Snapped out of the doldrums by the return of his table companions, he levered himself to his feet briefly as good manners dictated. It would have been better if he hadn’t looked across at Samantha. Her enticing breasts heaved as she gasped for breath. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright. His cock saluted her innocent beauty.
She’s the one, the voice repeated.
“It’s unfortunate you don’t dance, Sergeant Cullen,” she gushed. “I love to dance.”
His resolve to leave before he said something he might regret was stymied by Mr. Hindley.
“I understand the bridge designer is your uncle.”
Parker might have known his relationship with Judson would be common knowledge in the village. Aware Hindley stood to lose business with the coming of the railway across the Severn, he chose his reply carefully, trying not to look into Samantha’s wide-eyed gaze. “Yes. Although we rarely see each other.”
“Will you be at the official opening?”
Parker could think of a thousand things he’d rather do than sit on a grandstand in the howling gale forecast for the next day. “Probably. You?” He recognized his mistake when Hindley scowled.
“We’ll watch from my boat.”
“We’re all going,” Grace blurted out. “We’ll have the best view of all.”
Parker met Samantha’s gaze. It was lunacy but he convinced himself her eyes held a silent plea. The voice egged him on. “That sounds like an excellent adventure. Would you have room for one more passenger?”
MIXED FEELINGS
Parker awoke after a restless night. He wasn’t sure why he’d been so keen to ride the ferry with the Hindleys. His uncle would be disappointed not to see him on the grandstand. He really ought to forego the ferry, but the desire to see the beautiful Samantha again was too strong.
He was letting himself in for a world of hurt. He’d managed to retrieve his cane from under his chair and slip out of the village hall the previous evening when the Hindley women left to go to the ladies’ powder room. Bill Hindley was procuring more punch. There was no way he’d be able to conceal his limp if he boarded the boat. Samantha would likely react negatively to his disability. He should be used to it by now, but an inner yearning hoped she might be different. Not that it mattered. She was engaged to another man.
Still, there was something about Samantha that drew him.
The other thing that had kept him tossing during the night was the remembrance of the other-worldly voice he’d heard during his walk home on Christmas Day. At the time, he’d put it down to his imagination but, the more he considered it, the more certain he became he had seen the strange bank of fog. And heard the voice.
He raked his fingers through his hair, the worddisasterplaying on his mind. “Your policeman’s mind,” he admonished himself. As for hisheart’s desire, he’d been feeling ridiculously sorry for his bachelor existence.
However, instinct had guided him to intercept the assassin who planned to attack the queen. Had he not listened to his inner voice, the assassination attempt might have succeeded.
Was it too much of a coincidence that the foretelling of disaster had come just as the longest railway bridge in England was to be officially opened? Or was he just overly suspicious and imagining things? The powers that be would think he was losing his mind if he tried to forewarn them. “Oh, by the way, a voice in a fog bank warned me there is going to be a disaster.”
After breakfast, he checked his pocket watch and decided he had enough time to walk to his uncle’s house—just to apprise himself of the security precautions that had been put in place. And to come up with an explanation as to why he wouldn’t be on the grandstand.
* * *
“Still thinking about the handsome policeman?” Grace whispered, jolting Samantha back to the bowl of oatmeal in front of her.
“No,” she lied, exasperated she couldn’t seem to get the man out of her thoughts. He’d left the village hall without a word while she was in the powder room. Disappointing—and rude.
“You’ll see him again this afternoon when he boards the ferry,” her sister said.
Samantha shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I doubt he’ll turn up.”
“Good morning, girls,” her father enthused, taking his seat at the breakfast table. “An exciting day.”
“I’d hardly call it that,” their mother replied, emerging from the kitchen with a plate of fried sausage, tomatoes and eggs. “This bridge means our ruination.”
Her husband accepted the plate. “Not necessarily. We must look on the bright side. After all, it is Christmas.”
Try as she might, Samantha couldn’t see a bright side to the ferry losing business but her father had always been an incurable optimist.
“It will take a long while before people trust the trains to make it across the bridge safely,” he said, slicing into the sausage. “But they’ll want to see it, and the river is the best vantage point, wouldn’t you agree?”