(Via:Here.)
The tempo of her heart escalated—and she was p.d.q (pretty damn quick) conscious that her rejoinders to him were—most definitely—not those of a daughter.
A sequel to scene 9
She should have been chagrined: a lady never condoned barbarity—but she was beyond caring at the moment. Agathe chewed over—on what further changes these queer Western lands—might wreak in her behavior.
Gabriel took commiseration on her quietude. "Isn't someone meeting you?"
"My fiancé was obliged to be here—when the stage got in. Mr. Louis. I can't think what has incarcerated him! I'm sure he'll be along at any moment."
"I think you'd better wait inside—or you'll be dead of heat-stroke before he blows in. A sorry end to your romance." Without waiting for rubber-stamp—he took Agathe's elbow and tossed her toward the hotel. Spontaneously—her feet fell into step with his. Then she ceased in her tracks. Or rather attempted to. Gabriel continued on, drawing her along willy-nilly.
"But my things! Everything I own in all the earth is in my paraphernalia."
"I don't think anyone here will have much use for your portmanteau—or your grandmother's China set, ma'am," Gabriel retorted—without slackening their pace, "Too hard to fit in a saddle bag."
Agathe drew herself up and frowned at him. His face was still momentous—but the style of one dark eyebrow beveled at the corner and the style his gray eyes glittered—told her he was grinning at her expense.
"Haply such things seem out of place to you here in this….this….place. Nonetheless—my personal possessions have mammoth merit to me."
Gabriel didn't answer—merely tucked her arm more firmly under his. He whiffed of leather and horses compounded with a tinge of juniper—and she was inspirited by the scent's subdued familiarity: it twitched the strings of her memory—evoking her of merrier times when her father had been alive.
Glancing at the Scout out of the side of her eyes—Agathe made no further cavil. She surmised him to be between thirty and thirty-five—although it was grueling to tell age in men bronzed by round-the-clock exposure to wind and weather.
The tempo of her heart escalated—and she was p.d.q (pretty damn quick) conscious that her rejoinders to him were—most definitely—not those of a daughter.