The Dutch Girl by Donna Thorland Read Free Book Online Page B

youth, she had given her the resources to avoid them.
    She had carefully considered the danger to the school if Mary Phillips tattled, but never the danger to herself in the form of men like this one.
    â€œThere is time enough for a short lesson,” he suggested, pulling off her cap and brushing her lower lip with his thumb.
    For a second she froze, incapacitated by memory. Sound dwindled, her vision dimmed, and the world narrowed to the space between them. There was not enough of it, not nearly enough. She stepped back, felt rough bark impress its pattern on her shoulders through the cotton of her gown. She stepped to the right and met Tarleton’s arm, like a boom gate barring her path. She darted left and he moved to block her with his body, bringing them into closer contact than she could tolerate.
    He laughed. It was a game to him, a hunt, and her feelings mattered as much as those of a fox. “I must get back to the inn,” she said.
    â€œIn a little while,” he said.
    She tried to push him away. He captured her right hand in his. She struggled, but he was stronger and it took an act of will to stop herself from fighting him, to soften and melt as the Widow had taught her.
    This was the difficult part. Every fiber of her being screamed to push him away, but safety lay in pulling him close. Men are, as a rule, bigger, and generally they are stronger, at least physically. That does not mean you must play the victim. It means you must learn to use their size against them, as a wrestler might.
    Anna slid one hand to Tarleton’s collar and took hold of his lapel. She grasped his sleeve with the other, stepped in close . . . then turned, dropped, and threw him over her shoulder.
    Then she took off running.
    She wished then that she had not worn the dainty kid slippers, but there was nothing she could do about that now. She could hear Tarleton crashing through the underbrush after her. She knew better than to look back.
    When she reached the rear of the inn she smoothed her skirts and hurried on to the bustling taproom, where she found Mr. Ten Broeck making an end of his meal, and promptly sat down beside him.
    â€œYour walk has put color in your cheeks,” said Ten Broeck cheerfully.
    â€œYes,” agreed Anna. It had probably put another shade of red in Tarleton’s complexion. She brought her breathing back under control, grateful now for the Widow’s lessons—which had often seemed tedious andpainful at the time—and that practicing at dancing with her charges had gifted her a reasonable stock of wind and speed.
    Ten Broeck frowned now. “But you have lost your pretty cap.”
    â€œHave I? It must have gotten snagged on a tree branch.”
    It was a terrible lie, and Ten Broeck’s pursed lips told her that he did not believe it, but he did not press her, and she knew better than to tell the true tale herself. Such incidents so seldom had repercussions for the men who instigated them, but always cast a shadow over the women who related them.
    Tarleton came in a few minutes later and called for a glass of ale. From across the room he flashed her an unpleasant smile that warned her he wasn’t done with her just yet. She slid her chair closer to Mr. Ten Broeck, and he tried to ply her with pudding, but the thought of food did not appeal.
    After that she did not stray far from the estate manager’s side.
    Their journey resumed, and the afternoon passed if not comfortably, then supportably, the leagues rolling by in Ten Broeck’s pleasant,
safe
company, until the sun dipped below the horizon, and they slowed to a halt on a flat stretch of road that felt smoother than the previous miles.
    â€œAre we here?” she asked. Her back had begun to ache from sitting so long and she was hungry and eagerto be done with traveling—and to bid farewell to their escort.
    â€œNo,” said Ten Broeck, a note of concern entering his voice. “This is