Counting on a Countess

by Eva Leigh

  Yet as he woke in a hayloft eight days into his journey to Cornwall, stretching out the kinks that inevitably worked their way into his muscles, he felt strangely free. The artificial constructs of London fell away like so much scaffolding supporting a warship at dock. He didn’t concern himself with sleeping in to an indulgent hour, or what witty things he might drawl to the lads at White’s, or how he’d fill his long, leisured hours with ephemeral amusements. He was a man on a mission, and that goal kept him moving always forward, paring away anything unnecessary.

  Kit’s thoughts were filled with Tamsyn. Long hours in the saddle gave him little diversion besides his own mind. He grimaced at his coldness toward her that day, and his anger had been infantile.

  His plans for the pleasure garden were merely distractions, a fantasy formed in the darkest depths of war. Yet he should have known better.

  Nothing and no one could ever erase what he’d seen and done. Perhaps only time could make those memories fade.

  If he built a rich, worthwhile life with Tamsyn—a life she deserved—there might be a chance for him to slow down, an opportunity to stop running from the past. He would learn to be a proper earl, bringing her along for every step.

  All he had to do was make her forgive him.

  Sitting up, Kit picked straw out of his hair and tossed the pieces down to the barn floor below. They twirled in lazy circles to lie in the dust and be trampled by animal hooves. Dawn sunlight cautiously slipped through the wooden slats, though full daylight was still an hour away.

  A folded kerchief held his spare breakfast provided from the farmhouse, after the farmer had agreed to let him sleep in their hayloft for the princely sum of one penny. The meal the yeoman had provided was simple and devoured quickly.

  After gathering up his belongings and attempting to return the hayloft to some semblance of order, he climbed down the ladder that led to the rest of the barn. A half-dozen cows lowed at him from their stalls, and a goat took a liking to the tails of his coat, nibbling at its hem.

  Kit snatched the coat away before too much damage could be done. If the roads held, he’d be in Cornwall tonight, and it wouldn’t do to have him show up looking like a vagabond whose coat was eaten by goats.

  On his way to untie his horse, he passed a large orange tabby sunning himself on a pile of blankets. Kit paused to scratch the cat’s chin, which the animal deigned to receive with indulged dignity. Having satisfied the ruler of the barn, he went to his horse and began preparing it for the day.

  The barn door opened, and the farmer came ambling in. He was roughly Kit’s age, though bronzed from the sun and with a burly build. He had thin, light brown whiskers. Tipping back his hat, the farmer said, “Accommodations suit ye, my lord?”

  “I was dead to the world the moment I lay my head down,” Kit answered, cinching on the saddle.

  “Begging your pardon, my lord,” the other man said, resting his arms on the slats that made up the horse’s stall. “There’s a perfectly good inn not five miles from here. A fine gentleman like yourself shouldn’t be sleeping in barns.”

  “Some princes like to disguise themselves,” Kit replied with a wink.

  The farmer’s eye’s widened. “A bloody prince, are ye? If you’d said so, I would’ve kicked the missus out of bed so she and I slept in the hayloft and you’d have the bed to yourself.”

  Kit held up his hand. “Forgive my jest. I’m no prince, merely a man who’s looking to find his way.”

  “Ain’t you got no money, then?”

  “Enough for the necessities,” he explained, adjusting the horse’s bridle. “But I thought I’d save some coin and secure more economical housing.”

  “The way you’re seeing to that animal,” the farmer noted, nodding his head toward Kit’s horse, “seems like you’ve a heap of experience in that department.”

  “Had my share of getting by with the bare necessities,” he answered, rechecking the stirrups.

  “Two of my brothers went to fight,” the other man said somberly. “Only Joe came back, and he’s got but one arm now. Joe does what he can to help on the farm, but . . .” He shrugged. “He’s not the same man who left in search of glory.”

  “Not many of us found it,” Kit answered.

  “We see ’em coming through, even now,” the farmer went on. “Soldiers back from the War. Poor blighters. No work for ’em anywhere, so they wander from place to place like revenants, and some missing parts of ’emselves—like Joe.” He shook his head.

