But this thunderstorm was setting in on him, with a gusto that caused Kit to kick his heels in his mount with more rigour, a muttered curse uttered under his breath. He needed to reach the relative safety of Tintagel Manor. It was too dangerous to stay out here for long, and he did not want his little sister Flora to have to bury him too.
He was angry. Not solely because of the weather, although he acknowledged it simply added to the burning emotion churning inside him with an unpleasant, barely contained fury.
The pathway back towards the manor was slippery, and Kit’s vision was blurred by thick sweeping walls of rain and the occasional sticky leaf that would fly up and hit him in the face. This meant he could not race back in his normal way.
“Whoa,” he called out to his mount, forcing the horse into a more sedate pace. Which was just as well since when he rounded a corner, he found a carriage blocking his return to the manor, and two rather wet, miserable, and slightly hysterical servants, both yelling at each other.
It took several moments to understand what they were shouting about, and where they were headed, and even longer to understand what the maid was telling him, about the sole female who’d headed off into the bleak stretch of moorland.
“She’s out there,” the girl shouted. He briefly caught her London accent before the wind claimed it. She was clinging to the edge of the carriage door, her free hand pointing behind Kit and out onto the moors.
Glancing over his shoulder, Kit could make out the small shape of a woman, huddled down close to an outcrop of rocks and trees. God knew what the madwoman was doing. Perhaps the carriage had dropped something she deemed valuable, and the passenger had gone after it.
“Get back inside,” Kit ordered, before wheeling his horse around and heading out towards the rogue woman. Figuring it was easier for him to get over to the woman than the carriage could. Heavy wind and rain beat down onto his face as his resentment swelled alongside his fear. Off from the beaten track, the terrain was uneven and prone to wet stones, uneven surfaces, and the easy risk that she would fall and disappear amongst the brambles forever.
“What the hell do you think you are doing?” he shouted his question as soon as he was close enough to be heard, although he could barely make out a thing about her. Besides the fact she wassprawled on the ground. He had assumed she would be an elderly lady, the sort who needed a young maid to care for her.
But she wasn’t.
Despite the downpour, when the woman righted herself into a sitting position and turned and looked up at him through a cloud of damp hair, and a dripping hat askew, he could see she was far younger than he expected. Clasped in her arms was a lively-looking, chocolate-coloured spaniel.
“Lord above.” She gasped, struggling to her feet, the dog wriggling in her arms. With a contemptuous gaze, Kit took in her damp clothes, which clung to her small frame, and the half-hearted attempt she made to push the hair off her face. “The dog was trapped.”
Without consciously realising what he was about, Kit found himself off his horse, twisting the rein around his hand and moving closer to her. “Give me the blasted animal.”
“Is he yours?” She was staring up at him, her question baffling him, a frown puckering her little face. God, he realised she was tiny. For a wild moment, he could almost believe she was part of the fairy kingdom that his sister had loved as a child. The woman before him better resembled one of the fey people. Or rather like a creature from Arthurian legend so popular in these parts. In a temper at such absurdity, he reached for the dog she held, but she clung on to her rescued hound. “He needs looking after.”
“Well, none of us will get to that if we don’t get out of this storm quickly,” Kit snapped. This time, instead of reaching for the dog, he leant down and grabbed her arm, pulling her forward, so that she was sheltered against the frame of his horse, the rain lashing them in a sideways motion now. “Come back to the carriage.”
“I—” her gaze had turned towards the carriage in the distance, and Kit saw much to his disgust that apparently the driver had had enough waiting, or more likely the horses had spooked, because the vehicle had set off at a rattling pace.
“Get on the horse.” Kit moved closer to his steed before grabbing her around the waist, the squirming dog and the soaking wet clothes all wrapped up in a bundle, and hoisting them onto the saddle. As she spluttered and wriggled there, Kit slotted his foot into the stirrup and climbed up behind her. Hastily, his arms came around the woman’s middle as he reached for the rein.
“What are you doing?” Through the half-light, he could see all too clearly the surprise in her eyes. Great, round orbs looked back into his face, alight with confusion as she watched him.
“Hold on to that dog as I won’t stop if you drop him,” he snapped, feeling her wriggle, but she clasped the hound closer, and at the same time nestled farther into him.
For one brief moment, the movement of her curling up close to him surprised Kit with its intimacy. There was something titillating about the gesture even in the midst of this downpour, although he was sure it was naively intended. Where did that strange idea come from? With a shake of his head, he spurred his horse onwards, after the retreating carriage and towards his manor.
There hadat one time been a welcoming appeal to Tintagel Manor and the memories it invoked. In the last four months, this had faded and what remained, was the cold, dreaded aspects of a lonely, far-flung old house, past its prime, its structure old, dated, and better suited to the fourteen hundreds when it was built. Against the raging storm and pounding wind, the faint lights scattered across five or so of the windows looked close to giving up hope of salvation. The stone construction seemingly eager to simply sink into the ground, rather than welcome Kit or his soggy collection of unwanted guests.
“Slow there.” He stopped his horse and scrambled off his seat, away from the confusing feel of the young woman. The thirtyminutes of accidentally holding her had not provided any further clarity, nor had it reduced his anger in the slightest. And worse to his mind, the nagging, pleasing sensation of titillation had grown and festered every time she’d shifted. It had been far too long since he’d bedded a woman.
From the left-hand side of the outbuildings emerged several servants, asking worried questions, clasping up the reins and leading the carriage into the shelter. Kit spotted Mrs. Clarke, his housekeeper, and his butler, Peterson, approaching the unwelcome guests.
Kit descended from his horse and headed for the comforts of his home. However once inside, he found he had been followed by the young person and her wet dog.
In the shelter of the hallway, she yanked off her ruined black hat, and finally lowered her hound to the floor. In the light of the dozing fire, Kit could make out a little more of the young woman. She was slim, small, and her hair appeared to be black, although that might have been because it was so wet. As he had suspected, her face was fairy-like with curious eyes that tilted at the edges, a small, pointed nose, a rosebud pout of a mouth, and what looked like it might be tiny freckles that danced over her cheeks. She was exquisite, a pocket Venus as the expression went.
In disgust at his own animal interest, Kit moved away from her, drawing closer to the fire, and pulling off his great coat and throwing it over the nearest stag head to dry. His bad arm was sore, made worse by the ride in the rain, especially since he had the weight of both her and the dog held tight against him for the ride, and he felt the muscle stretch awkwardly as he walked.
Unabashed, the woman followed after him, the dog now at her feet trailing in her wake. “You didn’t answer my question, sir.”
“What was it?” He hadn’t heard her ask a thing, but between the noise of the storm and the sound of the servants, it could have easily been lost outside.
“Where are we?” she asked. Seeing he had removed his coat, she set about loosening her own, tied together with ribbons. “You see we, that is the carriage—I was trying to get to Tintagel Manor.”
“Why would you want to go there?”
