Rescuing Mr. Gracey (10 page)

She licked her thirsty lips and ignored the sharp pain in her shoulders as she pushed harder, faster toward the town, using the lantern attached to a pole in the middle of the cart to see where to avoid ruts and dips in the road.

Mentally counting down each leg of her journey, she arrived at the deserted cobblestone streets of Castlewellan within ten minutes.

Muddy twilight melted into brooding blackness as she eased the cart around the first corner of the prosperous town planned by Lord Annesley, the second-most-influential aristocrat in the area. Divided into a lower square and an upper square, the tidy estate town was nestled beneath stunning views of the Mountains of Mourne and was hailed as a well-planned, pleasant place with both parks with lovely flowers, trees, and greenery as well as landscaped streets.

However, to an Irish Catholic washerwoman traveling alone at night, the town of eight hundred mostly Protestant families intimidated and threatened, especially at this time of night when her only company was the haunting sound of a squeaking wheel and the echo of her boots on the naked streets.

Quickened steps rounded the lower square where vertical buildings housed merchant businesses below and middle-class families above. Her clients did not live here.

A final turn brought her to a steeper hill, where manors arrogantly loomed above the world, and gardens and lovely terraces bragged about the wealth of those who lived inside. Here, gaslights burned brighter and roads widened to accommodate rich carriages.

And Catholic washerwomen kept their heads down to prevent insult or injury.

Thunder rumbled like a great giant warning of its approach. Her nervous thoughts shifted from exhaustion and trepidation to last night’s victory. She smiled, remembering how Sean had slung a possessive arm around her waist and, instead of discussing pigs, had hammered her with questions about the stranger.

Flattered by the increased attention, she realized that, despite the anxiety and unsettling sensation, at least the stranger had complimented her weak flirting ability and pricked Sean’s interest. Before leaving her last night, Sean had even promised to visit her sometime this week.

Progress, indeed.

Mary continued to climb the hill, breathing harder, a stitch in her side aching from its overstrained day. Once more she let her thoughts imagine the only dream left to her—a home of her own. She thought of herself as Mrs. Dennison and of how Sean would enter their home with a broad and satisfied smile, kiss her forehead, and pat each child’s head affectionately. Scents of sweet peat would suffuse the room, while a hearty dinner waited at the table.

Aye. Love will bounce from every corner of our cozy home.
And she would not be frightened about her future anymore.

The wind, heavy with rain, pushed against her efforts. She paused to realign her flapping cloak against the cold.

“Miss Smyth.”

Startled, she whipped about and saw a shadowy figure run toward her. She knew no one in the town, and so she tried to push the cart faster down the street.

“Miss Smyth. Please don’t be alarmed. It is Mr. Jordan.”

Gasping, Mary whirled once more and squinted as the figure approached. From the gaslight, she confirmed his statement.

Mr. Jordan?
She tapped her foot.
What in the name of St. Patrick is he doing?
She straightened her disarrayed hair into her hood, then folded her arms across her chest.

Raw, hostile wind flapped his greatcoat as he bowed. “I worried that I missed you.” His eyes touched her light cloak before he pivoted and glanced about. “I cannot believe you must deliver so late. The streets are very unsafe for a woman.”

The man’s censure sharpened her irritation. “These streets have never been safe for me, sir. Daytime or nighttime.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She bit her lip to silence more bitter words. “I regret you waited on me. I had no idea you were doing so.”

      He grimaced. “Oh…no, I apologize… I only…” Frowning, he shifted his weight. “I am anxious that you must make deliveries…in the cold… In the evening…”

His words, his scowl, even his arrogant, very expensive greatcoat pricked her pride. “I thank ya for the effort, but ya need not have bothered.” She swallowed, hating that her accent betrayed her. “I know me stops quite well and will not be lost.”

      Threading his fingers through his dark hair, he sighed. “Please forgive my blundering manner.” He looked down, silently studying his polished boots. When he looked back up, his frown had been replaced by a smile that threatened to melt all annoyance. “Though I may not be welcome, I will not be persuaded to leave.”