  Kit dug into his pocket and produced a handful of coins. “Some of this is for you and Joe. And if you see any of those men nearby, give them a cooked meal and a hayloft to sleep in. The expense is on me.”

  “Thank ’ee, my lord!” The farmer tucked the coins away, and Kit hoped that the money would be used in the spirit in which it had been given.

  Kit thought that perhaps their conversation was complete, but the farmer lingered, watching Kit make the last adjustments to his gear. Maybe things in this part of the country were so quiet that the sight of a gentleman saddling his own horse counted as something rare and exciting.

  Though he’d mapped his course ahead of time, he asked, “Do you know the way to Newcombe, in Cornwall?”

  “Oh, aye,” the farmer answered, nodding his head vigorously. “Stay on the main road and turn south, that is, make a left at the church with a collapsed steeple. Go on twenty more miles, and you should reach it. But . . . if you beg my pardon, my lord, what would you want with a place like that?”

  “Never been there,” Kit answered. The beginnings of alarm tightened the hairs along his arms. “What’s wrong with it?”

  The farmer shrugged. “It’s not a bad sort of village. Everything’s clean and kept up, but they hold to themselves in Newcombe, they do, especially since . . .” He glanced away and made a show of dusting off his hat.

  “Since . . .” Kit prompted, trying as best as he could not to sound overeager.

  The farmer lowered his voice. “There’s some dark dealings over there, I hear. Things that ain’t quite legal. ’Specially since their fishing catch dried up and taxes came and fair gutted the place.”

  Kit frowned at that. “What sort of things?”

  The farmer waved his hand. “Just the usual country gossip,” he said with a grin. “Not much to do around here except watch the barley grow and prattle about the neighbors. Why, last year some girls up in Ivybridge said they saw Old Joe Mann riding a flying cow all the way to Ugborough. Which is ridiculous because Joe Mann makes no secret of how much he hates Ugborough. Sooner see him flying to Ermington!”

  “That’s perfectly logical,” Kit replied gravely. He looked through the open barn door to see the sky turning pale blue with the morning. “Time for me to recommence my journey.” He led his horse, Empress, out of the stall and then into the yard before swinging up in the saddle. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he added with a nod.

  The farmer followed him out. “No trouble at all. And, uh, thanks for this.” He patted his jingling pocket, full of coins. “If you do go to Newcombe,” he added with a warning hand on Empress’s bridle, “keep a chary eye about you. Hate to see that fine head of yours crushed like a pork pie.”

  Kit automatically fingered his temple. But he had a pistol and ammunition in his saddle, just in case anything happened. He was less alarmed for his own safety than he was concerned about Tamsyn. She’d spoken of her home as a place of unhappiness because of her relatives’ neglect, but as to the village itself, she’d talked fondly of it, never mentioning anything suspicious or dangerous about it. Perhaps the farmer was just spinning yarns, or maybe there was more to be learned—and secrets to uncover.

  “Good day to you, my lord,” the farmer called as Kit urged his horse into motion. “Have a care for yourself. Could be some untrustworthy folk about.”

  “I’ll remain vigilant,” Kit answered. He kicked his horse into a brisk trot, then moved into a steady canter.

  Today, he’d
see Tamsyn again. Today, they would make right the mistakes of their past. When he’d been fighting overseas, he’d awaken every morning not knowing what the day was going to bring. That same ambiguity dug at him now. Though the stakes were different, he still faced a battle. He had very little experience with this kind of conflict. Facing snipers’ bullets or cannon fire seemed familiar and almost comfortable by comparison. Would he win the day—and his lady’s heart—or would he falter and fail?

  The only way to know was to move forward. Into uncertainty.

  Chapter 23

  The sun set over the golden mirror of the sea, and lightness filled her. How she’d missed this!

  Tamsyn rode slowly along the cliffs, returning to Chei Owr from a meeting in the village. Turning her gaze to the west, she watched the sunset gild the waves.

