“Stewed mutton sounds wonderful right about now,” Diantha mumbled.
He smiled his slight smile and came to her. “Wishing for roast and shepherd’s pie?” He grasped her by the waist and drew her off the horse. The moment her feet met the earth he released her, but he did not move away and she was obliged to pretend to him up close that his hands on her hadn’t felt like heaven. Her knees and behind were wretchedly sore, but a tingle danced inside her now where he had touched her so deeply the night before.
“I don’t suppose anyone is cooking stewed mutton for dinner inside?”
“I doubt it. But let us see how matters lie within before we relinquish hope of dinner entirely.” He moved toward the front door.
She followed. “I thought we were to rest in the stable. Do you intend to enter the house?”
“I do.”
Owen came around from the opposite side. “All’s clear, sir.”
Mr. Yale climbed the two steps to the door, a heavy wooden panel without adornment, and she went behind him. Closer, the stone seemed to be a subtle pink.
“But what if they return without notice?”
“Then we will hope they are gracious hosts. And Owen will keep a watch on the drive from the gatehouse. Owen, how would you like turning your talents to guard duty?”
“It’d be better than the mines, sir.”
“You see? All is well.” But his eyes gleamed with an odd intensity. Diantha followed as he ascended the stoop. He tried the door latch.
“Locked,” Mrs. Polley harrumphed.
He reached into his coat and withdrew a leather case no larger than a billfold.
Diantha peered around his shoulder. “What is that?”
“Why are you whispering?” he replied as quietly. He opened the case with hands slick with rainwater and withdrew two tiny metal tools.
“Because what you are doing there seems remarkably clandestine.”
“No doubt it is.”
She wished he wore gloves. She wished she could not see his capable hands that made her feel weak all over.
“What are those tools, Mr. Yale?”
“They are a lock pick, Miss Lucas.” He fit it into the keyhole.
“I suppose I should be shocked that you carry a lock pick in your topcoat pocket.”
“Yet it seems you are not.”
“That would be remarkably silly of me by now, wouldn’t it?”
“Probably.” Two metallic clicks sounded from the door. With the picks still in the keyhole, he lifted the latch. “Push on the door, if you will.”
She reached past his shoulder. “What do you do when you haven’t a third hand to do this for you?”
“On those occasions I do not break into houses, of course.” The door remained fast. “It is bolted from within.” He released the handle.
Her teeth clacked and she gripped her sodden cloak tighter about her. “What will we do now?”
“Try the back door. Remain here, if you will.” He moved down the steps and around the rosebushes, Ramses trailing after.
In minutes a clunking sound came from within and upon heavy hinges the door swung open. Mr. Yale stepped back and bowed.
“Welcome to Abbaty Fran Ddu, ladies.”
She stepped into the foyer, dragging off her sodden bonnet. It was a modest space and well appointed with dark wooden paneling, a graceful iron chandelier, and a tiled floor. The scent of dust was heavy upon the still air, but no mold.
“It is so modern. And wonderfully dry. I feel badly dragging in all our rain.”
“As nice a place as I’ve seen, for all it being hid away in a valley.” Mrs. Polley looked shrewdly about.
“How do you know the name of this house, Mr. Yale?”
He took Mrs. Polley’s coat and her cloak, and gestured toward a row of servants’ bells above an open doorway. Beside the bells hung an embroidered frame with the words ABBATY FRAN DDU picked out delicately in green and blue silk.
“Owen will bring in the luggage then light a fire. I suspect there is a parlor above.” He motioned toward a staircase winding up from the foyer.
“Oh, but we cannot possibly go upstairs. We should remain here. The kitchen must be down that corridor. You have not removed your coat.”
“I must see to the horses. But the place is empty. Be at your leisure. See to your comforts and your companion’s first, then if you will, investigate the kitchen. The lad will not fare well for much longer without dinner.”
“And me as well, you mean.”
He offered a hint of a smile then bowed and went through the front door again.
Chapter 13
She moved about the house in obvious appreciation. Wyn watched her discovering, drawn to follow her as though he had not trodden these floors thousands of times before. Every opening door drew another smile from her, another murmur of pleasure.
“It is all so lovely, though remarkably dusty.” She ran her finger along a windowsill in the East Parlor. “Perhaps the owners have been away for some time.”
Five years. “Perhaps.”
“We should confine ourselves to only this chamber, and try not to disturb too much. And we must leave compensation for food and fuel.”
“There’s peat to spare.” Owen set a brick of dried earth in the grate and the musky scent twined throughout the chamber. The chimney was blessedly clean. No one had inhabited this house in five years, but it had not been left entirely untended.
She peeked under a Holland cover. “The furniture is in very fine condition. And everything is so neat and tidy and well appointed. I think a woman lives here. A woman of excellent taste. I wonder where she is now? London, perhaps, where I will soon be, and though she has been my hostess I won’t even know if I pass her by on the street.”
She drew a cover off a chair and folded it, dust swirling in the air. Her nose twitched, and she passed the back of her hand across it unselfconsciously. She hadn’t the manners of a town lady; the country girl clung, unspoiled. Yet she was wise in reading others. Except him.
She had changed her clothing and wore now a simple gown of moss green that left her neck and arms bare but for the shawl about her elbows. She had creamy skin, a graceful neck and beautiful shape, and looking upon her Wyn was thirsty. He craved her. His heart beat fast, his breaths short. He wanted to touch her, to explore her satin skin with his hands and mouth, to caress her everywhere.
It was the liquor calling, making him crave.
“How long will we remain here?” She came to his side. “Overnight?”
“Perhaps a day or two.” Until young William arrived with the baron, or Kitty came from London. “We must make certain Eads is well away from the road before we turn back east.”
“Mrs. Polley was grumbling again about this detour. But she has made herself comfortable in the kitchen. She even found an unspoiled jar of oil and another of flour. It seems she enjoys baking.” She smiled, the dimples denting her pale cheeks.
Wyn went to the door. “Owen, come along to the gatehouse with me. We will see you settled in.”
The lad walked beside him along the drive. “Sir . . .” He kicked a stone with his toe.
“Owen?”
“You’re not telling her, then, about this place?”
“I am not telling her.”
“She’s a good one, sir.”
“She is indeed.”
“Mr. Guyther says he can’t hold the fold up in the hills many more weeks.”
“We shan’t be here weeks, Owen. Days only. And Mr. Guyther will do as I say. As will you, I trust.” He halted and set his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You must not tell her. If she knows, she will leave here and put herself in danger.” But now he questioned whether she would, even if he told her the truth. She was reckless, yes, but perhaps now wiser than when she’d set out upon her quest. Perhaps, in fact, she merely possessed desires beyond her situation in life—desires she could not easily fulfill, like rescuing her mother, and being touched by a man.