Eye of the Wind by Jane Jackson

highly fashionable.
    ‘Beg pardon,’ he growled, knuckling his forehead, and stepped out into the road, careful not to meet their eyes. He heard whispers then more muffled giggles as they went on their way. It was only to be expected. The same thing had happened in France. A male stranger who was neither green youth nor old curmudgeon, and apparently without ties, was likely to have money to spend and was therefore an attractive proposition no matter what he looked like.
    The street slanted inward to the middle where a narrow channel carried away rainwater and anything else flung into it from the cottages, ale houses, and shops that lined both sides. Stepping over it, Gabriel ducked his head and walked in through the open door of the bakery. Even at this late hour the scent of fresh bread still hung in the air, overlaid by the mouth-watering, hunger-sharpening aroma of hot savoury pasties.
    A short, plump woman wearing a white apron over a grey dimity gown, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, was bent over a large sack of flour, struggling to move it from just inside the door to the area behind the counter where several others were already stacked against the wall.
    Stepping forward, Gabriel muttered, ‘By your leave,’ lifted the sack from her hands and in two strides placed it against the others, then retreated to stand just inside the door. ‘Mrs Mitchell?’
    ‘My dear soul! Where’d you spring from then?’ A light coating of flour clung to her round, rosy face now glowing crimson from her exertions. Straightening up, she puffed out her breath as she pressed her hands to the small of her back, then tucked up the wisps and tendrils that had worked free from the loose bun high on her head. ‘
    ‘Haven’t seen you round here before.’ Her gaze was shrewd.
    Gabriel gave her a brief, cool smile, sensing he would achieve more with reserve than by trying to ingratiate himself. ‘Not been here before. I’m working at the yard.’ He reached into his pocket.
    Hearing the clink and jingle of coins, the woman’s eyes brightened, but she was still suspicious. ‘Some bad cold you got.’
    Sighing inwardly, he shook his head and lifted his chin to reveal the bandage. ‘Prisoner in France, escaped.’
    ‘Dear life! They never tried to cut your throat?’
    He shook his head. ‘Irons, chained to a wall.’ He held out his wrists.
    One hand flew to her bosom. ‘You poor soul. What you doing here? ‘How haven’t you gone back where you belong?’
    ‘Can’t. Press gang.’
    Anger drew her brows together and she clicked her tongue. ‘That’s never right. Shouldn’t be allowed. Dear life! ‘
    Physically exhausted, stomach cramping with hunger, Gabriel knew the sympathy and indignation were kindly meant. But he couldn’t take any more. He needed food, but craved the peace and solitude of the woods. ‘Tom Ferris said –’
    ‘Tom sent you? Well, why didn’t you say? Now, just give me a moment.’ Wiping her hands on her apron, she bustled around behind the counter.
    Gabriel laid his money on the top and watched with increasing concern as Mrs Mitchell packed a basket with a loaf, a saffron cake, and a steaming, golden pasty.
    ‘Wait. Beg pardon, ma’am, but I can’t –’
    Placing the basket on the counter, she pushed the coins toward him. ‘You put they back in your pocket. Better still, buy yourself a pitcher of ale to wash down the pasty.’ She winked, sighing fondly. ‘My Cyrus did used to love a glass of ale with his pasty.’
    Scooping up the coins and picking up the basket, Gabriel saluted her. ‘Very kind of you.’
    Her flustered response – shooing him away with flapping hands – suggested she had little experience of compliments or gratitude. ‘Get on. No such thing.’ Then concern and curiosity reasserted themselves. ‘Where you staying to?’
    Moving easily toward the door, Gabriel smiled. ‘I’m all right.’
    ‘In the village, are you?’
    ‘Not far.’ He jerked a thumb