Heath looked decidedly uncomfortable. “I…”
Canting her head, she managed to look directly at him, “What about you? Did you brew it yourself from fillet of a fenny snake…in the cauldron boil and bake, perhaps?”
With twitching lips, he parroted, “Nay, My Lady. Rest assured there was no eye of newt and toe of frog, wool of bat or tongue of dog in that salve.”
He can quote Macbeth and the Divine Comedy…he is superbly well read. What else is he good in?
His jesting had turned the air soft and malleable, and while she still wished for Heath to sit, he did not. “If you don’t want to tell me where the salve came from, I won’t force you to.”
He seemed to struggle before the lines of his shoulder slackened. “It was mine. I’ve had it for years but had no reason to use it. Lord Masseur made sure that I was equipped for any incidents.”
“He was a very…peculiar Lord,” Penelope mused.
“He was,” Heath’s voice had taken a tone of nostalgia. “He taught me many things and so did his men.”
“Like what?” Penelope asked before she could question herself.
“I was taught…” Heath began uneasily but followed through. “Skills that would not normally be taught to a footman, like deep diving and skinning game without hitting the underlying flesh. I know how to seal a stab wound shut and sew up a laceration with dry pine needles and wild flax.”
Her eyes were wide, “Beg your pardon? Dry pine needles and flax? Were you in a war? I can only think those skills are for soldiers.”
Shrugging, Heath said, “Lord Masseur did serve in a war and made sure that we were trained likewise. When it came to survival, he made sure we could endure anything that was thrown at us, be it fire, a gunshot or poisoning. However, when it came to his personal effects, I was not allowed to touch a thing. No one was allowed in his private rooms, and it was only three of us in his house. I did not touch his clothes or handle his food or see his inner rooms. I did see his gun cupboard, drive his carriage and care for his horses but when it came to being personal, he was…just well, peculiar.”
“You say that with a certain fondness,” Penelope mentioned. “It sounds like me when I remember my mother.”
Heath lips curved at the side, “He did make a mark on me, but he was not of the paternal sort, more like the odd uncle that lives in the attic with critters as his friends and a trained falcon to carry messages to his enemies.”
Slapping a hand over her mouth, Penelope tried to swallow her laughter but could not. She added another hand over her mouth, but the giggles grew harder and her shoulders were shaking. Heath’s dark eyebrow lifted, and he reached over to pluck her hands away.
Suddenly, the mirth stopped—but not cold as with shock but rather warm with delight. His callused touch, rough with years of hard work were the exact opposite of her hands that were a soft as silk She liked the difference. They were strong. He had to be to have been to lift and carry her that dark half-mile back to the stable. Grasping his hands, she lifted herself up with him as the fulcrum. He did not even seem to notice the pull.
“Let’s go see Bessie,” Penelope said happily. “She must be…antsy.”
The stables were loud with Bessie whinnying and stomping up a storm even before she had entered the room. Duke looked over the partition to eye the mare with pompous aloofness. From the corner of her eye, she saw Heath glare at his horse and to her amazement, Duke seemed to flinch. She reached to quiet Bessie by running her hand over her nose and sides, making shushing sounds and comforting her.
“I’m here, Elizabeth,” Penelope soothed the anxious animal.
“Elizabeth?”
“When I first got her as a foal, her coat was bright red,” Penelope clarified embarrassedly. “I cheekily named her after our beloved Queen, but since then I know what reverence is, and it’s been Bessie ever since.”
Bessie slowly calmed down and her whinnies were soft. Penelope was nudged out of the way by Duke’s nose, and she gasped as the stallion rubbed against Bessie. The mare danced out of his way, tossed her head and looked decidedly affronted. Penelope dissolved into laughter. She then turned to Heath whose hands were clasped behind him but was clearly amused.
“What does my brother want with this hunt of his?”
Surprised at the sudden change of topic, Heath replied dryly. “A few of his peers are coming in the next week to lighten the forest of its devastating amount of pheasant, woodcocks and roebucks. Apparently, they are on the verge of forming a coup-de-grace and will overthrow our home if they are not cut down, skinned, and roasted.”
“You sir,” Penelope smiled, “are delightfully droll.”
“One of my best attributes,” Heath said while bowing his head. He reached out for Duke and scratched his jaw. “Thank you.”
Drifting closer to him, Penelope dared to nudge him with her shoulder and his left eye slanted to her. She smiled wider, “May I ask you a question?”
“That went well. You may ask me another.”
She frowned, temporarily confused then realized what he meant. Asking him if she could ask him a question was a question itself. “How old are you?”
“Would you care to guess?” Heath asked with a curl of his lips.
“If I do, will you tell me I’m right?” Her response was a nod and she surged on. “Five-and-twenty?”
“No.”
“One-and-twenty?” Penelope asked while she moved to get a brush for Bessie.
“No.”
“Was I under or over with that one?”
