She bounded from her piano bench, slipped to her knees, and eased open the window. “What are you doing?” she whispered. “Mrs. Morrey shall have both our necks if she finds you here—”
“Come with me.”
“What?”
He bent closer and cupped his mouth. “Come. With. Me.”
“Shhh! I quite heard you. I only meant that you should explain where it is I am meant to come with you.”
“Mr. Ribton is without need of me today, and I have spent the morning with Mr. Abram. He is desirous that I should sell his pig.”
“What?”
“His pi—”
“Yes, yes, but why?”
“Because the pig is fat, and the fellow is putting together every farthing he owns in hopes of earning fare to America.”
“America? Why should he want to go there?”
“To be free.” William reached in and captured her hand. “Are you coming, then?”
An unbidden emotion spiraled from the warmth of his fingers around hers. She should have tugged free. She should have gone back to her piano bench. She should have, only …
“Well?”
“Mrs. Morrey.” Isabella glanced back at the closed music room door. “If I go out, she shall see.”
“She is but a housekeeper.”
“Who shall have an unfavorable report for Father upon his return.” “Then climb out here.” Lifting her hand, William inched back and reached for her. “If you are not afraid to be seen with a stable hand, that is.”
She glanced once more at the music room door, a hundred warnings whispering through her—all in the fussy housekeeper’s voice. She heeded none of them. Gathering her dress in her fist, she climbed through the window and leapt to the ground, heart racing when William grabbed her hand and started running.
What a naughty, reckless child she was being.
Somehow, she did not care a whit.
“Warm enough?”
“Yes.” With the oversized gloves he’d given her, she tucked the grey woolen blanket around herself and grinned. “I have never been to sell a pig before.”
Amusement gathered in his throat. “To tell you the truth, neither have I.”
“What sport. I daresay, none of my friends shall have a story such as this.” She tucked her arm in his—for warmth, no doubt.
His heart thumped. A strange reaction, but one that settled into the pit of his stomach.
“Not that I would tell them. Can you imagine the look on Sophia Kettlewell’s face?”
“Yes.” A small laugh. “I can.” From the bed of the wagon, George Washington the pig snorted in frustration at a pothole, and a chilly March breeze rushed over the land. The air carried brisk smells of land and sea, musky and pleasing scents. Despite the cold, no clouds gathered in the sky, and the sun shone as brightly as it ever did in June.
She smiled up at him. She didn’t say anything, and he was clueless as to the reason for such a smile. How quick, thoughtless, and effortless it had been—before she turned back to the countryside, sighed, and leaned her head against his shoulder.
Emotion burned within him. How many kinds of a fool was he? But like a moth flutters to a flame, he could not help himself. She was his lifeline. Just as much as she’d been at Sharottewood, when he’d felt the life trying to seep from his soul, or at Lord Manigan’s when a different kind of death had loomed within him.
He needed her.
