Love Came Just in Time (5 page)

“Here, kitty, kitty—whoa!”

She would have fallen face first into nothingness if it hadn't been for that arm suddenly around her waist, pulling her back from the gaping hole that was the top of the stairs.

“We're missing some of the passageway and a good deal of roof,” Miles said, panting. “By the saints, woman, you frightened me!”

His fingers investigated a bit more around her waist. Abby would have elbowed him, but her situation was too precarious.

“What happened to your middle?” he asked. “And your arms?” He frisked her expertly. “Saints, I thought you were excessively plump!”

“That was my down coat, you creep. Stop groping me!”

“Hrumph,” he said. His fingers stilled, but he didn't move. “Just what manner of woman are you, Abigail Garrett?”

“One on the verge of heart failure—if Garretts had heart failure, which we do not. Now, can we please go back downstairs? It's really drafty up here.” She looked out into the shadows. “And I've lost Sir Sweetums again.” She had the most ridiculous urge to sit down and cry. “Just when I thought I had him. But how can I have him? He's gone.” An unbidden tear slipped down her cheek. “I'm losing it.” She sighed heavily. “I'll be the first in my family to go that way, you know. Garretts never lose it. We die in flamboyant, reckless ways. We never go quietly. Except me. I'm such a familial failure.”

“The only place you are going, Abigail, is to a chair before the fire. You'll catch the ague here in this night air.”

“Don't call me Abigail.”

He grunted. “Turn around and keep hold of my hand. These stairs are steep.”

Abby followed him, because he had her hand in his and didn't seem to want to let go. She didn't want to go downstairs. She wanted to keep her eyes peeled for her cat, who should have been chasing butterflies in heaven. Instead, he was causing an allergic reaction to an inhabitant of hell.

“I'm tired,” she said.

And with that, she pitched forward. She felt herself be caught and lifted.

“Saints, woman, but you are a mystery.”

“I can't handle any more tonight,” Abby whispered.

She felt herself lowered onto something relatively soft.

“Then take your rest, slight one. Things will look better in the morning.”

Abby thought they just might, especially since the last thing she heard was a sneeze.

 

 

ABBY WOKE, STRETCHED, and shuddered. What a lousy night. And what an awful dream! Too many chocolate chips eaten straight from the bag. She'd have to coat them in cookie dough the next time around to diffuse the impact.

She rolled out of bed with her eyes closed, mentally halfway to the shower before her feet hit the floor.

“Oof!” the floor exclaimed.

Abby stumbled as the floor under her feet moved. She would have hit the ground if it hadn't been for those hands that came out of nowhere and caught her. How it happened she couldn't have said, but she soon found herself sprawled out over a long, impressively muscled form, staring down into dark eyes. She looked in them for several moments before she figured out their color. Gray. Dark gray. Like storm clouds.

So, it wasn't a dream. Miles of Spend-whatever held her up just far enough for her to get a good look at his face. She really felt as though she should be polite and get up, but she found she just couldn't.

The torchlight from last night just hadn't done justice to this guy. Maybe she'd been distracted at the time by the clamoring her sense of smell had set up. She must have smelled
very
badly. It was the only possible reason she could have done anything besides gape at the man she was currently using as a beanbag.

She propped her elbows up on his chest and took advantage of her vantage point. He was a stunner, even if he was a little bit on the unkempt side thanks to an abundance of shaggy dark hair and a stubble-covered chin. He was beautiful in a rough, mountain man kind of way. He probably lived off the land for months at a time. No fighting for mirror space with this guy, no sir. Abby felt her blood pressure increase at the thought. He probably limited his toilette to dragging his hands through his hair a few times each day and shaving when his face got too itchy. She had the feeling he didn't use hairspray or mousse—which meant her feet wouldn't stick to his bathroom floor. Oh, yes, this was her kind of man. Handsome
and
low-maintenance.

“Hmmm,” she said.

“Hmmm,” he replied.

He was giving her the same once-over. He reached up and fingered her hair. It was unruly hair, she knew, and she opened her mouth to make an excuse for the riot of auburn curls, when he met her gaze and smiled.

“You have beautiful hair, Abigail.”

Okay, if he wanted to like it, he was welcome to.

“Indeed, you clean up very passably.”

“What do you mean I clean up just passably?” she demanded. “I was giving you much higher marks than that.”

He grinned. “Indeed.”

Abby tried to hold onto her annoyance, but it didn't last long against the dimple that appeared in his cheek.

“Oh, you
are
cute,” she said, feeling a little breathless.

“I take that to mean you find me tolerable to look at.”

“Who, you? Of course not. I was just talking about your dimple. The rest of you isn't even passable.”

He laughed. “Disrespectful wench. You've no idea whom you're insulting.”

“At least I gave you credit for one decent feature,” she grumbled. She started to move off him, then got a good look at his floor. “Geez, Miles, what's the deal with your living room here? Are you planning on bringing barnyard animals inside anytime soon?”

He sighed. “I know the rushes need changing.”

“Yeech,” she said, climbing gingerly onto the bed. It was then she realized that she'd slept on a bed while he'd slept on a blanket on the floor. On the rotting hay, rather. She frowned at him. “Why didn't you just go sleep in another bed?”

“There is no other bed.”

“Well,” she said, slowly, “I appreciate the gallant gesture, but you wouldn't have had to make it if you didn't run such a lousy hotel. You know, inn,” she clarified at his blank look.

He shook his head, with a small smile. “This is no inn, my lady.”

“Spend-whatever. If that isn't a name for an inn, I don't know what is.”

“Speningethorpe. ‘Tis the name of my hall. I know 'tisn't much, but it gave me peace and quiet.”

“Until last night.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps too much peace and quiet isn't a good thing.”

