Page 96 of Counting on a Countess
Their gazes held and fiery awareness poured through her. “You’re worth fighting for.”
In silence, they continued on toward the house, the only sounds coming from the distant beach and the horses’ hooves. She shot him furtive glances, watching his expression as he took in the landscape. His gaze was never still, as though he was assessing the geography. The habit of searching out defensible positions and hidden dangers would likely always be a part of him. With his stubble and the slight disorder of his clothing, he looked less polished than he did in London, more like a man on an adventure or expedition.
I’m the quest.
But she wasn’t much of a prize, not when she continued to deceive him.
“What’s that structure there?” He pointed west, toward a stone shed standing alone in the middle of a field.
Her stomach leapt. He couldn’t ever learn of the shed’s purpose or what it concealed. “Only an old storage outbuilding. A notoriously favorite place for spiders to build nests.”
“Woke up once in Portugal with a tarantula sitting on my chest.” He gave a slight shudder. “Not an experience I’m eager to repeat.”
She silently exhaled.
Soon, they drew closer to Chei Owr. Sunlight glinted off the west-facing windows, and the brick facade glowed warmly. But there were dark spots in the walls where the window glass was missing, and untended vines clung to the bricks. Familiar dismay filled her at the sight. She chanced a look at Kit, who saw her home for the first time. A small frown creased between his eyebrows. Surely with his soldier’s sight, he didn’t miss the neglected and careworn condition of the house. The closer they got to Chei Owr, the more its disrepair showed—holes in the roof, leaning chimneys, and weeds choking the once-pristine grounds.
“How long has it been since your uncle took possession of the house?” Kit asked.
“Ten years,” she replied. “He maintained it for the first year.”
His jaw clenched. “And let it fall to pieces after that.”
“Jory always said it wasn’t worth throwing money into a place that should just be razed. Besides, he was always more interested in going to the gaming houses in Falmouth or Truro.”
“But it’s yourhome,” Kit said in a tight voice.
“I didn’t warrant much attention.”
“I like most everyone,” Kit growled. “But, hell, I have no love for your uncle.”
“Which warms my heart,” she said sincerely. “We’ll take the horses to the stables and see to them ourselves. If we wait for a groom, we’ll be cooling our heels for hours.”
They approached the stables and dismounted in the yard. Even though Kit had been in the saddle for days, he moved with a sleek economy. Leading his horse, he followed her to the stalls. They didn’t speak as they tended to the animals—but watching him move with such muscular fluidity made her long for a time and place where they could explore every inch of each other, and speak of all the things lovers did in the aftermath of passion. Their time together in London had been too brief. She wanted to delve deeper to absorb his very essence.
When they had finished, they strode up the rear path toward the house. His saddlebags were slung over his shoulder, and she tried to take comfort in the minimal possessions he carried with him. Perhaps he wouldn’t stay long, much as she wanted to have him close.
She walked to the back door and, still holding the astrolabe, put her shoulder to the warped, age-swollen wood. After giving Kit an apologetic grimace, she gave the door several shoves before it finally creaked open. She waved him in. “Welcome to Chei Owr,” she said with false cheer.
They emerged in a small room that joined with a long gallery. Dusty tapestries hung on the walls, and a scattering of chairs were shoved to one side. “I used to run here on rainy days,” she explained as they walked farther into the chamber. “The footmen and I would have races.”
“Did you win?” he asked with a grin.
“I did—or else they let me win so they could keep their jobs.”
“Let’s pretend that you were the fastest girl in Cornwall.” He eyed the length of the gallery. “Shall we put you to the test? See if you’ve still got your speed?”
She shook her head. “Gwen hates the sound of running on wooden floors.”
The moment Tamsyn mentioned her aunt’s name, Gwen and Jory appeared in their path. While Jory looked suspicious, his wife eyed Kit with interest, noting his military bearing and the quality of his clothing despite its rumpled state.
“Who’s our guest, dearest niece?” Gwen trilled.
Tamsyn frowned at the never-before used sobriquet. “Kit, this is my aunt, Lady Shawe. Gwen, this is my husband, the Earl of Blakemere.”
Her relatives’ eyebrows shot up at the wordearl. Belatedly, they bowed and curtsied. “You are most welcome to our home, my lord,” Jory said with syrupy obsequiousness.
“Thank you, Lord Shawe,” Kit answered coolly.
