Part 5 (1/2)
betrothed. How could he not have seen it before? Either that, or she was wed. She was no simpering maid who had to rely on her sire for every breath she took and every word to come out of her mouth. Abigail was far too sure of herself. She was likely of an age with his own score and four years, surely old enough to have been wed several years.
”Go ahead,” he said, flatly, ”Tell me of him.”
”Who, Brett? How do you know about Brett?”
d.a.m.n. Knowing he had surmised correctly was no consolation.
”I a.s.sumed,” he said curtly.
He should have stayed at Artane. What in h.e.l.l's name had possessed him to come here? To hold Abigail
Moira Garrett in his arms and feel himself falling in love with her unruly hair and indomitable spirit? What
had made him think she might even be free? What fool would let her go, once he had her? And who had he been to think she might want him? Lord of his own hall though he might have been-but what a hall! The farmland surrounding his keep had lain fallow for years. The forests were likely thick with thieves. And it wasn't as if he could go to the continent to better his situation. There was most certainly no welcome for him in France, despite how generous Louis might be with his understanding. He had been accused of witchcraft. What would Abigail want with a husband of that ilk?
”-and when I lost my job, he broke up with me and took off. Next door, to be exact. To Bunny Ann Bartlett's apartment.” But, oh, to have had the chance to try to win her. He looked at her and, to his surprise, felt himself longing for the chance like he'd longed for nothing else in years, save his knight's spurs. To hear his name come from those lush lips with the same tones of love as she used when speaking of her husband- ”-a total putz. He kept bottles of hairspray and mousse at my apartment for emergency touch-ups.
There were times I had to take a putty knife to the bathroom floor just to get the stuff up-”
To be the one she gazed at with longing, to be the one she welcomed to her bed each night- ”-of course, I think it's because I wouldn't sleep with him. Garretts don't do that until after marriage,
you know. So, he left me. Bunny probably hit the sheets with him the minute he walked through her door.”
Miles blinked. He realized he hadn't heard everything she'd said. And he'd understood even less.
”Bunny?” he asked.
”Brett's new girlfriend. They're getting married soon.”
”Your husband is marrying someone else?”
Abigail looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. ”Husband! Are you kidding? I never would have married that creep! I only got engaged to him because I was so miserable after Sir Sweetums met his unhappy kitty end. I knew Brett never really wanted to marry me. He was just using me for my ultra hold mousse.”
Miles shook his head, feeling mightily confused. ”Then you aren't wed?”
”Of course not!”
”Oh,” he said.
Then he understood.
”Aaahh,” he said, feeling himself start to smile. He couldn't help it. A feeling of relief started at his toes
and worked its way upward until it settled on his mouth. ”The saints be praised for that!”
Abigail leaned forward and felt his forehead. ”You aren't feverish,” she muttered.
”Indeed, I am most certainly not,” he said, grasping her hand and hauling her onto his lap. He beamed at
her. ”And you are not wed.”
”Boy, nothing gets by you, does it?”
He ignored her mocking tone in favor of contemplating his next action. ”I believe I've heard enough,” he
announced. ”I'm going to kiss you now.”
She eluded his lips and managed to slip out of his arms and plant herself back on her stool. Miles
frowned.
”Perhaps I was unclear-” he began, reaching for her again.
”Miles!”
”What?” he said, feeling his frown settle into a scowl.
”You can't kiss me. You haven't heard what I have to tell you.”
”You aren't wed. What else could I possibly need to know?”
She clapped her hands on her knees, then rose with exaggerated care. ”I am having a serious case of low blood sugar and you are not helping matters. I need something to eat. I don't suppose you have anything with chocolate in it, do you?”
”Chocolate?”
”Of course not,” she groaned and walked off toward the kitchen. ”It's too early in time for chocolate.”
Miles followed after her grumbling self into his pitifully kept kitchen. He watched her rummage through the stores his father's men had unloaded onto one of the tables, and found himself wondering just what it was she had to tell him. Had she left her home without permission? There was her former fiance to consider. The betrothal had been broken, obviously, but was that enough to have made her flee her home?
”Abigail,” he said, ”perhaps then you should tell me of your sire. I will no doubt need to get word to him that you are well.” There, now he would have the entire tale.
She turned around with a loaf of bread in her hand. ”You can't,” she said, softly. ”He's dead.”
”Oh,” Miles said, quietly. ”Forgive me.”