“All right,” she said, crossing her legs underneath herself, “if you don't run an inn, what do you do? Is it just you here?” At that moment a surprisingly distressing thought occurred to her. “Are you married?” she demanded. She looked around. “Is there a wife hiding in here somewhere? This is all I need—”

A large hand came to rest over her mouth. Miles sat up, then took his hand away.

“Nay, no wife. Women do not like me.”

“Really?” she asked, looking at him and finding that very hard to believe. “Good grief, is everyone blind here in backwoods England?” She clapped her own hand over her mouth when she realized what she'd said. “I meant—”

He was grinning. “I know what you meant, Abigail. And I thank you for the compliment. But even though I am a knight with land of my own, women don't care overmuch for my past accomplishments.”

“And just what would those be?” Great. Out of all the places she could have resurfaced, she'd resurfaced in the moat of someone with questionable past accomplishments.

But at least he had accomplishments. And what was this business about being a knight? Maybe that was why he carried a sword. Abby looked at him thoughtfully. It couldn't hurt to reserve judgment until she found out more about him. She realized that she was already stacking him up against her Ideal Man list, but she could hardly help herself. After all, he had given her the only bed in his house. He was easily the most appealing man she had seen in years. He liked her hair. He had a great accent. He wasn't much of a housekeeper, but that could be fixed. The first thing to do was move the barn-like
accoutrements
outside—

“—burn me at the stake—”

“Huh?” she exclaimed, turning back in. “Run that one by me again.”

He looked at her with a frown. “Haven't you been listening?”

“No. I've been cataloging your good points. I don't think this is one of them.”

He shook his head with a slow smile. “I was telling you that I'd just recently escaped being burned at the stake. For heresy.”

“For
what?”

“Heresy—which was a lie, of course. I had simply made the grave error of expressing my views on the Crusades,” Miles said. “I was traveling through France this past fall, having just returned from the Holy Land, where I saw and heard tell of ruthless slaughter. To be sure, I could find nothing to recommend the whole Crusading affair. One night I sought shelter at an inn. I slipped well into my cups, but came back to myself a goodly while after I'd already disparaged my table companion, a man I soon learned was a former Crusader and a powerful French count.”

“And what did he do to you? Threaten a lawsuit?” Trouble with the law, Abby noted. That could definitely be a mark in the negative column.

Miles smiled. “The law had nothing to do with it, my lady. He sent for his bishop, threw together an impromptu inquisition—of souls without any authority, I might add—and convicted me of both heresy and witchcraft.”

“Witchcraft?” Abby eased herself back on the bed. There was no doubt about
that
being a red flag.

He snorted. “Aye, if you can stomach that. The count's witnesses—paid for handsomely, of course—claimed they had seen me conversing with my familiar.”

“And that would be?”

“A fluffy black cat.”

Abby laughed. “Oh, right. That would have been a pretty one-sided conversation, what with you sneezing your head off.”

Miles smiled. “I laughed as well, at first. I sobered abruptly when I saw the wood piled high around the stake and one of the count's men standing there with a lit torch.”

“Good grief,” she said, “they really weren't going to do it, were they? What kind of backwater town were you in, anyway? Hadn't they ever heard of Amnesty International? Human rights activists would have been all over this.”

“I daresay the count's men had heard of many things, yet they fully intended to do the man's bidding. They secured me to the post, but not without a goodly struggle on my part.”

Abby was speechless. What was the world coming to? She made a mental note to avoid rural France as a travel destination.

“The count had taken the torch himself and was giving me a last fanatical spewing forth of religious prattle when a miracle occurred.”

Abby found she was clutching the edge of the bed with both hands. “What?” she breathed. “A downpour?”

Miles laughed. “‘Twould have been fitting, to be sure. Nay, 'twas my grandsire, whom I had been traveling to meet. His men overcame the count's, he set me free and I fled like a kicked whelp, not even bothering to offer him a kiss of peace. Needless to say, my journeying in France was thereafter very short-lived.”

“Did you tell the police about that guy? What a nutcase!”

“Police?” he echoed, stumbling over the word. “What is that?”

Abby frowned. “You know, the authorities.”

“Ah,” Miles said, nodding, “you mean Louis. Nay, I did not think it wise to chance a visit to court. My grandsire sent word a fortnight after I arrived home telling me that he'd seen the matter settled.” Miles said pleasantly. “The sly old fox has something of a reputation. I daresay he applied the sword liberally, as well as informing the king of what went on.”

“Sword?” Well, Miles seemed to have one handy. Maybe his entire family had a thing about metal. “And what do you mean he informed the king?” she asked. “What king?”

“Louis. Louis IX, King of France.”

“But France doesn't have a king,” she pointed out.

“Aye, it does.”

“No, it doesn't. It has a president.”

“Nay, it has a king. Louis IX. A good king, as far as they go.”

Abby scrambled to her feet, careful to keep them on blanket-covered floor. As an afterthought, she made a grab for her tights to keep them from falling to her knees.

“France does
not
have a king,” she insisted.

Miles jumped to his feet just as quickly.

“How can you not know of King Louis?” he asked.

“What is he, some fringe guy trying to overthrow the government?”

“He's the bloody king of that whole realm!” Miles exclaimed. He looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. “Next you will tell me that you know nothing of Henry.”

“Henry who?”

“Henry III, King of England!”

“No, no, no,” she said, shaking her head. “Henry isn't king. There's little prince
Harry,
but he's just the spare heir. Elizabeth is queen.”

“Elizabeth? Who is Elizabeth?”

He was starting to sound as exasperated as she felt.

“All right,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Let's start from the beginning. And can we go sit by the fire? I'm cold.”

“Gladly,” Miles said. He shoved his feet into boots, then clomped over to the pile of logs in the middle of the room and built up the fire.