and saucers on the table.
She jumped when in one stride he was beside her, his hands capturing hers. ‘Do not be frightened of me.’ He gazed earnestly into her eyes and the strength went out of her legs.
‘I…I…I’m not.’
‘No?’
She shook her head, once more robbed of speech.
One side of his mouth lifted in a wry grin. ‘Never be frightened of me, Isabelle. You will never have the need.’
The way he said her name, like a soft caress, sent heat pulsing through her veins. A rush of emotion made her want to either run from him or to him. Bewilderment reigned in her mind. Fleetingly, Isabelle wondered if the sensations that coursed through her body would kill her. She couldn’t breathe with him so close. Stumbling in her haste, she moved away and broke the contact of their hands.
Harrington stepped back. The tension eased. ‘May I have a piece of one of your famous pies?’
Startled at the question, she stared. ‘My…my pie?’
‘If I may?’ He took on an innocent expression then smiled. ‘You know all the district talks of your pies since Marge Wilmot made such a spectacle?’
Her gaze flew to the small portion left from her last batch; those made the morning Farrell arrived back with Harrington’s wife’s jewels. The thought pierced her crazed mind. The stab of hurt was quickly ignored and smothered. She located her inner strength that Farrell’s leaving had buried. Straightening her shoulders, she tilted her head and raised one eyebrow. ‘Maybe your wife would care for some too?’
At once his manner changed. His eyes darkened. ‘Isabelle-’
Hughie clattered into the scullery, kicked off his boots and turned for the kitchen. ‘The hens only laid one egg, Belle, do you think-’ He stopped mid-sentence and stared.
‘Mr Harrington this is my brother, Hughie.’ Isabelle gestured for Hughie to come further into the kitchen. ‘Come and greet Mr Harrington.’
Hughie wiped his hand on his trousers and shook the hand Harrington held out.
‘Your sister tells me Farrell has left you both to run the farm?’
Hughie looked from Harrington to Isabelle and back again. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘It will not be easy come spring when the work starts in earnest. And there is the lambing to come first.’
‘We will manage,’ Isabelle replied before Hughie was able. She raised her chin. ‘Hard work doesn’t bother us and we have each other, that is all we need.’
Harrington’s eyes narrowed at her subtle meaning.
Isabelle spun to the boiling kettle and lifted it off the heat. ‘Please sit down, Mr Harrington and I’ll pour the tea.’
‘I won’t, thank you. I must return to the estate.’ His clipped tones made her wince.
She couldn’t turn around, couldn’t look at him.
‘Will you call again, Mr Harrington?’ Hughie asked. So like the boy that he was, his fear had been replaced with worship.
Isabelle squeezed her eyes tight to stop her sudden tears from falling and waited for his answer.
‘I might, lad, should your sister wish it.’
She heard the door open and felt the temperature in the room drop a little. Hughie had walked out with him and their scraps of conversation carried on the still air. Isabelle replaced the kettle over the fire and felt her way to her chair as though she was an old woman. He is married and so am I…
Chapter Seven
The church bells chimed the hour of midday. Isabelle rose from her stool and began packing her baskets with unsold pies. She looked around for Hughie. She didn’t want to be late in clearing away and leaving the market. Marge Wilmot enjoyed any opportunity to menace her and Isabelle was in no mood for her exploits today.
The clouds sat low, dark and heavy. A freezing wind lifted her hair from beneath the flat felt hat she wore and she sighed in frustration, as there was no sign of Hughie. She hoped he would have the sense to go to the stable behind the public house where the horse and cart were stalled. He’d not been near the market all
She jumped when in one stride he was beside her, his hands capturing hers. ‘Do not be frightened of me.’ He gazed earnestly into her eyes and the strength went out of her legs.
‘I…I…I’m not.’
‘No?’
She shook her head, once more robbed of speech.
One side of his mouth lifted in a wry grin. ‘Never be frightened of me, Isabelle. You will never have the need.’
The way he said her name, like a soft caress, sent heat pulsing through her veins. A rush of emotion made her want to either run from him or to him. Bewilderment reigned in her mind. Fleetingly, Isabelle wondered if the sensations that coursed through her body would kill her. She couldn’t breathe with him so close. Stumbling in her haste, she moved away and broke the contact of their hands.
Harrington stepped back. The tension eased. ‘May I have a piece of one of your famous pies?’
Startled at the question, she stared. ‘My…my pie?’
‘If I may?’ He took on an innocent expression then smiled. ‘You know all the district talks of your pies since Marge Wilmot made such a spectacle?’
Her gaze flew to the small portion left from her last batch; those made the morning Farrell arrived back with Harrington’s wife’s jewels. The thought pierced her crazed mind. The stab of hurt was quickly ignored and smothered. She located her inner strength that Farrell’s leaving had buried. Straightening her shoulders, she tilted her head and raised one eyebrow. ‘Maybe your wife would care for some too?’
At once his manner changed. His eyes darkened. ‘Isabelle-’
Hughie clattered into the scullery, kicked off his boots and turned for the kitchen. ‘The hens only laid one egg, Belle, do you think-’ He stopped mid-sentence and stared.
‘Mr Harrington this is my brother, Hughie.’ Isabelle gestured for Hughie to come further into the kitchen. ‘Come and greet Mr Harrington.’
Hughie wiped his hand on his trousers and shook the hand Harrington held out.
‘Your sister tells me Farrell has left you both to run the farm?’
Hughie looked from Harrington to Isabelle and back again. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘It will not be easy come spring when the work starts in earnest. And there is the lambing to come first.’
‘We will manage,’ Isabelle replied before Hughie was able. She raised her chin. ‘Hard work doesn’t bother us and we have each other, that is all we need.’
Harrington’s eyes narrowed at her subtle meaning.
Isabelle spun to the boiling kettle and lifted it off the heat. ‘Please sit down, Mr Harrington and I’ll pour the tea.’
‘I won’t, thank you. I must return to the estate.’ His clipped tones made her wince.
She couldn’t turn around, couldn’t look at him.
‘Will you call again, Mr Harrington?’ Hughie asked. So like the boy that he was, his fear had been replaced with worship.
Isabelle squeezed her eyes tight to stop her sudden tears from falling and waited for his answer.
‘I might, lad, should your sister wish it.’
She heard the door open and felt the temperature in the room drop a little. Hughie had walked out with him and their scraps of conversation carried on the still air. Isabelle replaced the kettle over the fire and felt her way to her chair as though she was an old woman. He is married and so am I…
Chapter Seven
The church bells chimed the hour of midday. Isabelle rose from her stool and began packing her baskets with unsold pies. She looked around for Hughie. She didn’t want to be late in clearing away and leaving the market. Marge Wilmot enjoyed any opportunity to menace her and Isabelle was in no mood for her exploits today.
The clouds sat low, dark and heavy. A freezing wind lifted her hair from beneath the flat felt hat she wore and she sighed in frustration, as there was no sign of Hughie. She hoped he would have the sense to go to the stable behind the public house where the horse and cart were stalled. He’d not been near the market all
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