Reaching the Pelican, they retrieved their horses; once more side by side, they rode back to the Abbey.
Cassius and Brutus came lolloping up as they walked out of the stables. The hounds gamboled about them, pushing shaggy heads under their hands for pats. Penny laughed and complied. Charles looked across at her.
“Come for a walk-it’s too early for dinner, and these two need a run.”
The hounds had understood enough; they circled, barked encouragingly.
She smiled. “All right.”
They followed the dogs east to the long sweep of the ramparts. Steps led up to the broad grassed walk atop the sloping mound; they climbed them side by side. In companionable silence, they walked along, drinking in the wide views over the lush green fields to the silvery blue estuary and farther, to where the waves of the Channel glittered on the horizon, gilded by the sun.
The breeze was brisk, tugging wisps of her hair from her chignon, rakishly ruffling Charles’s black curls. The hounds bounded up and down the slopes, ranging out, noses to the ground, then circling back to check on them before ambling off once more.
Charles scanned the fields as they walked along. “What was it like around here during the war?” He gestured with one hand, encompassing all before them. “Did anything change?”
She understood what he was asking; she shook her head. “Not fundamentally. There was more activity in the estuary-naval ships and the like putting in, and our local privateers were especially active. There was always talk of the recent engagements whenever one went into village or town, and no dinner party was complete without a full listing of all the latest exploits.
“But underneath, no, there was no real change. The same day-to-day activities still consumed us-the fields, the crops, the fishing. Which family’s son was walking out with which family’s daughter.” She paused, remembering. “Life rolled on.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask why he’d asked; instead, she observed, “But if there were any real changes wrought by those years, you, coming back to it so rarely, would notice more than anyone.” She glanced at him. “Has it changed?”
He halted, looked at her, then looked out over the fields, now his fields, to the sea. His chest swelled as he drew in a deep breath, then he shook his head. “No.”
Turning, he walked on; she kept pace beside him.
“If I had to identify the most important motivation driving those who fought in the war, then it would be that we fought to keep this”-he gestured to the fields-“and all the other little pieces of England unchanged. So the things that define us weren’t washed away, debris cleared to allow a victor’s rule, but would endure and still be here for the next generation.”
A moment passed, then he added, “It’s comforting to find things the same.”
She caught the waving wisps of her hair. “You spent years over there, years at a time. Did you think of us often?”
He looked over her head at the Channel, beyond which he’d spent all those years; there was, to her educated eyes, something bleak in his gaze. “Every day.”
Her throat tightened; she knew how he felt about this place-the fields, the sky, the sea. There were no easy words she could offer him-would offer him-in the face of what she more than anyone understood had been his sacrifice. Small wonder those years had chipped and chiseled and separated the man from the superficial mask.
She was watching when he glanced down. His blue eyes met hers. For an instant, recognition and acceptance were simply there, as they so often had been in years past.
“Why didn’t you marry?”
The question took her aback, then she nearly laughed; it was typical of him to cut to the heart of things, blatantly ignoring all social convention. Her lips curved; she continued strolling. “As I’m sure your mother told you, I had four perfectly successful Seasons, but none of the gentlemen caught my eye.”
“As I heard it, you amply caught theirs. Several of theirs-a small platoon, it sounded like. So what didn’t you like about them-they can’t all have had warts.”
She laughed. “As far as I know none of them did.”
“So why were you so fussy?”
Why did he want to know? “You’re not going to give up, are you?”
He hesitated. She wondered, but then he said, “Not this time.”
She glanced at him, surprised at the undercurrent of steel in his tone, at a loss to account for it.
He caught her glance, lightly shrugged. “You were one of the things I was sure
She owed him no explanation, yet it was hardly a state secret. Looking ahead, she walked on. He walked beside her and
Eventually, she said, “I didn’t accept any of the offers for my hand because none of the gentlemen who made them could give me what I wanted.”
She’d known what she wanted from marriage from an early age. When it came to the point, she hadn’t been prepared to accept second best.
He didn’t pressure her for more. The riddle of what she’d wanted had stumped all her suitors; she doubted he’d understand any more than they had. Not that it mattered.
They reached the far end of the ramparts; they both stopped to look back one last time at the view.
Her senses flared a second before she felt his hand touch her waist, felt it slide around, strong and assured, turning her, effortlessly drawing her to him.
She placed her hands on his chest, but they weren’t any use with no strength behind them. But she remembered a few tricks; she kept her head down so he couldn’t kiss her-he was tall enough that that would work.
His arms closed around her, not trapping but simply holding her; she heard, and felt, his low laugh.
He bent his head to the side; his breath wafted over her ear. “Penny…”
She tensed against the temptation to glance his way, to give him the opening, the opportunity he was angling for. Her fingers locked in his coat as his lips, then the tip of his tongue languidly caressed her ear.
Then he did the one thing she’d prayed he wouldn’t. He switched to French, the language of his heritage, the language of love, the language he’d used in such interludes years ago-God help her, it was a language she understood very well.
He’d taught her.
“
He’d called her that once, his angel. She hadn’t heard the words that followed for thirteen years, yet they still had the same effect; uttered in his deep, purring voice, they slid over her like a tangible caress, then sank deeper, warming her to her bones. Unraveling her resistance.
His hands moved on her back, easing her closer, settling her against him. She caught her breath, sharp and shallow, realizing just how close they were, how truly he’d spoken when he’d warned her how little stood between them physically; when it came to him, she had no defenses to speak of.
Lifting her head only a little, she glanced sideways and met his eyes. A clear dark blue in the daylight, they held no hint of wicked triumph, but an intentness she didn’t understand.
The altered angle was enough; he leaned closer, slowly. When she didn’t duck away, he touched his lips to hers. Brushed them gently, temptingly, persuasively.
Oh, he was good, so very good at this; she gave up the battle, pushed her arms up around his neck, and lifted her lips to his.
The invitation was all he’d been waiting for; he accepted, took charge. For several long minutes, she simply let go, let herself flow on his tide, let him steer the kiss where he would, and greedily gathered to her lonely heart all the pleasures he willingly shared.
There was danger here, yes, but it was a danger she would dare. They were standing on the ramparts in full view of any who might chance to look that way; no matter how wild and reckless he was, no matter he had not a
