Columbine by MIRANDA JARRETT Page A

had been plump and merry and beautifully dressed!
    Trapped. That was how Kit felt. Trapped, with Constance pressing into him as she pretended to study her prayer book. At least she held it right side up; he doubted she was smart enough to know the difference. He glanced down at her half-naked breasts, and she simpered slyly back at him. He liked female flesh as much as any man—more, perhaps—but so much of Constance on display on a Sunday morning was vulgar, not seductive and again, he doubted she knew the difference. If he had anything to say about it, she would be on her way back to New London in the morning.
    “Of course, my mistress will send the’ little chit packing,” Ruth was whispering crossly.
    “Look at her, sitting plain as day between Master Christopher an’ Cap’n Jonathan!”
    Dianna saw Mercy’s small head barely showing above the bench, her little white cap flanked by the two broad-shouldered Sparhawk men. As she watched, Mercy tugged on Kit’s sleeve, and he bent down to listen. Dianna smiled. She didn’t know how Mercy had managed it, but Dianna was delighted for once to see her claiming her share of Kit’s attention.
    “My poor mistress!” sputtered Ruth indignantly.
    “To be forced t’bear such shame! That he would bring his little bastard wit’ him into meeting! He might not care about the’ gossip, but, oh, poor Mistress Constance!”
    Her thoughts spinning, Dianna once again bowed her head. There was nothing beyond this woman’s gossip that said Mercy was Kit’s daughter, no resemblance between them. Yet it could explain so much.
    What had Asa said—that Mercy could not replace the other Kit had lost. Was the other Lucy Wing, the wife of a man he called his friend? First the woman in Saybrook, and now this. Troubled and confused, Dianna found herself praying for the strength to keep away from Kit Sparhawk.
    Kit knew Dianna was there. He had found her the moment he’d entered the door, and her presence only made Constance all the more unbearable. He felt badly about what had happened yesterday. Servant or no, Asa should not have struck her, and he should not have let it happen. That Hester had railed at him about the girl while she slammed pots and kettles about in the kitchen hadn’t helped, either. He was surprised that Dianna wanted to learn from Hester.
    He hadn’t expected that from her, any more than he’d expected her to fly at him for merely calling her a hussy. He still thought her a strumpet, though Jonathan had scoffed and Called him a righteous prig and said the girl could not be blamed for the gossip of others.
    Almost unconsciously Kit’s eyes strayed back to the se ant bench, where the morning light streamed over Dianna’s small figure. He liked her in the pale, simple clothing, a foil to her aristocratic features and dramatic coloring. The sunlight caught her in profile, outlining her nose with the little bump on the bridge, her full lower lip, her dimpled chin.
    Kit could not believe that Jonathan had dismissed her as a little wren: there was more grace in the line of Dianna Grey’s throat than in Constance’s entire body. If she were a little wren, then Constance was an over-bright, squawking parrot and Jonathan was welcome to her.
    Somehow Dianna sensed he was studying her and she turned her face toward him her lips slightly parted with surprise. For a moment, across the rows of bowed heads, their eyes met. A soft flush colored her cheeks and she quickly looked down.
    Reluctantly Kit tried to return his attention to Dr. Manning’s sermon. This was his first Sunday home after a long and difficult journey and he had much to be thankful for: Jonathan’s recovery, a profitable voyage with the loss of only one man, a good harvest at Plumstead while he’d been away. And yet all his best intentions toward prayer were pushed aside by the thought of Dianna behind him.
    When the break in the services came in early afternoon, Kit was the first to his feet,