you're about, you little bugger," he shouted, rather louder than he ought, although already the anger was ebbing, leaving in its wake the familiar soul-sinking emptiness.
The boy stopped in his tracks. Bottom lip trembling, he backed up to Caledonia just as his two mates approached. The other two boys took one look at Hadrian and halted.
Over the top of the child's towhead, Caledonia sent Hadrian a scorching look. "Really, Mr. St. Claire, it was an accident. They were only having a bit of fun, weren't you lads?"
The trio nodded in unison. A tall, lanky boy in a stocking cap and corded trousers patched at the knees chanced a step forward to scoop up the ball. Adam's apple bobbing, he swallowed and said, "We didn't mean no 'arm, sir, honest we didn't." He nodded to the blond-haired boy, the smallest of the lot, on whose thin shoulder Caledonia's gloved hand now rested. "Ned 'ere isn't a very good kicker is all."
"Oliver Tuttle, you take that back or else." Fear apparently forgotten in the need to uphold masculine pride, the boy, Ned, deserted his protector's side and took a step forward, hands fisted.
"Or else what?" Oliver, a good head taller, approached until the pair was all but butting heads.
The corners of Caledonia's mouth curled upward, the sight of which stalled the sharp reply Hadrian had been about to make. "I'm a crack punter or at least I used to be. Maybe I could give you lads some pointers?" Her warm-eyed gaze encompassed the group.
Ned's eyes widened to saucers. "But . . . you're a girl."
Oliver elbowed him in the ribs. "She's a lady, idiot."
Her smile broadened to a full-on grin that revealed the pretty dimple Hadrian had so far seen only once before, on their very first meeting. "I may be a girl but it so happens I grew up playing a great many rough and tumble games girls are not always encouraged to play." She reached out for the ball, and Oliver reluctantly surrendered it.
Aware that he'd become an onlooker to the scene, Hadrian backed up to his camera. Slipping beneath the cover, he leaned in to frame his shot.
Blissfully oblivious to his scrutiny, Caledonia raised the ball high above her head, and then dropped it. Catching it neatly atop her right foot, she kicked upward. The ball shot skyward, a perfect punt, its release coinciding with a sharp blast of wind. Like a stiff breeze to a ship's sail, the bluster caught beneath her skirts, showing a goodly portion of stocking-clad leg from trim ankle to shapely knee.
Peering through his camera's viewer, Hadrian froze. All he need do was flex one finger and he would have, if not the damning photograph Dandridge demanded, a very promising start toward it. And yet he kept his hands still, letting the moment pass.
She tugged down her skirt just as little Ned, hand tented above his eyes, stared across the square to where the ball landed on the ground, a tiny dot. Swinging back around to Callie he exclaimed, "Gorm, you're . . . good."
Caledonia laughed. "I shall take that as a compliment. I used to be a fair hand at cricket, too, though I'm a better batter than sprinter--having to run in skirts puts girls at a decided disadvantage," she added with a wink.
The two older boys trotted off to retrieve their ball, but Ned hung back. "Girl or not, you can play on my team anytime," he lisped, lifting worshipful eyes to Caledonia's face. He shuffled away and then stopped, turned about, and launched himself at her skirts, arms outstretched in a bear hug.
"Thank you, sweeting. That is by far the nicest thing anyone has said to me in quite sometime."
Blinking back tears, she ruffled his hair and bid him go and join his friends. With a final squeeze, the child sped off. She watched after him for a long moment, her wistful expression pulling at Hadrian's heart, the sadness in her profile a palpable thing, something he felt echoed in the aching emptiness of his own heart.
"You like children, don't you?" It wasn't really a question so much as something to say, a
The boy stopped in his tracks. Bottom lip trembling, he backed up to Caledonia just as his two mates approached. The other two boys took one look at Hadrian and halted.
Over the top of the child's towhead, Caledonia sent Hadrian a scorching look. "Really, Mr. St. Claire, it was an accident. They were only having a bit of fun, weren't you lads?"
The trio nodded in unison. A tall, lanky boy in a stocking cap and corded trousers patched at the knees chanced a step forward to scoop up the ball. Adam's apple bobbing, he swallowed and said, "We didn't mean no 'arm, sir, honest we didn't." He nodded to the blond-haired boy, the smallest of the lot, on whose thin shoulder Caledonia's gloved hand now rested. "Ned 'ere isn't a very good kicker is all."
"Oliver Tuttle, you take that back or else." Fear apparently forgotten in the need to uphold masculine pride, the boy, Ned, deserted his protector's side and took a step forward, hands fisted.
"Or else what?" Oliver, a good head taller, approached until the pair was all but butting heads.
The corners of Caledonia's mouth curled upward, the sight of which stalled the sharp reply Hadrian had been about to make. "I'm a crack punter or at least I used to be. Maybe I could give you lads some pointers?" Her warm-eyed gaze encompassed the group.
Ned's eyes widened to saucers. "But . . . you're a girl."
Oliver elbowed him in the ribs. "She's a lady, idiot."
Her smile broadened to a full-on grin that revealed the pretty dimple Hadrian had so far seen only once before, on their very first meeting. "I may be a girl but it so happens I grew up playing a great many rough and tumble games girls are not always encouraged to play." She reached out for the ball, and Oliver reluctantly surrendered it.
Aware that he'd become an onlooker to the scene, Hadrian backed up to his camera. Slipping beneath the cover, he leaned in to frame his shot.
Blissfully oblivious to his scrutiny, Caledonia raised the ball high above her head, and then dropped it. Catching it neatly atop her right foot, she kicked upward. The ball shot skyward, a perfect punt, its release coinciding with a sharp blast of wind. Like a stiff breeze to a ship's sail, the bluster caught beneath her skirts, showing a goodly portion of stocking-clad leg from trim ankle to shapely knee.
Peering through his camera's viewer, Hadrian froze. All he need do was flex one finger and he would have, if not the damning photograph Dandridge demanded, a very promising start toward it. And yet he kept his hands still, letting the moment pass.
She tugged down her skirt just as little Ned, hand tented above his eyes, stared across the square to where the ball landed on the ground, a tiny dot. Swinging back around to Callie he exclaimed, "Gorm, you're . . . good."
Caledonia laughed. "I shall take that as a compliment. I used to be a fair hand at cricket, too, though I'm a better batter than sprinter--having to run in skirts puts girls at a decided disadvantage," she added with a wink.
The two older boys trotted off to retrieve their ball, but Ned hung back. "Girl or not, you can play on my team anytime," he lisped, lifting worshipful eyes to Caledonia's face. He shuffled away and then stopped, turned about, and launched himself at her skirts, arms outstretched in a bear hug.
"Thank you, sweeting. That is by far the nicest thing anyone has said to me in quite sometime."
Blinking back tears, she ruffled his hair and bid him go and join his friends. With a final squeeze, the child sped off. She watched after him for a long moment, her wistful expression pulling at Hadrian's heart, the sadness in her profile a palpable thing, something he felt echoed in the aching emptiness of his own heart.
"You like children, don't you?" It wasn't really a question so much as something to say, a
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