Barbara Metzger Read Online Free PDF Page B

only to discard them on Christmas Eve? A heretic making a quiet statement? A distraught mourner abandoning his faith? With nothing better to occupy his mind but his own sour thoughts as he paced beside the horses, St. Cloud idly thumbed through the pages. More curious yet, the Bible was written in French, with no inscriptions or dedications. What, then? A spy shedding excess baggage as he fled the authorities? No, a fugitive would have hidden his trail, not left the evidence for the next passerby to find. Furthermore, the French pedestrian could not be a spy; St. Cloud had had his fill of adventure for the day.
    The earl chided himself for his flights of fancy, using some poor émigré bastard to take his mind off his own empty pockets and empty stomach.
    That poor émigré bastard had food. Midway up the next hill St. Cloud discovered an earthenware jug on an upturned log, with crumbs beneath it that the forest creatures hadn’t discovered yet. “Damn,” he cursed. The jug was empty, naturally. All that was left was a whiff of cider, just enough to make St. Cloud’s mouth water. He stowed the jug under the floorboard, next to the books.
    So the Frenchman was too poor for wine, and he was not far ahead. He could read, bilingually, and he was countryman enough not to leave an empty bottle where it could injure a horse and rider. St. Cloud hoped to catch up with him soon and hoped the fellow had something more to eat, to trade for a ride.
    The earl stayed afoot, looking for signs of his would-be companion. If he had been mounted or traveling faster, he would have missed the next bundle, a paper-wrapped parcel carefully placed in the crook of a tree.
    The earl looked around then, feeling foolish. He shrugged his broad shoulders and untied the string holding the soft package closed. Then he felt even more foolish for the previous observations he’d considered astute. Either the Frenchman was going to have a cold and lonely holiday after abandoning his chère amie ’s Christmas gift, or the Frenchman was a female. She would come just about to his chin, St. Cloud estimated, shaking out the white velvet, with a delicately rounded figure indeed, he knowledgeably extrapolated. The gown was not up to London standards, though an obviously expensive piece of goods, in good taste and the latest fashion.
    Not even St. Cloud’s fertile imagination could figure a scenario for a young woman—the gown was white, after all—strewing her possessions about the countryside on Christmas Eve. If this was some local ritual, it was a dashed dangerous one, with shadows lengthening and highwaymen on the prowl.
    He rewrapped the parcel and took it to the curricle, where the chestnuts were cropping grass. This time he climbed up and set the pair to a faster pace. The sooner he had some answers, the better—for his own peace of mind and for the woman’s sake.
    Nothing prepared him for the answers he found around the next bend. Hell, the answers only led to more questions.
    The woman trudging ahead was covered head to toe in a gray hooded cape. She carried a tapestry carpetbag over one elbow and an infant slung over her shoulder! What in the world would a mother and child be doing out alone miles from nowhere?
    Then she turned to face the approaching carriage as he pulled rein alongside of her, and all rational thought fled from his mind. She was exquisite, with a soft, gentle look to her. Thick eyebrows were furrowed to mix a touch of uncertainty with innocence in her big brown eyes. The babe’s head was covered by a blue blanket, reminding him of nothing so much as a Raphael masterpiece. He expected a donkey to trot out of the bushes at any moment to complete the tableau.
    Instead the woman noticed her dress parcel on the seat beside him and smiled. “Oh, you found my gown. I was hoping someone would, who could use it.” She was well-spoken and her voice was low, with no French accent or country inflection.
    “Had you tired of it, then,