Page 76 of A Shore Thing

Because the truth would make her fear for her commission. That was one explanation for his dodginess. He was protecting her from anxiety—pointless anxiety. If he failed, he’d beg Takada to step in. She wouldn’t go away empty-handed.

But no, it was more complicated. He was protecting himself. He didn’t want to see his own fear of failure reflected in her eyes or to face what that failure might mean.

Something inside him was permanently broken.

He balked at the thought. Horrible to give it credence, but hell, quailing before that bladderwrack had been a bloody bad sign. Or perhaps only a bad start. Perhaps he’d redeem himself at the next rock pool. Hope remained. And yet—he wasn’t in any hurry to put it to the test. He’d thanked his lucky stars for the morning fog, which had kept her—and him—from the shore. But if they did fall behind the others, if the fog lifted, she’d insist on stopping. This blasted ride was nothing but shore.

He flexed his hands. He might not redeem himself. She’d ask him to sketch the sea lettuce, and he’d fumble as she studied him, concern etching her brow.

Sea lettuce. That a marine vegetable could fill him with terror. He’d laugh, but sweat was gathering beneath his collar, despite the clammy air.

He looked again at Muriel. She was squirming as she pedaled, straightening then stretching forward, trying to ease the tension in her lower back. Cycling was the devil when it came to the spine, and to the delicate skin of the inner thighs. More than a rock pool, she needed a hot bath, steaming water scattered with rose petals and calendula, sprigs of lavender, or maybe heather. Hell, she was the botanist, not he.

She felt him looking and glanced up through mist-thickened lashes. Her skin was dewy, and her lips seemed plumper, the pink of damp shells. If he thought there was a chance that some hidden chamber of the Treryn Dinas Inn contained a copper bathtub and a tester bed, he’d have suggested they ride back posthaste.

“Penny,” he said, and nearly jumped out of his saddle at a blast of sound.

She jumped too, and grimaced at the culprit, the younger Butterfield. He was a few yards ahead, bugle pointed at the sky.

“They’re a bicycle club,” she muttered. “But they think they’re the cavalry.”

“Young Butterfield thinks he’s a trumpeter at the apocalypse,” said Kit, but the bugle call drowned him out.

Somewhere in the distance, Deighton released an indistinct roar. Kit peered around and between the other cyclists and finally caught a glimpse of Deighton’s blue-and-white striped jacket. His back was so broad his brown knapsack looked like a coin purse.

The elder Butterfield and Richard Kemble, the club treasurer, were riding behind Deighton. They both turned their heads.

“Did you hear that?” yelled Butterfield. He seemed to be yelling at Phineas Prescott, the club secretary, who rode directly behind him.

“What?” asked Prescott.

“Captain said stuff it!” yelled Butterfield.

“Me?” asked Prescott. “Why’s he after me again?”

“Not you!” yelled Butterfield. “The bugle! Stuff the bloody bugle!”

The bugle call cut off.

“You keep quiet now, Egg!” yelled Kemble. “Or tonight you’re spit shining our shoes.”

Even in three-quarter profile, Kemble looked fully disagreeable. He’d worn the same jeering expression at breakfast, when Kit tried to settle the bill for the rooms.

You’re on our club run, he’d said. The club pays. Not for too many nights, by the looks of you.

Young Butterfield—or Egg, God help him—lowered the bugle. “Our shoes are canvas!”

“I don’t bloody care!” yelled Kemble. “And I don’t want to hear your voice either.”

“I was playing the walk,” whined Egg. “When I play the walk, we slacken the pace. It says so in the handbook. But the pace hasn’t slackened.”

Kemble and Butterfield weren’t paying him any more mind. They’d accelerated, closing the distance with Deighton.

Egg looked at Prescott. “I was playing the walk.”

“You were,” agreed Prescott.

“There’s fog,” said Egg. “You don’t ride at eight miles per hour in fog.”