Page 8 of A Tenuous Betrothal
“I do.”
“Then, certainly, we must also rescue the horse.”
She laughed.
The sound was so surprising and so pleasing, he turned to her with a grin. “Am I that amusing?”
She shrugged, wiping her eyes. “I don’t know, only that this whole situation is but a dream.” She paused. “I need to warn you though. Firestorm is an apt name for my mare.”
He bit back a groan. “I would expect nothing less from you.”
Her eyes flashed with something, perhaps hurt, so he hurriedly added, “Meaning, only a woman who exudes the strength you have since I met you would own a spirited horse.”
“Then, I thank you. Being worthy of a horse is important, I feel.” She raised her chin, her nose in the air, her lips full and smiling a bit self-consciously.
He tried not to notice the fire in her eyes or the fact that he’d thought the exact sentiment often.
They worked together, with the help of the servants, with a healthy precision, clearing out her mother’s most prized belongings from the attic, finding more that were hidden, and acquiring family heritage items of considerable value. When the room was almost emptied, Marc reached for a small chest. “And this?”
She approached. “I’ve not seen that before.” Her hands reached for it, cradled it. Then she and Marc stepped into the greater light by the window.
Marc leaned over her shoulder to see the chest more closely. Something about it looked familiar.
She lifted the lid. The box was lined in what looked like old velvet. Old, almost crumbling letters rested in the center, along with a ring tied with a ribbon.
She lifted the ring out. “I daren’t touch the papers just yet.”
Marc reached for the chest to hold while she turned the ring so they could see the signet.
She gasped.
The rising sun, plain as day, was inscribed on the ring. Marc allowed only a whisper for such a moment. “I can’t believe what I’m seeing.”
She turned to him, mere inches away as her eyes brimmed with moisture, her breath a soft puff against his skin. “What? What is it?”
“This ring, the signet.” He ran a finger over the top. “That is the Wilhelm family crest.”
“The rising sun?” She looked back down at it, and he immediately missed the intensity of her gaze focused solely on him. “How can that be?”
“I don’t know. Is it your family’s?”
“Not in that way. But it is important to us. Perhaps these letters might tell us of its significance.” She peered over the chest he held. “Can you lift the box into the light?” He did, and she squinted. “They are addressed to my mother.”
Before Marc could respond a flustered, red-faced maid showed up at the door. “Beggin’ your pardon, miss.” She curtsied.
“Catrin. What is it?” Miss Davies beckoned that she enter.
“The master has turned me out. I know you might not have room for me, or even want me, but I’ve nowhere else to go.”
Miss Davies’s soft gasp carried to him. “Who said I don’t want you? Of course you are welcome to join me!”
“Oh, thank you, miss!” The chambermaid bobbed another curtsy, hesitated, then said, “And I believe there’s a question of more of the servants joining.” The humor in her expression was not lost on Marc.
Miss Davies turned to him with a question in her eyes.
He nodded. “We’d best bring anyone who wishes to leave.”
Miss Davies turned back to Catrin. “Please tell the others to gather their things quickly and meet us at the hunting cottage. They are all welcome, if they don’t mind a homeless mistress.” Her gaze flitted to Marc’s and away again as the maid took her leave to carry out her mistress’s direction.
