“It cannot be wondered at.”
Diantha swung around. Mr. Yale stood in the shed’s doorway, arms crossed loosely, a shoulder propped against the doorjamb, the hem of his black topcoat brushing the packed dirt ground.
Her breath petered out of her. She didn’t care what she told herself—that she’d been very happy today reading, chatting with Owen, and assisting Mrs. Polley with cooking and baking tasks. Seeing him now after so many hours was beyond pleasurable.
She went to him. “Owen discovered this shed and the chickens.”
A single black brow rose and he directed a sharp look at the boy. “Did he?”
Owen tugged at his cap. “Afternoon, sir.”
“Isn’t it wonderful? We will have eggs for dinner shortly, and Mrs. Polley has baked oat bread.”
“Not that that man will eat a bite of it.” Mrs. Polley waddled to another chicken and foraged beneath it. “Hasn’t eaten a bit of anything I’ve cooked.”
He bent his head and spoke sotto voice to Diantha. “I see I have descended a rung in your companion’s estimation.”
“How is that?”
“She is speaking to me in the third person.”
“And now you are doing the same of her.”
“Yes, but I am actually speaking to you.”
Mrs. Polley harrumphed. “Too high and mighty for simple cookery.”
“Ah,” he said with his slight smile, “we have come to the root of the problem.”
“Truly, Mr. Yale.” Diantha laughed. “You are far too high and mighty. You must come down from your loft.” She leaned in close to him and resisted taking a big breath of his scent of rain and man. “You really should share dinner with us. I think she is honestly insulted.”
“I’ve no need to be begging the gentleman to eat my food. If he doesn’t like it, he can go on back to London and his perfumed chefs.”
“I would be honored to eschew my perfumed chef’s culinary offerings for yours, ma’am.” He spoke with that slight smile still, but his voice was not perfectly smooth.
“Isn’t this place curious?” Diantha gestured. “It is not a hen house, so it must not be these chickens’ regular home, I suspect, but they are laying very contentedly nonetheless.”
“Curious, indeed.” He cast Owen another glance. “One wonders what other surprises he may produce.” The boy ducked out the door and Mr. Yale followed him for a pace with his gaze then returned his regard to her.
“We found a cow.”
His brow rose.
“She was eating clover over on the hedge in the rain and lowing. Quite mournfully. Owen put her in the stable with the horses and now they all seem perfectly happy together eating hay. She must be lost. Someone will no doubt come looking for her and discover us interloping, then we shall be hauled before the magistrate and all will be ruined.” She took a big breath and sighed it away theatrically. “So, you see, we have had a very adventuresome day while you were gone.”
A glimmer shone in his eyes, but his stance was rigid and he did not unlock his arms.
“Where have you been?” she asked.
“About.”
“Where?”
Mrs. Polley bustled past them, apron full of eggs. “Dark gentlemen like to keep secrets. I’ve said so already.”
He looked after her as she wobbled down the path toward the house. “She has?”
“Oh, any number of times. She believes I must be warned repeatedly. I don’t know if that is because she thinks my memory is faulty or that she imagines my fear of you will increase with her repetition.” She touched his arm, he returned his gaze to her, and then she felt his shaking, a definite vibration of his body. “But—” She struggled to remain light. “But she needn’t repeat herself, because I am already terrified of you, of course.”
He drew away from her. “Of course.” He moved from the shed and to the path toward the house. The rain had slackened, but the sky was still thickly gray, and upon his cheeks rode a thin sheen of moisture.
“Are you ill, Mr. Yale?”
“In fact I am not perfectly well today, Miss Lucas.”
“Oh, no. You must have taken a chill from the road. Is that why you have stayed away today? You don’t wish to share it with us?”
“I am happy to report that this is not an illness any of you can contract.” He said this grimly.
“I don’t understand.”
He stopped, turned to her, and strain showed upon his brow. “It is a temporary state, not one that you need concern yourself over. Do leave it at that, if you will.”
“You look very serious.”
“There is probably a reason for that.”
“I am supposed to take that as a hint, but instead I will now pretend to be remarkably obtuse. I was worried about you, being gone all day.”
“I am well able to take care of myself, Miss Lucas.”
“We are quite remote here, in the middle of nowhere. I only wondered where you had gone.”
This seemed to give him pause. “Were you afraid here? Without me?”
“Not afraid. It’s very peaceful here. And frankly after the constant excitement I don’t mind a day of rest in such a pleasant place. I was only worried about you.”
“Then you needn’t worry further. I will not leave again.”
“Perhaps you ought to sleep.”
“Excellent idea.”
But he did not. He attended her to the kitchen where she assisted Mrs. Polley with preparations for dinner while Owen blithely regaled them with stories of the ironworks that made Diantha’s hair stand on end.
“When my sister took the fever, they put her in the sick house. She caught the croup. Didn’t last two days after that.” His shoulders drooped.
“Those places aren’t fit for animals.” Mrs. Polley scowled. “Best you’ve found my mistress here to take you in.”
Diantha chopped herbs without finesse and cracked eggs into a bowl and was lucky she did not cut off her fingers with the knife or spill their dinner onto the floor. She had no attention for anything but the gentleman. He also watched her, shadows beneath his eyes and hands in his pockets. But he seemed unusually restless.
They ate picnic style, without ceremony in the kitchen. Owen consumed half the platter of eggs, bread, and jam the moment Mrs. Polley set it on the table. Diantha made a plate for Mr. Yale and, remarkably, he ate. Then, with a “Thank you” to Mrs. Polley and a bow to her, he left.
Diantha gobbled up the remainder of her food and went after him. She found him in the parlor, facing the hearth where the peat simmered, hands thrust deeply into his pockets, his eyes closed. He opened them as she entered and turned to her.
“Forgive my hasty exit, if you will, Miss Lucas.”
“You are truly ill.” She went toward him and he withdrew from her a step. She halted, her stomach turning over.
“I am less than comfortable, it is true.” His jaw seemed very tight.
“Perhaps you have taken Mrs. Polley’s chill.”
“Now you are repeating yourself.”
“Well, I may be, because although I’d thought before that I had a lot of courage, I may not after all, for I cannot possibly allow you to be suffering some more serious, dreadful disease, because I do not wish to sit here helplessly in the wilds of Wales and watch you die.”
His brow lifted. “You have a fine flare for the dramatic, Miss Lucas. Usually dormant, admittedly. But when it animates it is truly impressive.”
She wrung her hands. “You are very frustrating to converse with sometimes. Tell me what is wrong with you.”
He looked toward the window. “Nothing that a few fingers of brandy would not put to rights. Ah, it has begun again to rain.”
“You look like you wish to say ‘fitting’ or something equally dispiriting.”
“Not at all. It is only that when one has spent a night outside in the rain without sleep, a night enjoyed within doors in a fire-heated room seems a vast luxury.” He smiled then, but barely, and his eyes held a peculiar look. The look of the predator again.