Mary tossed her head toward the north. “Well then. I need to go down this street to drop a package.” As she pushed the cart too hard, the wheel squealed crankily.

Mr. Jordan easily kept stride, tossing a linen-wrapped bundle atop her packages before placing an insistent hand on the cart handle. “Forgive me.”

Her forward motion halted when he tugged the handle.

She glared at him, refusing to relinquish the cart handle to him.

His stubborn black brow quirked upward. “May I?”

Gritting her teeth, she dropped her hand but let her worn little boots clap angrily on the cobblestone road ahead of him. Considering his long stride, her best effort to stay ahead of him was beyond ridiculous. She slowed, defeated.

“I trust your family is in good health?”

Mary looked ahead. “Quite well, thank you.”
So formal, so…so…English!
Pressing her lips together, she stifled a sharper rebuff.

“The weather has been unseasonably cool today,” he tried again.

He has a gift for understatement.
Right now, heavy fog swirled like thick soup. “I am sorry that you feel obligated to be in it.” Bone cold and hungry, Mary refused to be polite.

He cleared his throat. “I prefer the misted air of Ireland to the drier, warmer climates I’ve visited.”

She lifted a skeptical brow, and he laughed, but then, as if to mock him as ridiculous, heavy clouds chose that moment to leak fat wet splashes.

The plop-splash sounds of water on the paper-wrapped bundles drew her attention. Mary groaned. She had forgotten the protective oil tarp that covered her laundry. With some panic, she looked about. She must direct the cart beneath a heavy tree, or today’s work would be ruined.

Disastrous events had collided all day long, starting early this morning when the Gracey household delivered an unexpected heap of laundry with a request for immediate service. In addition, a midday rain had drenched nearly dry clothes, and now the freshly laundered clothes were under threat of being undeliverable.

Suddenly, a large black circular shape shielded both her and Mr. Jordan. Her mouth dropped as she stared above her and pondered the miraculous cover.

“It’s called an umbrella,” he offered.

“’Tis lovely,” she whispered reverently. She had seen women of wealth carry light parasols and had, upon occasion, viewed these larger wood-and-oiled-tarp circles that collapsed and opened, but never in her whole life had she been protected by one.

“Aye,” he said, sounding bemused. “I thought it may come in handy this night.”

The angry north wind gusted, threatening to toss the umbrella and its occupants across the street,, but Mr. Jordan easily navigated the angle of the cover and once more shielded them from the slashes of water.

Though impressed, Mary returned to the greater concern. The unprotected laundry, bundled with paper and string, would not stay dry against the onslaught of drenching water. Flicking a glance from the umbrella to the laundry, she wondered if she dare ask the stranger to use the heavy black tarp to cover her laundry.
Bury your pride, Mary Smyth.
The family needs the income.

“Sir.” She inhaled and exhaled nervously. “I forgot my tarp and fear the laundry is getting wet.”

Mr. Jordan’s startled brow lifted. He glanced at the cart, then back at her. “I brought the umbrella for your comfort, Miss Smyth,” he replied unyieldingly. “I’ll not have you soaked and chilled.”

She cringed at the rebuke. There was no help for it. She must shed her own thin cloak and then find a large tree until the storm passed. But no sooner had she made the decision than her laundry was completely protected by the large man’s woolen greatcoat.

She gasped. “Sir. I cannot ask…” Mary shook her head, skimming his thin day jacket. “The temperature has dropped with the storm.” Unlike her, he did not have to make this miserable journey or suffer the cold.

“’Tis no more than a wee bit of Irish mist,” he said, feigning an Irish brogue as he retook possession of the cart. “What Irishman canno’ handle that?”

She laughed at the ridiculous accent, realizing that all her previous irritation had dissolved with his generosity.

He returned the laughter, then winked.

