An Unlikely Love

“That is my understanding.” He’d never known God made eyelashes so long...

She sighed, seemed to come to a decision. “Then I should very much like to attend his class. Do you know where it is being held?”

“I do. But that knowledge is not necessary. All we need do is to follow the largest crowd. And that would be this way.” He guided her off the downhill path and they followed a long line of people to an enormous canopy ringed with posts capped by blazing torches.

A large blackboard, a small table covered with crocks and boxes and a wooden chair were on a platform in front of long rows of benches. Posts with lanterns atop them lit the platform and shone on a small, portly gentleman standing in front of the blackboard and speaking.

“—call out as soon as you recognize what or who I am drawing.”

Grant looked over the filled benches and frowned. “I’m afraid we’re too late to find a seat under the canopy. But I see something that might serve. Be careful of the uneven ground.” He took her elbow and led her to a small rise off to the side of the structure.

“It’s a chicken!” A man in the audience shouted out the guess.

They paused, looked toward the platform.

“A chicken?” The artist stepped back from his work, raised his hands into the air and gave an exaggerated shrug. “Is my drawing that bad?” Laughter erupted.

Grant glanced at the disconnected lines on the blackboard, shrugged and started forward again. “It looks like a chicken to me.”

She shook her head. “If it’s a chicken, what is that wavy line at the bottom?”

He stopped himself from taking a deep sniff of the lavender scent that rose from her hair, glanced at the blackboard again and grinned. “A broken branch?”

“A branch? Is that the best you can do, O ye of little imagination?”

He pulled his eyebrows down in a mock scowl. “You cast aspersions on my artistic sensibilities?”

“Not at all. There’s no need. Your lack thereof is evident.” She grinned and nodded toward the blackboard. “Mr. Frank is drawing a woman’s hat. That wavy line is the brim.”

He stopped, gave a soft cackle and flapped his elbows. “Chicken!”

Her laughter was like music. She patted her head. “Hat!”

“We shall see.”

“Indeed, we shall.” She looked back toward the canopy. “This is much better than if we had stayed in the back. I can see over the heads of everyone.”

“Good.” He removed his coat, spread it over the leaf-strewn ground at their feet and made her an exaggerated bow. “Your seat awaits—if you don’t mind sitting on the ground, that is.” He held his hand out to her. She looked at it, caught at her lower lip with her teeth. The impression came again that she was about to refuse. He braced himself.

“As long as the ground doesn’t quiver.” She gave a little laugh and placed her hand on his.

It was trembling. The slight tremors traveled all the way to his toes. Blushes. Trembling. Miss Marissa Bradley was not as calm and detached as she acted. So why was she feigning disinterest? He curled his fingers around her soft, delicate hand, helped her seat herself on his coat, then lowered himself to the ground as close to her as he dared.

“It’s my hat!”

A woman on a front bench shrieked out the words.

“You’re right, madam. And this...is you.” The artist connected two lines, and the face of a woman appeared beneath a hat trimmed with feathers. The audience burst into applause.

Marissa shot him a smug look from the corners of her eyes and grinned.

His pulse leaped. He returned her grin and shrugged. “I’ll get this next one.” He pulled his face into a mock frown, stared at the new lines on the blackboard and stroked his chin. “I’ve got it!” He leaned forward and placed his lips close to her ear. “It’s a chicken.”

She burst into laughter.

He sat and drank in the sight of her. He could look at her all night.

“It’s amazing how Mr. Frank does that.” She tilted her head, studied the blackboard, then looked at him and shook her head. “I believe, this time, your ‘chicken’ is a man.”

He narrowed his eyes at the blackboard. “And I believe you may be right.” He pulled his eyebrows into another mock scowl. “It’s beginning to look like President George Washington—with a chicken feather in his hat.”

She glanced over at him, her eyes twinkling. “A plume straight from his plantation no—”

Two quick blasts from a steamer’s whistle rent the air. A few people rose from their seats and made their way into the aisles between the rows of benches.

“Alas, we shall never know. That’s the warning from the Colonel Phillips.” He looked up at the sky and frowned. “The lanterns make the canopy area so bright I lost track of the time.”

He rose and helped her to her feet. His pulse raced at the feel of her hands in his. He locked his gaze on hers and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to make you miss the rest of the entertainment, Marissa, but I’ve only time enough to walk you to your tent before I leave.”

“That’s not necessary.” She lowered her gaze and gave a little tug. He relaxed his grip, and she slipped her hands from his, stepped back and shook out her long skirts. “You’d best hurry.”

It sounded like a dismissal. He nodded, leaned down and picked up his coat. He’d never had to beg to court a woman and he wouldn’t start now. But right was right. “A gentleman doesn’t leave a lady to find her own way home, Marissa. So, unless you have made plans for another escort, I’ll see you to your tent on my way down the hill.”

“Plans for another escort? You think—” She stiffened and tugged at the waist of her gown. “Good evening, and goodbye, Mr. Winston.”

He stared at her rigid posture, hastened to apologize. “I didn’t mean to offend, Marissa. I only thought—”

She lifted her hand. “It’s not your fault, Mr. Winston. I gave you the wrong impression when I broke the rules of propriety. But...so you will know.” Her chin lifted. “I do not live down the hill. If I did, I would have been pleased to have you see me home.”

The past tense was not lost on him. Nor was the fact that she would have accepted his escort. “Marissa—”

“I live up the hill—at the very top. And I do have another escort, of a sort. My tent mate. You remember Miss Gordon. She is there—”

He winced as she waved a hand toward the bench in front of the platform.

“—taking notes for her article in the Sunday School Journal. I will walk home with her when the class is over and her work is done. Now, I suggest you hurry, lest you miss your steamer. Thank you for a pleasant evening.”

He grinned. He couldn’t help it. She was the cutest thing he’d ever seen standing there with her chin jutted, her eyes flashing blue sparks and her cheeks so flushed they matched the color of that gown she was wearing.

“You find me amusing, Mr. Winston?”

Whoo! An ice-cold voice and a red-hot anger. Quite a combination. He shook his head, held her gaze with his. “No. I find you intriguing, Miss Bradley. And I, also, find you a lovely, very proper young lady I look forward to seeing again. You mistook—”

“I mistook nothing, Mr. Winston. Your meaning was quite clear!” Her chin raised another notch. “As for you seeing me again—I’m afraid that will not be possible. I shall be too busy. I begin lecturing tomorrow and—”

“You’re a speaker?” That information drove his explanation from his thoughts. “Then I shall attend your lecture. What subject—” A long single blast of the steamer’s whistle sounded a final warning of imminent departure. His time was gone. “No matter. I shall find you. Until tomorrow afternoon, Marissa!” He spun on his heel and sprinted for the path that led to the lake.

Chapter Four (#ulink_c87849a6-9f55-50ff-912f-fb7f7c821130)