Page 42 of For Your Arms Only

“What of Mr. Webb?”

“Tom?” Her voice rose in surprise. “He— Tom is like family, but he’s not, really. He was in the army with Papa and came to visit on furlough, years ago, then just kept coming back. He said he hasn’t got a family to go home to, so he adopted us.”

Alec had tried without success to get anything helpful out of Webb. He held up the bottle, and she thrust out her glass. He filled it, then relaxed back in his chair. “So he and your father are great friends.”

“Not really.” She seemed startled. “Papa hasn’t got friends,” she added slowly. “He has companions and admirers. He can charm a pub full of people into buying him rounds and keep them all laughing well into the night. Tom’s not like that.”

“Did Mr. Webb make any attempt to find your father?”

She hesitated. “He offered. We didn’t want him to go.” Alec affected a mildly curious expression. “We need him,” she explained. “And I—I don’t think he had any idea where to look for Papa.”

She wasn’t telling him all, but Alec could guess. Turner had two attractive daughters. That might have caused Webb to stay. But Turner wanted them to marry well, likely better than a common soldier. Webb might have been all too pleased to see the man disappear. Alec made a note to look into that.

Miss Turner fidgeted in her seat, then burst out. “I must apologize to you, Major. I’ve doubted you every step of the way and been wrong every time.”

“Was it doubt, or prudence?” He nodded at her surprised expression. “Why should you have blindly trusted a total stranger, arriving unexpectedly and declaring he was going to investigate something which must be deeply painful to your family? You were entirely correct to doubt.”

“But I was wrong, Major,” she insisted.

He clicked his tongue. “Please don’t call me Major, Miss Turner.”

Her face was pink. She drank more wine. “I can’t call you Alec unless you call me Cressida, and that seems a very bold thing to ask!”

He smiled even as his heart skipped a beat. “And you’re not bold, going to face down a prospective horse thief with a single pistol?”

“That was foolish!” she exclaimed.

He shrugged. “But also damned bold, and undeniably brave.”

“No!” She was struggling not to laugh, to Alec’s pleasure. “It was reckless!”

“It’s often a very thin line between reckless and brave,” he countered. “And mainly decided by the outcome of the venture. Succeed, and you’re the bravest of the brave. Fail, and you were rash and reckless.”

“Nonsense,” she said, finally giving in to a reluctant laugh.

“Universal truth,” he countered. “So be bold, and call me Alec.”

She gulped more wine. She must be rather tipsy by now; he’d kept pouring the wine, hoping it would loosen her reserve, or at least her tongue.

With a sudden start she jumped to her feet. On instinct he did, too, and for a fraught moment they faced each other, so closely he could see how dilated her eyes were and how rapidly the pulse beat in her throat. She was definitely tipsy.

“If I call you Alec, people will think we’re⁠—”

“Friends,” he interrupted, putting out his hand. Now was not the moment to press his luck. “I would like that. If it’s all right with you. . . Cressida.”

She stared at his hand, then at his face. “Friends,” she repeated softly, then put her hand in his. “Alec.”

Chapter Seventeen

Cressida woke the next morning in the surprisingly comfortable inn bed, with its fresh-smelling linen, and listened to a distant church bell toll the hour. She ought to have a headache today, after all the wine she’d drunk last night, but she felt oddly refreshed.

Perhaps it was because she’d only had herself to care for last night, instead of having to help Granny. Perhaps the wine had made her sleep more deeply than usual. Or perhaps it was because Alec had somehow convinced her last night that he was going to find Papa.

During their conversation she’d realized that he did know Papa—not personally, but what sort of man he was. She had doubted his abilities, to her private discomfort, but no longer. If anyone could find Papa, it would be Alec Hayes.

She snuggled deeper into her pillows, stretching her toes as the last peals of the bell died away. It was eight o’clock, late for her to rise. She wondered if Alec was still abed, lying just feet away in his own bed, stretched out and warm, perhaps thinking of the long drive home together, as she was⁠—

Cressida closed her eyes and smoothed the blankets over herself. He’d never been anything other than a perfect gentleman, but she was having wayward thoughts about him anyway. It was bad enough that he was handsome and competent. Last night he’d also been charming and thoughtful, and laid out her character so neatly she’d almost burst into tears. He called her bold and brave and—most surprisingly of all—friend.