Heat radiated from her face as her heart skipped, then thudded. Mary hurried around the side of the cart and lifted the first bundle. “The first delivery is this house. I’ll be but a moment.” She retrieved the first laundry bundle.

“Allow me,” he said, brushing his large hand over her own.

A current singed her icy fingers, and she jumped at the contact. “Sir, that’ll not do. I must deliver these, else my clients may think I neglect my duties,” she said, her reply sharper than intended.

He grimaced. “What is that to them?”

Mary shifted the package between her arms. “Please, sir. Wait here.” Squeezing her trembling hands about the paper, she nearly ran up the road to the tall, brick manor.

What is he doing here?

Considering the horrible weather and the lateness of the evening, his appearance, his extraordinary act of kindness, and his disregard for his own comfort baffled her. He was such a mystery.
A terrifying, agitating, handsome mystery.

She had to wonder, would Sean make such a sacrifice for her well-being?

A well-fed kitchen maid with rolls of flesh beneath her chin opened the heavy wooden door. Her eyes narrowed beneath thick brows, and her mouth twisted disapprovingly. “Have ya been drinkin’ that ya couldn’t get the clothes here sooner?” she said as she jerked the laundry from Mary’s arms and tossed her a large greasy load.

Mary’s lips tightened as she extended her hand for the few coins. The severe woman, as if to avoid touching anything native, held the coins in the air and waited for Mary to extend her hand. The cold coins dropped into her palm just before the maid slammed the door with a decided bang.

The servant’s treatment would be repeated two more times that night. One more reason she could not allow Mr. Jordan to assist in the delivery.

Squinting between the cold slashes of wind-driven rain, Mary approached the cart, observing Mr. Jordan as he stood, stiff and huddled against the cold in his light jacket, impatiently shifting from one foot to the other as if uncomfortable with the task of guarding laundry.

So why did he do it? Why wait for a laundress beside a rickety old cart in such horrible conditions.
Why?
Why her?

As if hearing her question, the man beneath the yellow gaslight shifted the umbrella and revealed his handsome face. Piercing eyes locked on her, and then he smiled.

Chaotic flutters crashed around her chest, making breathing hard. Mary tore her gaze away and flipped the smelly load into the cart.

Mr. Jordan cleared his throat as he tilted the umbrella to welcome her underneath. “I’ve a tempting surprise to battle the weather,” he said. “Would you mind holding this for a moment? Be careful, it is quite heavy.”

She braced both arms to hold up the umbrella while he stepped away to locate the linen-wrapped bundle he’d tossed on the cart earlier. After unwrapping it, he withdrew a cup and a ceramic crock. Setting the cup along the cart’s edge, he then poured a steaming, spicy-scented drink from the crock. “’Tis only apple cider,” he said.

She clasped the container as delicious heat radiated into her hands. She stared as shivery tingles swept into her arms, down her neck, and curled her frozen toes. The pleasure, so unexpected and comforting, stole any response from her.

“I know you’ve some questions,” he said, reclaiming the umbrella and the cart. “You left so quickly last night, I was unable to get a proper address.” They walked forward, his focus straight ahead, the umbrella tilted so that no rain touched her. “Add the mystery of where and when you intended to make deliveries, and my concern that I may have missed you grew larger.” He paused and turned his eyes on her. “Are we going in the correct direction?”

Befuddled by his thoughtfulness, his chivalry, his clean clove scent, and tall, protective frame, she managed only a nod.

He guided them around a deep puddle of water, and then, his voice lower, softer, he said, “I admit that my patience suffered as my haunted thoughts soon overwhelmed my ability to decide a course of action. And so by the time I encountered you, my own anxiety over your safety led to my abrupt greeting.”

Paralyzed, shaky, Mary could not seem to stop staring at him and the way frosty air puffed from his sensuous mouth. His attention turned upon her again, his eyes gliding leisurely over her face. He smiled once more as his finger tapped her hand and reminded her about her forgotten drink.