The Unconventional Maiden by June Francis Page A

said in a low voice.
    ‘For your eyes only,’ he said drily.
    ‘Indeed.’ She hesitated before adding in a stiff little voice, ‘I must beg pardon for my rudeness to you yesterday. You were right. I know little about you.’
    She had surprised him and he found himself saying, ‘I accept your apology. I would like to ask where you would hide your scribblings if you did not want anyone to find them?’
    A tiny laugh escaped her. ‘Do you take me for a fool?’
    ‘No. I give you my word that I will not read anything you write without your permission. I cannot say fairer than that,’ he said, taking up his knife.
    How could she believe him when he had already done exactly that? ‘Allow me time to consider your question.’
    ‘Certainly.’
    She hesitated. ‘Does this conversation mean that you will return my writing implements to me?’
    ‘There is little point. You need new writing implements, more ink and, of course, paper,’ replied Gawain, thinking that perhaps it would be a mistake to try to prevent her from writing altogether. ‘You will need to visit the stationer’s in Tenderden. You have coin?’
    ‘Enough,’ she said, wondering if his manner was genuine.
    ‘Then I will meet you in front of the house within the hour,’ he said. ‘And bring a cloak with you. It can be chilly down by the river and it’s possible we’re in for a change of weather.’
    ‘I appreciate the warning,’ said Beth, flashing him a smile as she hurried out.
    Gawain thought that when she smiled at him so delightfully, he really did want to kiss her again. He could almost feel her soft lips beneath his and scowled; he must not allow himself to be tempted to ravage them again or he just might find himself featuring in that news sheet of hers in the guise of a rogue in a dramatic tale.
    Beth stood outside the front of the house, gazing up at the white clouds that moved like sailing ships blown by the wind against an expanse of deep blue sky. Despite the mixed emotions she felt every time she thought of her father and Jonathan, she looked forward to the outing. At the moment it did not look the least bit like rain, but she was no weather seer and could only hope Sir Gawain was mistaken.
    She did not have long to wait before he appeared, riding a horse and leading another. He dismounted, helped her into the saddle and then led the way along the path towards the main highway. Living in London, Beth scarcely ever rode a horse and would have much preferred to ride pillion behind him, but pride prevented her from admitting her lack of horsemanship and she could only pray that he would not urge his horse into a gallop and expect her to keep up with him.
    Fortunately there was no need for her to worry; he kept to a steady trot because as they approached Tenderden, the traffic on the road increased. He told her that they would not stop there now, but would do so on the return journey, weather permitting. As they drew nearer to Smallhythe, Beth thought she could smell the sea, although they were some distance from it. She followed him closely as they made their way through the narrow streets until he called a halt.
    Gawain was in the act of helping her to dismount when a voice hailed him. He turned to face a stocky young man with a shock of reddish-brown hair and a broad flat face with a snub nose. ‘James, it is good tosee you,’ said Gawain, taking the young man’s hand and shaking it. ‘Fare you well?’
    ‘Very well, thank you, Sir Gawain,’ said James, grinning. ‘Mildred and I are to be married and we would be honoured if you and Mary would come to the wedding.’
    After the barest hesitation, Gawain asked, ‘When is the ceremony to be?’
    ‘Not until the beginning of August when my elder brother, Hugh, hopes to be able to preside at the ceremony,’ replied James.
    ‘I saw Father Hugh briefly a few days ago,’ said Gawain. ‘I remembered when he was in charge of your family shipyard that he was a regular visitor to