men.”
“We do have some men. There is a small harbor on Faire Isle where trading vessels dock from the mainland. There is an inn called the Passing Stranger where seamen and merchants gather.”
“Would he be there?” Hortense interrupted, pointing at Blackwood.
“Well, no—”
“Then I am not interested.”
The old woman ducked into her cave, the canvas falling back into place. Meg looked up at Blackwood. His expressionwas grave, but she could tell he was trying not to laugh. She had a strong suspicion that the doctor had anticipated her difficulty with Hortense, but had kept silent, relishing the prospect.
She straightened up, saying tartly, “You might have warned me how she was going to react.”
His eyes widened in feigned innocence. “How the devil was I supposed to know?”
“The two of you appear to have become fast friends. She seems quite smitten with you.”
“I frequently have that effect on women, especially the nearsighted ones.”
Meg glared at him and then expelled a frustrated sigh. She wracked her brain for another way to approach the old woman, a more persuasive argument, but she could not come up with anything. She was tired, she was hungry. She just wanted to go home. But she had to try again.
She moved toward the hut, reaching out to twitch the canvas flap out of the way to peek inside. But Blackwood stopped her.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Hortense doesn’t care for uninvited guests, but Marcela is even worse.”
“Marcela? Who is Marcela?”
“Hortense’s chicken.” Blackwood displayed the back of his scratched hand. “Marcela hates visitors or perhaps just me. I cannot blame her after the way I mauled her about, trying to mend her broken wing.”
“You tried to heal an injured
chicken
?”
“I admit I am far more accustomed to ripping the wings off of a capon, especially after it has been broiled to a nice golden brown and accompanied by a generous helping ofroasted turnips.
“I made an effort to help Marcela, but with little success. Have
you
ever tried to put a splint on a chicken?”
“No, I—” Meg began, when she was struck by the ridiculousness of this entire situation. An image filled her mind of Blackwood struggling with a squawking hen, pecking and scratching at him, its feathers puffed up with fury. Meg couldn’t help it. She laughed.
Blackwood tipped his head to one side to peer down at her. “Ah, so you do know how to laugh. I was beginning to wonder. You are such a serious little thing.”
Meg tried to resume her gravity, but her lips quivered. Blackwood crooked his fingers beneath her chin. He tipped her head up, inspecting her countenance.
“You ought to laugh more often. It improves your face. You look almost pretty.”
It was the sort of compliment she would have expected from Blackwood, blunt almost to the point of being offensive. Yet Meg preferred it to the kind of flattery she’d had from other men who had told her she was beautiful, which she knew she wasn’t. At least Blackwood’s words, the warmth of approval in his eyes, seemed genuine enough to bring a faint blush to her cheeks.
Annoyed with herself, Meg pushed his hand away. Between the hostile chicken, the eccentric old woman, and Blackwood, who seemed a bit mad himself, this was beginning to feel like being caught up in a dream stranger than the one she had had last night.
A dream that was destined to wax stranger still, Meg thought as she noticed the two figures traveling in tandem down the beach, heading rapidly in their direction. The pairing of Sir Patrick Graham and Seraphine struck Meg as being as incongruous as herself and Blackwood.
Sir Patrick looked as somber as he had last night. Even the wind tugging at his short cloak and feathered cap did little to ruffle his aura of calm. Seraphine on the other hand resembled a wrathful goddess, her blond hair cascading over her shoulders in a wild tangle, one hand twitching on the hilt of her sword.
Blackwood
“We do have some men. There is a small harbor on Faire Isle where trading vessels dock from the mainland. There is an inn called the Passing Stranger where seamen and merchants gather.”
“Would he be there?” Hortense interrupted, pointing at Blackwood.
“Well, no—”
“Then I am not interested.”
The old woman ducked into her cave, the canvas falling back into place. Meg looked up at Blackwood. His expressionwas grave, but she could tell he was trying not to laugh. She had a strong suspicion that the doctor had anticipated her difficulty with Hortense, but had kept silent, relishing the prospect.
She straightened up, saying tartly, “You might have warned me how she was going to react.”
His eyes widened in feigned innocence. “How the devil was I supposed to know?”
“The two of you appear to have become fast friends. She seems quite smitten with you.”
“I frequently have that effect on women, especially the nearsighted ones.”
Meg glared at him and then expelled a frustrated sigh. She wracked her brain for another way to approach the old woman, a more persuasive argument, but she could not come up with anything. She was tired, she was hungry. She just wanted to go home. But she had to try again.
She moved toward the hut, reaching out to twitch the canvas flap out of the way to peek inside. But Blackwood stopped her.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Hortense doesn’t care for uninvited guests, but Marcela is even worse.”
“Marcela? Who is Marcela?”
“Hortense’s chicken.” Blackwood displayed the back of his scratched hand. “Marcela hates visitors or perhaps just me. I cannot blame her after the way I mauled her about, trying to mend her broken wing.”
“You tried to heal an injured
chicken
?”
“I admit I am far more accustomed to ripping the wings off of a capon, especially after it has been broiled to a nice golden brown and accompanied by a generous helping ofroasted turnips.
“I made an effort to help Marcela, but with little success. Have
you
ever tried to put a splint on a chicken?”
“No, I—” Meg began, when she was struck by the ridiculousness of this entire situation. An image filled her mind of Blackwood struggling with a squawking hen, pecking and scratching at him, its feathers puffed up with fury. Meg couldn’t help it. She laughed.
Blackwood tipped his head to one side to peer down at her. “Ah, so you do know how to laugh. I was beginning to wonder. You are such a serious little thing.”
Meg tried to resume her gravity, but her lips quivered. Blackwood crooked his fingers beneath her chin. He tipped her head up, inspecting her countenance.
“You ought to laugh more often. It improves your face. You look almost pretty.”
It was the sort of compliment she would have expected from Blackwood, blunt almost to the point of being offensive. Yet Meg preferred it to the kind of flattery she’d had from other men who had told her she was beautiful, which she knew she wasn’t. At least Blackwood’s words, the warmth of approval in his eyes, seemed genuine enough to bring a faint blush to her cheeks.
Annoyed with herself, Meg pushed his hand away. Between the hostile chicken, the eccentric old woman, and Blackwood, who seemed a bit mad himself, this was beginning to feel like being caught up in a dream stranger than the one she had had last night.
A dream that was destined to wax stranger still, Meg thought as she noticed the two figures traveling in tandem down the beach, heading rapidly in their direction. The pairing of Sir Patrick Graham and Seraphine struck Meg as being as incongruous as herself and Blackwood.
Sir Patrick looked as somber as he had last night. Even the wind tugging at his short cloak and feathered cap did little to ruffle his aura of calm. Seraphine on the other hand resembled a wrathful goddess, her blond hair cascading over her shoulders in a wild tangle, one hand twitching on the hilt of her sword.
Blackwood
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