Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

M agna Midcombe had once been the site of an abbey. The Fortescues were very pious and therefore benefactors of the abbey, so when Henry VIII, mad with love for Anne Boleyn, decided to turn his back on the Pope and close the religious houses, they argued against it, and for their troubles they lost everything. According to a Miss Johnson, a local spinster who collected local history, all that now remained of the Fortescue estate was a meadow attached to an old mill.

"The family are long gone, of course," she said. "But I can direct you to the mill."

The former Fortescue estate was a little way beyond the village. The mill was neglected and forlorn, the wheel seized up in its pond, while the surrounding meadow was full of flowers, their colorful faces peeping over the long grass.

George, observing the pretty scene from his mount, said, "You should have brought a picnic basket, Valentine. Mrs. Beaumaris always packs the best picnics."

"Hungry again, George," his brother mocked. "I'm afraid I had more important things on my mind."

"What could be more important than a picnic on a summer's day?" George retorted. "Well, it just so happens I had the forethought to ask Mrs. Beaumaris for a picnic basket. It's tucked into the back of the carriage."

Valentine gave him a suspicious look. "Indeed?"

"Someone has to remember to play the host," George said smugly. "Women appreciate a man with a thoughtful nature."

While George was collecting the basket, Valentine handed Marissa down from the carriage, and they stood surveying the scene.

"What will we do now?" Marissa used her parasol to shade her face from the sun, but already she could feel perspiration trickling down her back. The air was still and hot, not a breath of wind stirring.

"Eat the picnic that George so thoughtfully brought," Valentine said.

"No, I mean . . ."

"I know what you mean. I'll take a look around but I doubt I'll find anything. If the Crusader's Rose was here then it's long gone. We'll just have to move on to the next name on the list, and hope for better." He looked at her, as if waiting for something. "You haven't told me that there's a chance I may never find the rose, that I should prepare myself for failure."

Marissa gave him a puzzled glance. "I wouldn't say anything so spineless."

His mouth curled into a reluctant smile. "No, I don't believe you would."

George arrived with the basket and a rug to lay out on the grass. He wandered over toward the mill and the shade thrown by the old building. Here he shook out the rug, setting it by the pond where the water was deep and green, beams of sunlight barely penetrating the surface, while insects darted above. At any moment, thought Marissa, a woman's hand might rise up from the depths, clutching a gleaming sword.

The thought made her smile.

"Mrs. Beaumaris has outdone herself." As they made themselves comfortable, George was investigating the contents of the picnic basket. "There's cold roast lamb, lobster salad, cherry tart . . . and a bottle of champagne!" He began to wrestle with the cork.

"What are you thinking?"

Marissa turned and found Valentine watching her from beneath his lashes. He was resting on his side, his long body stretched out on the rug and propped up by an elbow. He was twisting a blade of grass between his fingers, and one of his legs was bent at the knee, the cloth stretched over the thickness of his thigh. His jacket had fallen open and she could see the muscles of his chest beneath the thin linen shirt.

It was impossible not to remember him half-naked, his mouth hot on hers, as she sank down onto his lap and his fingers stroked her most secret places.

Marissa felt a tremor run through her, and beneath her skirts she squeezed her thighs tightly together, trying to ease the ache that was centered between them. Somehow, when George handed her a glass of champagne, she managed to thank him in a calm voice, as if her skin were not feverish and her thoughts full of wicked, unladylike longings.

"To us!" he announced.

She smiled and took a sip. The liquid was cool and delicious and this time her delight was unfeigned. "To us."

Valentine gulped some of the champagne, but he was still waiting for her to answer his question.

"I was thinking this could be the watery place where King Arthur commanded Excalibur to be thrown, when he lay dying."

"Romantic fairy tales?" he said, brushing his hair out of his eyes and frowning at her. "I thought you were a woman of intellect and reason."

Marissa took another sip of her champagne. "I am. But I also believe that we do not understand everything in our world and therefore we should keep our minds open to the possibilities."

