Page 21 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
“Corpse’ll turn up i’ the spring, I reckon,” said another. “When hikers from Exeter and the like come fer exploring.”
Geneviève shivered at the thought. Was the convict even now curled in some hollow beneath the crags, too weak to walk any further, or had he eluded capture purely by dint of having already died of exposure?
Lord Wulverton was grim-faced when he climbed back upon the cart.
“Have none seen him?” Geneviève asked. “Might any moor-dweller have given shelter? Though he’s a wanted man and a stranger, would they have helped?”
“He’s no stranger,” said Wulverton. “His name’s Silas.”
“You know of him?” Geneviève saw how pale the viscount looked, taking up the reins again to lead them from the farmyard and back down the muddy track.
“More than that. He was our stableman, years ago; the first to put me on a horse, before I could walk.”
“But how did he come to be in prison? If he was of good character, wouldn’t your father have spoken for him?”
Lord Wulverton barked a hollow sound, a muscle working at the side of his jaw. “It was he who sent him there! I didn’t know, of course, until years later. My father held the magistrate in his pocket. None would have dared gone against him. It was one of the reasons I chose to join my regiment when I was old enough to make my own choices.”
“You became estranged over his treatment of your stableman?” Geneviève wasn’t sure she understood.
The viscount’s brow knitted. “Not quite, but there’s no point in talking of it now. I meant to visit him, to see what could be done. It was one of the tasks I’d set for myself—one of the burdens on my ledger.”
“Imprisoned all this time?” Geneviève caught the flash of pain in his eyes before his face closed again.
“As with many things, I’ve waited too long, and now the chance is past. God knows if he’s still alive.”
They rode in silence to the main road, Geneviève sensing that it would be better not to speak. If Wulverton had more to say, he’d confide in his own time. His family historywas no business of hers, although she supposed it would be, once she and Hugo were wedded.
After some minutes, they came to a crossroads and she recognized what lay to the north-eastward path—a web of tangled oak, bent from exposure to the bleak winds, twisted and festooned with ivy and creeping plants. The last time she’d passed this way had been at night. Now, she saw that the trunks and low-spread branches were thick-covered in moss, emitting the moist, nutty aroma of ancient wood.
What light would penetrate? Only animals that sought dark places would abide there—those who snuffled for their meal without need for sight.
Wistman’s Wood, Hugo had called it—a place favored by Satan. With the afternoon light fading, Geneviève could see how such tales would take hold. Was the convict here, perhaps, deep inside this place that few dared enter?
A streak of cinnamon flashed before the cart, diving across the bracken. The surprise of it caused Geneviève to catch her breath, clutching at Lord Wulverton’s arm.
“Nothing to worry us,” he said, releasing one hand from the reins to place over her own—a hand reassuringly large and warm. “Just a red fox running for the woods.”
With relief, she saw it was true, that its brush was disappearing into the dusk and the trees. Despite his sudden changes of mood and the clouds that seemed to brood over him, having Wulverton next to her, so very much in control, made her feel safe.
Naturally, her cap remained set at Hugo; she’dexerted far too much effort on that score to abandon her plan. Yet, it was Wulverton she wished to know better and for him to see her pleasure in his company. Earlier in the day, she’d been concerned about the damp and cold, and the inadequacy of her cloak and boots. Now, she was sorry the journey would soon come to an end.
She searched for the right tone of conversation, wanting him to know that she was moved by his depth of feeling for the moor.
“You fit comfortably here,” she said at last. “Among the people, I mean.” She wasn’t sure quite how to phrase what she wished to say. “They have a love for you. It must be gratifying, after being away so long. They respect you, and you’re glad to be back, I think.”
He didn’t answer at once, his concentration seemingly upon turning the cart at the crossroads, from where he took the southern path. “I admire them—for their affinity with the hills and rocks and mires. They’re solitary and hard-working in a place largely inhospitable. I admire their resilience, and their allegiance to one another. There are none like them, at least not as I’ve found in my travels through the world.”
As he spoke, she thought again how ruggedly handsome he was, with his own resilience and sense of allegiance. Having watched him with the moorlanders, she saw that he’d be a good master, treating them as they deserved—equal in God’s eyes and his own.
Her impulse was to lean closer, breathing his masculine scent. To be so near that it would be impossible for him to avoid kissing her.There was no one to see them.
She would let him.
She wanted him to.
Her mouth grew dry thinking of it.
He made no overture toward her, however, and she chided herself for wishing it.