  The stillness of the ocean belied its danger. Men died out there, and the sea had claimed the lives of her parents. Death and the water were eternally linked, and she gazed at the ocean with a mixture of love and fear.

  There were other dangers, too. Tomorrow night, Captain Landry would sail his cutter close to the shore, its hold full of brandy and lace. Bringing the cargo to land was perilous as she and the others fought the waves. The constant threat of the customs officers conspired to make each landing fraught with danger. There had been a few close calls, but the riding officers hadn’t caught anyone—yet.

  Tamsyn rode to the cliff above the cove. The inlet formed a neat semicircle of sand and rocks. She’d played there as a child, and now relied on it to keep everyone in Newcombe fed, sheltered, and healthy.

  Some of her happiest moments since her parents’ passing had been in that very cove, sharing in the communal effort and outwitting the customs men. The villagers had become her family, and they looked to her as their leader. She had a meaningful role. She meant something to someone.

  If she couldn’t have a family by blood that cared about her, if her husband thought her merely a means to his own ambitions, she’d have to accept what she did have.

  Yet she throbbed with loneliness.

  “A beautiful maiden silhouetted by the setting sun,” a familiar masculine voice said. “A fine sight to greet a weary traveler’s eyes.”

  Tamsyn turned in the saddle to see Kit slowly riding up the path toward her. For a moment, she doubted her vision. Yet he drew nearer, his familiar face and lean body coming into greater focus, and doubt vanished.

  “What . . . ?” She struggled to find words. “What are you doing here?”

  He drew up so that his horse stood ten feet away. Though he wore his habitual smile, the way his horse tossed its head and shifted revealed that he held the reins tightly. A golden haze of stubble covered his jaw and cheeks.

  Her husband looked impossibly handsome and a bit wild. Kit eyed her like a starving man desperate to feast on a banquet. Her body glowed to life, growing aware and sensitive merely by Kit’s presence and perusal.

  The attraction between them hadn’t faded in the intervening time—it had only grown stronger. And her heart ached beneath the cage of her ribs, reminding her how much she had missed him, how she had come to need him in her life.

  “Haven’t you heard?” he asked drolly. “London is passé and the outer reaches of Cornwall have become au courante. Within days, you should expect a monsoon of fashionable people clinging to the cliffs.”

  She stared at him, still trying to comprehend the fact that her cosmopolitan husband had journeyed all the way to the rural, wild edge of the country. He appeared a little weary, a little tousled—and the sight aroused her on a deep, instinctive level. This was how warriors looked when returning home from battle.

  “It’s over two hundred and fifty miles from here to London,” she noted with amazement.

  “So it is,” he answered neutrally.

  “I don’t see a carriage following you,” she added. “You rode the whole way?”

  Kit gave one slight nod.

  He’d been in the saddle for over a week. Yet her amazement was nearly dwarfed by an expanding, stunned joy that he was here with her now. “Is that . . . a piece of hay on the back of your coat?”

  Absently, he plucked the hay from behind his shoulder and flicked it away.

  “On your journey,” she pressed, “you slept where, exactly?”

  “Barns, mostly,” he replied offhandedly. “Under a hayrick one night.”

  That explained why it looked as though he hadn’t shaved for several days. But why? Why put himself through such a demanding ordeal? “Surely with your allowance you could afford hiring a carriage and staying at inns. I made sure to leave you money before I left.”

  “True,” he answered neutrally. “But I’d rather spend my blunt on something important. Like this.” He pulled an object from his saddlebag and held it out to her.

  She urged her horse closer and looked at the metallic object in his hand. It was a disk the size of a dinner plate, with markings etched into the brass, and flat plates set into its surface. The patina on it showed its considerable age—and the markings were in a language Tamsyn assumed was Arabic.

  Her pulse hammered as she looked between him and the object, and she felt both humbled and elated that he had done so much for her.

  “It’s an astrolabe,” he explained as she took the object from him. Their fingers brushed, sending pulses of hot awareness to every part of her.

