Page 101 of Counting on a Countess
“Small villages can be so guarded toward newcomers,” Tamsyn said when he joined her in the lane. “I hope you won’t judge them too harshly.”
“They think highly of you.” He stepped closer and smiled down at her. “For that, they cannot earn my enmity.” Much as he wanted to kiss her, they were far from alone. He glanced at the all things shop window. Faces pressed against the glass disappeared.
As she led him toward the water, Kit sent one last look over his shoulder. The streets were suddenly deserted, and no faces appeared in the windows. He wanted to love the village because Tamsyn loved it. Yet coldness crept up his neck—as it often had in the moments before an ambush.
“This view from the harbor is the very definition of the wordcharming,” Kit remarked as he and Tamsyn walked on the pier. Water lapped at the pilings, and the smartly kept boats rose and fell on the waves as though they breathed.
Fishermen mending their nets and tending to their vessels called out greetings to Tamsyn as she strolled on Kit’s arm. Their gruff smiles faded as they greeted Kit with a wary, “Morning, my lord.” He nodded in response, while all the muscles of his back tensed with the knowledge that he was being carefully watched.
Despite the cool reception from the locals, he’d spoken truly that Newcombe had a lovely harbor, especially when the sun broke through the morning haze and shone upon the water.
“I’ve always loved coming here,” Tamsyn said as they stood at the end of the pier.
“Understandable,” he answered. He glanced back at the fishermen, who made a pretense of working while covertly watching him. “It gives one a sense of possibility.”
“And permanence,” she added. “The village has existed for hundreds of years, maybe more. There have always been men here going out onto the water to get their sustenance from the sea, and their families have always waited on the shore for their return.” She spoke with fondness, but also pain.
“It seems a precarious existence,” he said softly, watching the way the breeze caught in her hair. At the water’s edge, he could well imagine her the offspring of a handsome ginger fisherman and a seductive mermaid. Tamsyn was elemental, alluring—and elusive.
She caught him openly staring at her, but she didn’t blush or look away. Instead, she held his gaze, her hazel eyes richly captivating. “All good things come at a cost.”
“Sometimes the price is worth it,” he murmured. Only through sheer force of will did he keep from skimming his fingertips down her cheek and lower, along her neck where her pulse gently throbbed.
She drew in a deep breath, turning her eyes toward the water. “This is my favorite scent—the wind carrying the smell of brine. If someone could distill and bottle it, I’d wear it like perfume.”
“I can feel it chasing away any vestiges of London smoke lingering in my lungs,” he noted. “Just the same, I like the way you smell now. Like flowers and salt.” He enjoyed how she lowered her lids. “Mind, it’s only the fact that we have an audience that’s keeping me from rubbing myself all over you.”
A tiny, sensuous smile curved her lips. Heat washed through him. He hadn’t forgotten her taste, her feel. If anything, the time away from her had sharpened his need until it became a knife’s edge, carving him from the inside out.
Damn her home’s lack of a wide-enough bed. Beds weren’t a precondition for lovemaking, but they surely were accommodating.
Seeking to shift the tide of his thoughts, he continued, “I can see why you were homesick in London. I’d miss a sight like this one, too.”
“But you’re a sophisticated city gentleman,” she protested.
“Doesn’t mean I cannot appreciate a lovely view. Why, I’d wager fifty pounds that if Londoners knew about this place, they’d flood Newcombe for a bit of scenic, restorative beauty.”
She looked dubious. “There’s no pavilion like at Brighton.”
“Once I wagered with abandon,” he said with a wry smile. “Now that I must be more chary of my betting, I reserve it only for certainties. And without doubt, I’d stake money that this village would draw urban visitors by the hundreds.”
“A lovely dream, but a dream nonetheless.” She sighed and turned away from the view. “We’ll just have to go on existing as we always have, balancing precariously at the water’s edge.”
Together, they strolled back down the pier. She guided him off to the left, toward a stretch of beach past a boardwalk, but asked, “Do you mind getting sand on your boots?”
He glanced down. He hadn’t had room to pack an additional pair of boots, and the ones he wore were dusty from his journey to Cornwall. “These are already in a sad state. I may have to comfort my valet when it comes time to polish them.” He didn’t mention the time after Waterloo when he’d picked some dried mud off his boot, only to discover that his fingertips had come away red. The dirt had been saturated with blood. “What about your shoes? They look a trifle delicate for a trek across a beach.”
“That’s easily remedied.” She bent down and quickly undid the ribbons of her shoes before stepping out of them. She wasn’t wearing stockings. “Been doing this all my life.”
The sight of her bare feet shot pure lust through Kit. He drew in a long breath, wrestling for calm. It might be considered a breach of decorum to make love with her on the pier, in full view of people who had known her since her birth.
Holding her shoes, she stepped from the boardwalk onto the beach, then grinned as she wriggled her toes in the sand. His breath caught at the sight of her unabashed joy.
“There’s a series of coves we can walk to from here,” she said.
He waved them forward. “Guide us there, intrepid leader.”
They walked along the sand, from inlet to inlet, sheltered by the cliffs. The pale stone rose high, with the barest fringe of green grass peeking over the top, as if afraid to look down and see the vertiginous height.
