ‘Yes...I can,’ she vowed sturdily.
He gave a slow nod, accepting what she’d said, but Fiona knew he was still laughing at her even if he had dipped his head to prevent her seeing the expression beneath his long black lashes.
‘Are you going to castigate the Beresford ladies for travelling without a servant?’ Fiona demanded. ‘Or is it just me you wish to condemn as a nuisance for having the temerity to do so?’
‘Just you...’
‘And why is that?’
‘You are younger and more comely than the other ladies, as I’m sure you’re aware. If your coach were held up, you would draw the attention of felons who might want to take more than just material valuables from the women they rob.’
That took the wind out of Fiona’s sails and put a deeper blush in her cheeks. She swallowed, said hoarsely, ‘You seem to know a worrying amount about it, Mr Wolfson.’