  He stared at his hand, and she realized that he’d felt that surge of sensation, too. Then he roused himself and dragged his gaze up to hers. “For navigation on the sea. I picked it up in an antiquaries shop in Exeter. Couldn’t arrive empty-handed.” He spoke with an airiness contradicted by the intensity in his gaze. Kit tried to smile in an offhand manner, but there was strain in the corners of his mouth.

  Tamsyn turned the astrolabe carefully over in her hands. It was exquisitely crafted, a marvel of engineering combined with beauty.

  “Kit . . .” She brought her gaze up to his. “Why?”

  His smile fell away. He glanced toward the water. “The world’s been an awfully gray place since you went away.” He turned back to her, naked longing in his gaze. “I’m not certain how to make things right, but I knew it couldn’t be done with me stomping about London and you all the way over here. The pleasure garden . . . it was something I’d clung to, thinking it would make everything better. But it wouldn’t,” he said with somber resolve. “I couldn’t tell you all this in a letter. Thus . . .” He exhaled. “Here I am.”

  Her chest contracted painfully. She’d craved seeing his face, hearing his voice—and here he was.

  “What I did was unforgivable,” he went on. “I don’t expect you to absolve me. Perhaps, in time, you might not hate me.”

  “I don’t hate you, Kit,” she said softly. “But you dealt me a hard blow.”

  He looked down briefly, acknowledging his wrongdoing. “The damned thing is . . . by setting out to win you for my own selfish reasons, I learned how truly extraordinary you are, and how much I—” He swallowed. “How much I care about you. I care for you.”

  His eyes were hot and intense with emotion. “I pray that one day, you will feel for me even a fraction of what I feel for you. That would be enough.”

  “Kit.” She could barely speak around the thick knot in her throat.

  “I won’t ask you to figure out a way for me to regain your favor,” he said hoarsely. “But know that I will spend the rest of my life making you happy in any way I can.”

  The enormity of the gesture and his words thrilled and humbled her. She wanted to sing, to shout. To throw her arms around him and kiss him until they both forgot how to breathe.

  The anger at his actions still lived, yet it faded before the enormity of what he had done to get to her. At the feelings he’d expressed. But—

  Heaviness tugged on her heart. She would have to betray those feelings by lying to him—again. Tomorrow night she’d oversee another smuggling run, and he couldn’t learn about it. If he did . .
. everything could fall apart. He’d been a soldier, serving his king and country. His earldom had been a reward for his heroism. From his own lips she’d learned that he would believe her illegal activities betrayed the very values he’d risked his life to uphold.

  If only he’d showed up three days later. If only she wasn’t the source of Newcombe’s stability. If only . . .

  His lips pressed into a line, and she realized she’d fallen silent for a long time.

  “I shouldn’t have come,” he said flatly, “judging by the effusive warmth of your welcome.”

  She nudged her horse until she and Kit were side-by-side. Cradling the astrolabe with one arm, she curved her free hand over Kit’s jaw.

  He leaned into her touch, his eyes closing as though he’d found the one place that could give him peace. Curling his fingers around hers, he pressed his lips to her palm.

  Heartbreak and desire and affection tore through her, coalescing into a maelstrom that left her breathless and dizzy. She was engulfed in emotions that could not be tamed.

  “I am glad to see you, Kit,” she said lowly. “Truly. Things at the moment are . . . complicated.”

  She still hadn’t been able to corner Jory to talk to him about the sale of Chei Owr, in addition to planning tomorrow’s run. “I have many responsibilities here. Things I bear alone.”

  He continued to hold her hand to his face, and the brush of his stubble against her skin awakened every nerve in her body.

  “A burden is lightened when there’s help in lifting it,” he murmured.

  What could she do? He’d shown her what it felt like to have good things and happiness. Yet she continuously lied to him. He merited better than that, nor was she worthy of everything he’d given her.

  Sending him back to London would cauterize any hopes of a reconciliation. If he stayed, however, she risked the safety of the village. The choice clawed her from the inside out.