could have inferred from the document itself if I’d only read it carefully.”
“I see.” Ellen’s head returned to his shoulder. “Would you have been… intimate with me, knowing I wasn’t being honest?”
Val was silent for a long, thoughtful moment. “I don’t know. Maybe, eventually. I desire you profoundly and had already divined your reasoning. I haven’t offered you marriage except as a last resort and can’t blame you for looking to yourself and your own interests.”
“I don’t think you would have pursued our dealings with this between us.”
“Why not?”
“Because you didn’t.” Her voice was very quiet. “On that blanket under the willow, you could have. I wouldn’t have stopped you. In the hammock, I wouldn’t have stopped you had you been determined. You are very… persuasive.”
Persuasive.
“We have a larger problem,” he said, hauling back hard on the lust thumping through his vitals like a chorus of timpani.
“What sort of problem?” Ellen lifted her head to regard him again. “I will understand if you are done… flirting with me. We will be neighbors when you complete your renovations, at least until you sell the place.”
“Flirting.” Val frowned. “I am very persuasive, and yet you consider my best efforts at seduction to be worth only the label flirting.”
Ellen’s gaze dropped to her lap. “In any case, I will understand.”
“Good of you.” Val’s frown intensified as he tried to puzzle out what exactly was bothering him. “And am I to understand if you’ve lost interest in me? If you decide a man who seeks some honesty with his lover is a little too much work? If you prefer weeding your daisies to sharing passion in my arms?”
Ellen’s gaze swiveled to meet his.
“I have not lost interest, Valentine. I wish I had, because I don’t understand how you can tolerate the sight of me, and yet I still crave your embrace. I crave the simple scent of you, all cedar and whatever else it is you wear. I crave the texture of your hair against my fingers and the taste of you on my tongue…” She stopped herself, maybe shocked at her own words and the vehemence of them.
The truth of them.
Val gently pushed her head back to his shoulder. “That’s putting it plain enough.” Reassuringly plain.
As they sat in silence, he savored her confession, more glad to hear it than he would have admitted. The money she’d kept was troubling, but it was legally hers, and in her shoes he might have done likewise. Her reticence about it was more troubling still, but in truth he’d been at the estate just about a month.
There were things it had taken his brothers years to confide in him—and he hadn’t been hiding his ducal affiliations from them at the time. That was a sobering, lust-inhibiting thought, thank God. It inspired him to an additional exercise in honesty. “We do have another problem.”
She remained resting against him, a comfort thrown into higher relief by all their guarded honesties. “What problem is that?”
Val’s hand closed over her fingers, and he brought her knuckles to his lips then pressed the back of her hand against his forehead.
“I should say”—he let out a quiet, tired sigh—“I have a greater problem, as it might be me somebody is hoping to kill.”
Monday morning came around foggy, damp, and chilly. The wagon was again loaded with food, amenities, more food, and a few books, all carefully stowed under tarpaulins.
As were the firearms and ammunition obligingly sent along with the other provisions, the spyglass, and the antique crossbow Day and Phillip’s maternal grandfather had willed to them.
Day and Phillip were dozing in the back, and Abby was making her farewells to Ellen at the wagon. St. Just, however, was checking the girth on his gelding.
“Are we too early for your groom?” Val asked Axel as they watched St. Just adjusting stirrup leathers.
“I sent him off Saturday night on some errands. He should be back posthaste.”
Val glanced at the wagon to see Abby was hugging Ellen, something that hadn’t happened the previous week. “I wish Ellen would stay with you.”
“I thought we agreed we’d stick as much to routine as possible, and that means Mrs. FitzEngle goes back to weeding her petunias and you go back to slave driving.”
“I don’t like it.”
“St. Just will watch your back,” Axel reminded him. “Sir Dewey will drop by, as well. Then too, I’ll be coming around by midweek, and we’ve got the solicitors on the alert in case anybody’s asking questions about the place.”
By means of the post, Val had actually gone further than that but would keep the details of his own tactics private for now. “I guess we’ll see you next week, then, if not before.”
“Before,” Axel assured him then glanced at the sky. “Weather permitting.”
“Right.” Val turned to walk back to the wagon, only to be spun by a hand on his arm—his left arm—and wrapped in a hug.
“Safe journey.” Axel smacked Val once between the shoulder blades and let him go. “You might beat the rain.”
Val climbed up beside Ellen, took the reins in his gloved hands, signaled to St. Just, and urged the team forward. St. Just went ahead to avoid the wagon’s dust, letting the gelding stretch its legs, before also dropping into a relaxed trot. He would have missed the turn up the lane to Val’s property if not for Val’s shout and wave at the estate gates.
“According to Belmont, you’ve gotten a lot done,” St. Just remarked, peering around assessingly as they gained the stable yard. “And in a short time. Best be hiring some staff.”
Val shook his head as he climbed down. “Not yet. The interior has a long way to go, as do the grounds and farms.”
“And he insists,” Ellen said, “on doing most of it himself.” She turned and spoke over her shoulder. “Wake up, boys. Your palace awaits.”
“Is it lunchtime?” Day asked, sitting up and peering around.
“It’s unload-the-wagon-and-put-up-the-team time,” Val replied, “and we need to hurry if we’re not to get soaked.”
“Come, me hearties.” St. Just winked at Day and Phil. “We’d best unload our contraband before the excise men come around.”
Val reached up to swing Ellen to the ground. “I’ll be seeing you safely home, and my first priority is installing some locks on your doors.” Ellen merely nodded, retrieving a wicker basket and falling in step beside Val. “What is in that little basket, Mrs. FitzEngle?”
“Apple tarts. Your brother was showing Mrs. Stoneleigh how to make them, and she insisted on sending some home with me, as did your brother.”
“One can never have too many apple tarts in one’s larder,” Val said as they ambled through the wood. “At least if St. Just made them. I hurried through breakfast, so perhaps you’ll save me one when I’m done fitting locks on your doors?”
“Of course.”
Val glanced over at her, wishing he had a hand free to hold hers, but he was toting both her traveling satchel and a toolbox. “I feel as if for all we’ve been plotting and planning this weekend, for all that you and I have cleared the air regarding the rents, we’re still left with a distance between us.”
“Knowing somebody is contemplating arson, at least, and more likely murder, leaves me preoccupied. Mr. Windham.”
“I am sorry,” Val said as they reached her back porch.
“Sorry?”
“I’ve brought this trouble to you,” he said, pushing the door open for her. “You were safe and content here, then I go tearing up your peace, and now you are afraid for your own safety. When we find out who’s behind this, I will hold him accountable for that more than anything.”
