“Aye.” Owen nodded, frowning. “But I don’t like it, sir.”
Wyn wanted a brandy. Whiskey. Whatever it would take. “Neither do I.”
Mrs. Polley concocted a modest dinner from the pantry that was well stocked with pickled and dried foods, and simple oatcakes she baked on the grate over the peat fire in the kitchen. Miss Lucas ate happily, and the boy filled his mouth and stared at her guiltily, while the matron ran a commentary about the house. Wyn barely attended. As the evening progressed, the prickly jitters in his blood increased to a cry then a roar that he struggled to ignore. But it was of little use. He could think of nothing but brandy and the maiden sitting across the room—both unprofitable desires.
He went to the stable and tended the horses, pulling hay and oats from the supply Owen had brought from the house of Aled Guyther, the abbey’s land steward. He walked the perimeters of the estate’s wild gardens and walls, and along the sodden, mossy irrigation canal that ran to the stream. He looked into the gatehouse again. Then he saddled Galahad and set out across the hills where no animals grazed now because his orders to Guyther, conveyed by Owen, specified that the place be emptied of people and livestock. Now he could go speak with Guyther, but instead he avoided the path to the village a mile distant and the tiny pub there, as well as the modest chapel with the cemetery and a five-year-old grave he had not yet seen, had not yet visited.
The hills grew dark beneath steady rain, and finally he returned to the house. The drawing room with its dusty bottles tucked into the sideboard cabinet beckoned. He didn’t care what was in those bottles. His very marrow wanted their contents.
She met him at the parlor door, silhouetted in firelight and Mrs. Polley’s snores.
“I heard you come in. You must be exhausted. You don’t look well.” Her eyes were tired but soft. He stepped close to her to feel her warmth and to tease himself for a moment that there could be some satisfaction had this night.
“You know precisely how to bolster a man’s confidence.”
“In fact I find you remarkably handsome, but you no doubt already know that, and anyway, fine London ladies probably tell you that all the time so it isn’t any marvelous surprise that I would too. But I don’t know how you manage to maintain it here. I am a soggy, crumpled mess. My mother will be horrified when she sees me. But you appear elegant even soaked with rain.” Her blue eyes turned up, wide now and as hungry as the need within him.
“Good night, Miss Lucas.” He turned toward the stair.
“Where are you going?
“To sleep. I suggest you find a comfortable spot and do the same.”
“Where?”
He gestured along the corridor.
Slender brows shot up. “In a bedchamber?”
“That is usually where one sleeps.” And did other things that he wanted to do to her now.
“But—”
A sneeze interrupted Mrs. Polley’s snores. She coughed then settled back into sleep.
Miss Lucas’s brow dipped. “I think she took a chill today. I suggested she make a soothing broth from the dried meat but she scoffed at that. I am an indifferent cook.” She shrugged lightly. “It is a very good thing we shan’t be here long and that Mrs. Polley likes the kitchen, or else we would certainly starve.”
He could not entirely resist her good humor. “No doubt you have other talents.”
“Oh, I can embroider up a storm and do a fine watercolor of a garden trellis. Truly useful skills under present circumstances.”
He smiled. “Eating is overrated.”
“I’ve no doubt you believe so. I, on the other hand, am still famished.” She placed a hand beneath her breasts, over her stomach. “Do you really intend for us to remain here more than a night?”
“Through tomorrow night. Longer if Mrs. Polley is ill.”
She seemed to study him, her gaze dipping to his mouth. “I have something I must say to you.”
He bowed. “As you please.”
“Earlier today, when you said I save lost souls, you seemed puzzled, as though speaking of a foreign thing. But I don’t think it is as foreign to you as you allow.” Her fingertips pressed into her ribs, her gaze steady upon him. “I think—I know—you have helped people before this.”
They had all been assignments, means to ends. Not like this woman whose touch when she’d taken his hand earlier had nearly sent him to his knees on the muddy road. She looked up at him now not with the eyes of infatuation. Infatuation he recognized; he’d seen it plenty of times. This was different. This he could not entirely fathom and did not want.
“Whether I have or have not is immaterial to our situation now.” Their situation in which he lied to her and lusted after her at once. “See to your companion’s comfort then find a place yourself to sleep and get some rest.” Taking a candle from the foyer table, he went up to the drawing room. In the dark chamber filled with furniture that looked like ghosts beneath their covers, he opened the cabinet. The bottles gleamed dully. His hand shook as he reached for the nearest.
Owen woke him in the rainy depths of the night. Inside the gatehouse, young William slumped against a wall, sleeping. Ramses bathed his narrow face with his tongue and William roused and told Wyn what he feared: Lord Carlyle could not be found in Devon, nor the Earl or Countess of Savege. All were in London already, it seemed. As instructed, William had spoken his secret to no one and come swiftly here.
Wyn cursed himself. He had been a fool to send to Devon first. But he hadn’t truly believed she would not be deterred. He had made many mistakes with her and was possibly in the process of making the worst yet.
He bid Owen feed the messenger, gave William a sack of coins, and instructed the youth to be on his way the moment the sun rose. Then he set off again onto the hills of his great-aunt’s estate, sleep never farther and thirst dragging at him like the rain that showed no sign of abating. With the dog in his footsteps he walked until dawn when, far up in the sheep fields, he found a hollow of rocks he’d frequented as a child. In those days he had made of it a fort from which he conquered the flocks as though they were dragons set upon destroying his great-aunt’s castle.
It was nominally dry. He settled into it, Ramses tucking into a ball beneath the mantle of his coat.
He did not sleep. The cruel humming in his blood would not allow it. Instead he thought of Diantha Lucas, of her need and desires, and for the first time in his life knew not what path to take next.
When the sky lightened and he finally stood to shake off the night, to find his limbs weak, his head light, and hands trembling beyond his ability to still them, every fiber in his body wanted brandy. Then he finally understood the path before him. It suited him well enough. That it was going to be a hellish several days until Kitty Blackwood arrived from London, he had no doubt. But if it kept Diantha Lucas in one place, he would do it. His demons had ruled him long enough.
“Eggs!” Mrs. Polley trumpeted her red nose into a rag and upon her opposite palm produced a little brown treasure. The hen from which she had taken it seemed unperturbed.
Diantha’s stomach rumbled. She licked her lips—without Mr. Yale anywhere in sight to inspire it. Remarkable.
“Those are some right small eggs,” Owen said skeptically.
Diantha shrugged. “They will still taste divine. Perhaps the chickens are small?”
Mrs. Polley tucked her hand beneath another feathered belly and withdrew a second treasure. “It’s plain neither of you know a thing about fowl.”