Valentine grunted a noncommittal answer. He emptied his glass and glowered at the sunny meadow surrounding them. He seemed to be following his own thoughts, and after a moment he said, "Can Abbey Thorne really be the only manor surviving from the days of the Crusader's Rose? I would never have believed it."

"I don't think you realize how lucky you are," she said quietly. "You live in a place that has been in your family for centuries, surrounded by the belongings and memories of generations. Abbey Thorne Manor belongs to you, but you also belong to it. My family has kept very little of the past. My father says he doesn't believe in the burdens of history, and although in some ways that may be a good thing, in others it means we are like plants without our roots in the soil. We do not belong to anything or anyone."

She hadn't meant to say so much on a subject that was painful to her, but her tongue had run away with her—or perhaps it was the excellent champagne.

"This does look good," she said, beginning to fill a plate from the picnic basket. "And I am famished."

"Mrs. Beaumaris always sent me back to school with a jolly good feast," George said, eyeing his own plate with pleasure. He glanced up at her.

"Didn't you attend some finishing school or other, Marissa?"

"Miss Debenham's Finishing School," she said with a reminiscent smile.

"I thought your parents weren't interested in the social niceties?" Valentine interrupted, digging his fork into the lobster salad.

"My grandmother is, however."

"Do Bohemians value etiquette and manners? Don't they prefer to live their lives outside the strictures of society?"

Marissa smiled in the face of his suspicion. "Not all of them, Lord Kent. My grandmother has always been very keen on etiquette and manners."

And giving herself up to pleasure, she almost added, stopping herself in time. It didn't matter, though. Valentine read her unspoken words in her eyes and something in his own flashed like a sapphire in the sun. "Pleasure" seemed to be occupying both their minds to a dangerous degree.

After he'd finished eating Valentine went off to search the meadow for his own personal treasure, while George lay back replete and closed his eyes. Marissa observed the play of light on the water of the pond, or amused herself watching the family of swallows who had made their home in the roof of the mill. The parents flitted back and forth, finding morsels to bring back to their noisy and hungry babies.

"What is this about Bohemians?" George murmured, opening one eye to look at her.

"Your brother brought the subject up, you should ask him."

"You don't seem at all intimidated by him, Marissa. Women sometimes are. They either try too hard to please him or make excuses to leave."

"He's a clever and interesting man," she said uncomfortably.

"And you say what you feel, Marissa. Valentine appreciates women who say what they feel."

"Does he?"

She turned to look across to the other side of the meadow, where the man in question was standing, head bent, the sunlight turning strands of his hair to gold. Perhaps there was something wistful in her gaze, although she tried hard not to let it show, because George reached out to give her hand a brotherly pat.

"We are friends, aren't we, Marissa? You've forgiven me for abandoning you?"

"Of course I have," she said. "And yes, we are friends, George."

"You know, I only have your best interests at heart."

Puzzled now, Marissa sat up straighter. "Whatever do you mean, George?"

But he had jumped to his feet and was standing over her, a silhouette against the sun that was beginning to eat into their patch of shade. "You may not have noticed, but there was a poster fixed to the door of the inn in Magna Midcombe."

"Do you mean that poster of the dreadful boxing match you were staring at while your brother was trying to find out about the Fortescues?"

"Ah, but you only say that because you don't understand the finer points of boxing. One of the combatants happens to be the Dorking Destroyer."

"Good heavens."

"The match begins in . . ." He took out his pocket watch and perused it. "In twenty minutes."

Marissa shaded her eyes and looked up at him, waiting for what she knew was about to come next.

"Marissa?"

"Yes, George?"

"Would you be very disappointed if I returned to Magna Midcombe and left you in Valentine's care?"

"Oh, George. How can you give up such a lovely day to watch a brutal, sweaty boxing match?"

Laughter gleamed in his eyes. "I knew you'd understand."

"I don't understand at all, but if you must go then I won't stop you."

He rested his hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "I'll probably stay for a round or two of drinks with the locals and then toddle off home later. So don't worry about waiting for me."

"George . . . !" she protested.

But he only grinned at her and strode across to his horse. With a wave of his hand, he kicked the animal into a fast trot and set off toward the gate, and the road to Magna Midcombe.