“I will not tell,” Heath said tongue-in-cheek. “The agreement was you would guess, and I will tell you if you are right.”
Narrowing her eyes, she said, “Seventy-and-five, if you’re going to be a grouch about it.”
“I am affronted,” Heath mocked a look of outrage. “How could you ever insult me so?”
She lobbed the brush as him, and he ducked the airborne missile even though Penelope was sure he could have easily caught it. It clanged loudly against the wall, and he looked at it with exaggerated horror, “And now you try to kill me? My Lady! For shame!”
Could she possibly die of humor? This banter with Heath was light, wonderful and invigorating. Behind that stoic shell, he is a different person. I wonder who gets to see him this way? I wonder, does he have a…lady friend.
Instantly, her insides tightened. She made to ask him the very question when she felt it too personal and switched. “Do many others know this side of you?”
He fetched the brush and handed it back to her, “No, not many. I don’t have many to be around anyway.”
This time she did gather the courage to ask, “Not even…” she nibbled her lip and studiously face Bessie’s side, “a lady friend? Surely, as handsome as you are you have one.”
From her peripheral, she saw his eyebrow arch. “You think I’m handsome?”
“Don’t be facetious, Heath,” she scolded. “It’s below you.”
He came closer and his eyes were dark, burning with a verdant simmering heat, “No…I don’t have a lady friend.”
Hovering half a foot away, she couldn’t look away from his gaze. As before, the invisible load stone created an invisible tether between them, and the magnetic force hummed in the sliver of space that was getting smaller and smaller.
He’s going to kiss me I’m sure of it.
Her heart walloped, the tempo of it reckless and uncontrolled as it beat in her breast. Every muscle inside her tightened and her lips slipped open just a fraction.
“Lady Penelope?” Lord Hillbrook’s voice cut through the air, and suddenly, Heath was almost ten feet away from her. He was in the same room but felt like half a mile away. His happy face was suddenly erased, and stoic somberness took its place.
“My Lady, are you in here?”
Her jaw ticked. “Yes, My Lord…I am.”
Entering, the merrily-dressed Baron, clad in a light peach waistcoat and white beeches slanted a quick suspi
cious look at Heath before focusing entirely on her. He even stepped between them. “Lady Penelope, there you are.”
Looking quickly at a suddenly emotionless Heath, Penelope felt the air go icy. He had become a different person entirely and was far removed from the one she had just been bantering with. And she hated it—she hated Stephen for it. His untimely visit had robbed her of something she had wanted to feel.
“Why are you here?” Penelope asked before realizing the undertone of irritation it had come out with. “I mean, I did not get any correspondence about your visit, or I would not be in this drab dress.”
To prove her point, she looked down at her faded dress, the hems of which was stained with dirt speckles and grass stains.
“My Lady,” Stephen said with a smile, “You could be in a gunnysack, and I’d still find you enchanting.”
She was tempted to scoff at his blatant attempt to charm her, but it was Heath’s sudden exasperated rolling eyes, spotted over Stephen’s shoulder, that made her giggle. Apparently, the Baron took it to mean he had enchanted her. Penelope opted to let him believe it as he held out his arm to her.
“May I escort you back inside, Penelope?”
His sudden use of her given name surprised her, and she frowned a bit. Why was he being so familiar all of a sudden? Then she saw Heath’s face, his eyebrows were down, his jaw was clenched tight and his lips were a pale line.
Then it struck her—was Lord Hillbrook trying to advertise his…what? Ownership of her? His status as a suitor in her life or how close there were—which honestly was not that close at all. Yes, they had come far away from the strangers they had been before, but still. What was he trying to get then?
“Erm, sure,” Penelope replied, hoping the silence had not stretched longer into awkwardness. Handing the brush to Mr. Moore she said, “Please finish brushing Bessie down, thank you, Mr. Moore.”
Taking Stephen’s arm, she walked out with him, catching by happenstance, the Baron’s superior look he shot over his shoulder. Her grip tightened as she wondered when and where could she give him a piece of her mind.
Chapter 21
Mechanically, Heath did as Penelope had asked him and finished brushing Bessie down. The Baron’s entrance had taken the light air he had with Penelope and smashed it to smithereens. The Baron irked him for more reasons that were well, reasonable.
His charm, with all its innocent veneer, is the same that dratted snake used to get Eve to bite that forbidden fruit I’d wager. He has the same serpentine smoothness with hidden fangs just ready to sink into an innocent’s flesh.
His glare was aimed at nothing in particular, but anger was still roiling in his stomach. His efforts gained him a pleased whinny and he patted the horse’s side before stepping out and closing the stall. Striding—or rather stomping—back to the house he got to the backyard before stopping. Spinning he went over to the carriage house where the Baron’s vehicle was supposed to be.
Slipping inside, he spotted the unhorsed black lacquered carriage and circled it. It was a strange make, one that he was not familiar with. It had the same make-up as a barouche but was not.
