Sinclair went as rigid as a board beside her. His arm beneath her fingers bunched and tightened and he took a step forward, clearly ready to intercede on her behalf, but she tugged him back with a swift shake of her head. She did not require a protector, and she did not need a public disaster. Neither one of them needed that spectacle.

The stranger stopped directly before them. The man was broad of frame and nearly as tall as Sinclair. She resisted the urge to shrink back. She was accustomed to judgmental stares, but no one, especially no stranger, had ever confronted her so very openly or aggressively.

Even after Papa’s death, when her family was at their poorest, she had been accorded civility from her fellow residents of Brambledon.

Still keeping a tight grip on Sinclair’s arm, she forced herself to square her shoulders and stand tall in the face of his glower. She had no reason to be frightened, after all. “I have just as much right to be here as you, sir.”

His face, if possible, reddened further and she realized she had shocked him. He did not expect her to challenge him. Evidently he was not accustomed to such oppositional behavior from females. She was serving up all manner of surprises to this man today.

His mouth opened and closed before he spit out, “Impertinent chit!”

A low growl sounded from the vicinity of Sinclair beside her. She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. She sensed as much as she observed passersby stopping to gawk at them and the spectacle they were creating. She needed to do her best to keep things from escalating even more.

“Why?” she asked in an even voice. “Because I dare to improve my mind?” If he could address her so rudely, then she could resort to bluntness, too. “What are you so afraid of? That women might gain the wisdom to rise up against men like you?”

One of the nearby gawkers pointed at them and she overheard a whispered, “Birchwood.” Apparently people were accurately identifying and connecting Sinclair to Birchwood.

The man, still resembling an apoplectic fish, turned on Sinclair then. “Get your woman in hand, sirrah. She needs a tighter bridle.”

Outrage flared through her, constricting her chest. She opened her mouth to unleash on him, but Sinclair beat her to it, replying in a mockingly genial voice, “She is not my woman, sir. She is her own person. And the last time I verified . . . wait, let me be certain.” He stepped back from Nora and scrutinized her. Pinching his chin, he looked her up and down leisurely. “It appears she is no horse in need of bridling. She looks quite human to me.”

Now the stranger’s red face was more purple. Clearly he had expected some form of support from Sinclair.

The man’s eyes narrowed and he pointed at Sinclair in a stabbing motion. “I know who you are.”