“Eat hearty,” Bell advised with a grin before he withdrew once more from the room.
Nick sipped his coffee. “I’d take Bell’s advice if I were you. We have a long day in store and you’ll need your strength.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” she teased.
Surprise warmed his eyes, a smile playing over his mouth. Turning over his newspaper, he began to read.
In happy, companionable silence, she continued her meal.
Chapter 6
“Oh my, I think my heart just stopped!” Emma exclaimed that afternoon as she sat next to Nick in the stands at Astley’s Royal Amphitheatre.
The crowd burst into a welter of riotous applauses, cheering for the amazing rider who stood upright on the backs of two galloping horses. Somehow, moments ago, he had managed to pluck a handkerchief off the ground, the fluttering white cloth now held proudly aloft in his raised hand.
In her entire life, she’d never seen anything to rival the feats of skill and daring achieved by the troop of equestrian riders as they performed one astonishing trick after another. The men and their steeds were every bit as amazing as advertised. And just as Nick had warned, the theater was crowded and overly warm, the interior ripe with the scents of horseflesh, straw, human sweat, and the mixture of colognes being used to disguise it. But Emma didn’t mind; the atmosphere only added to the thrill and adventure of the outing.
The horseman finished his act and rode out of the ring, exiting behind a curtain. Moments later, a trio of clowns ran onto the stage, their painted faces as comical as the humorous scene they began to pantomime.
Looking over, she met Nick’s gaze, which she found fixed on her rather than the entertainment. She smiled, lost for a moment in his eyes. Only then did she realize that she was literally hanging on to him, her right hand clenched in a fierce grip around his arm. She must have taken hold during the last act, as she waited on tenterhooks to see whether the horseman would survive unscathed.
Gently, she tried to disengage herself. “It seems I have forgotten myself.”
But Nick stopped her, catching her hand and pressing it to his sleeve. “You may forget yourself as often as you like. I shall not mind in the least. And since the next performer is a tightrope walker, you might as well stay exactly where you are so you can hang on as needed.”
He gave her one of his devastating, crooked smiles, the effect sending her pulse speeding as fast as a sharpshooter’s bullet. She was suddenly vitally aware of Nick’s large, powerful hand cradled over hers, and of how small she felt standing next to his tall, broad-shouldered body.
Gathering every ounce of her willpower, she forced herself to return her attention to the performance. But it was nearly impossible to concentrate on anything now except the man at her side.
Luckily the tightrope walker appeared as promised. He proved spectacular, and she was so terrified for him that she was soon caught up in his death-defying deeds.
At her side, Nick didn’t bother watching the acrobat. He was far more interested in watching Emma. Her face was a spectacle unto itself, revealing every emotion, each nuance of reaction from wonder to fear, from astonishment to delight.
She was clinging to him again, her fingers tight against the wool of his sleeve and the flesh and bone beneath. He kept his hand where it lay, covering hers with a protectiveness and a possessiveness that was quite unlike him.
He’d never been the jealous type. Even in his salad days, he’d regarded the emotion as a nonsensical waste of time. He preferred mature women rather than ingenues, boldly feminine females who were worldly enough to savor the mutual pleasure and passion to be found in another’s arms without any messy ties of the heart. He nearly always ended his liaisons on friendly terms with no tears or recriminations when it came time to say good-bye, as it inevitably must. He didn’t like clingy lovers—or clingy girls for that matter.
But he didn’t mind Emma hanging on to him as she alternately gasped, laughed, and sighed, the brilliant blue of her eyes sparkling with almost childlike amazement.
And she was a child in so many ways, years younger than himself and not just in terms of age. As he’d seen last night, her innocence clung to her like a second skin, along with a trust that was unwise for a young woman who was alone in the world.
Yet he could not think of her as a child, his body responding to her the way a tide followed the progress of the moon and the sun. What he could not fathom was why.
She was beautiful, yes, but he’d known other beautiful women. She was interesting, but there were many accomplished, well-educated ladies, particularly in London and other fashionable capitals of the world. Yet something about her fascinated him on a level he did not entirely understand.