The side panels had ogee back ends and a concave front end. The boot was framed to the front of the body with a removable coachman’s seat and footboard mounted on the boot and the hind boot with a rumble seat bolted to the hind footboard. Was it German? A strange American make he did not know of? French perhaps?
He looked over his shoulder to make sure there was no one looking and then opened the handle and hopped into the carriage. There was not much to search but he did see a seat that looked liftable. He reached under and found the latch and lifted it up to see a double-barreled flintlock. There were boxes of ammunition beside it, and he reached out and took one bullet, slipping it, still in its cartridge wrapper into his pocket.
He did not make much of it as many carriage owners had guns at their disposal in case of highwaymen. Closing the seat and refastening it, he left the carriage house and went to the manor house. Deliberately circuiting the lower sitting rooms and any room where that insufferable twit Hillbrook was, he found refuge in the kitchens.
Mrs. Burcham eyed him curiously but only greeted him with a glass of lemonade and a smile. He sat and sipped the cool drink while forcing himself to not think how the slimy Baron, with his smokescreen façade of decency, was there charming Penelope.
“Unlock your jaw, Mr. Moore,” Mrs. Burcham said while bustling past. “Unless you are aiming to swallow your teeth, that is.”
He literally had to force his teeth apart. Taking the glass, he sighed into it. He had not even gotten to act on the impulse churning in his stomach. He had been an inch and a breath away from kissing Penelope before the thrice-damned Baron had made his appearance.
Pressing fingertips to his eyes, Heath wondered when that burning urge had taken residence in his chest? Last night perhaps when he had seen her bent in half in the ditch? Perhaps before when he had seen her hurting from her brother’s stinging words about her heading off into a long life of spinsterhood? Could it be that night when he had seen her riding like a warrior princess in the night? When had it begun?
“Mr. Moore,” Mrs. Burcham said. “Dinner is ready to be served.”
He stood up, nodded and handed his glass to the cook and went to take the loaded trays to the dining room. He stacked the sideboard and made sure the table was set with mats, napkins, and cutlery. His breath of relief was nearly audible when it was only Penelope and Lord Allerton entered. Hillbrook was gone then.
The siblings were bickering between themselves over the upcoming hunt.
“It is only a few peers, Penelope,” the Earl huffed.
“To lighten the forest of its devastating amount of pheasant, woodcocks and roebucks. Are all the animals on the verge of forming a coup-de-grace if they are not cut down, skinned, and roasted then?” Penelope drawled dryly.
Heath nearly choked on thin air. Their eyes met briefly, and he loved how her eyes sparkled with her cheeky quote of his words from before. He covered his mouth and busied himself at the sideboard. With half an ear on the two speaking, Heath overheard Lord Allerton mentioning a Mr. Percival Graham, a Marquess of Porthington.
While laying the cup of tea on the table, Heath heard Lord Allerton say, “He’s a decent shot, but Hillbrook will outdo him in spades.”
Hillbrook. Was there any occasion where the man does not show up? He retreated to his place in the corner and seethed over seeing Hillbrook again. His hand brushed his pocket where the bullet from the Baron’s carriage still rested in his pockets.
Speaking of bullets…how can I tactfully ask Lord Allerton about the findings on Viscount Shirlling?
Dinner was done and, after making sure the dishes were sent back to the kitchen, he cleaned up the table. He made sure the hearths were stocked with coal, closed the shutters, did the lamps. He was standing in a lonely sitting room when he fished out the bullet from his pocket. The parchment paper covering was curious with a tiny dark inked swirl of a trademark in the top. He spun the lead ball around and wondered again what type of bullet had killed Shirlling.
“What do you have there?”
Lady Penelope’s voice cut through his musing, but he did not jump in shock. Instead, he slowly placed the bullet in his pocket. “Nothing really.”
She came near to him and bumped his shoulder softly. “I am sorry about Hillbrook. He was…I don’t like him that way.”
Shifting on his feet to look at her, he frowned. “Which way?”
“Possessive,” she replied. “Like a dog with a bone. He tried to…I don’t know…make you angry or something of the sort. I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” Heath said while gravitating to the last window that he had to close.
The back lawns were stretches of dark planes, broken up by lines of bushes and stone walkways.
She got closer. “Are you sure?”
Pivoting slightly, he said, “I am not angry.
”
“Yes, you are,” Penelope said with Oracle-level insight, “But even if you are not, I am for you. I hate how Eddie has all these conceited friends, and how they look down on anyone who is not on their level.”
“I hate how he ignores you,” Heath replied.
She did not reply for a moment, and he felt concern so turned to her fully. “Penelope—”
His arm was grasped, she was then on her tiptoes and her lips almost met his for a long agonizing second before he stepped back. There was not much light, but he could see the flash of hot and deep rejection in her eyes.
Even as she made to tug away, he grabbed at her and held her still. “No…don’t go.”
The Rise of a Forsaken Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 18