Chapter 17

When he returned to the residence, he found her in the main room, sitting on the floor beside the fireplace, and already working

to mend the fabric. There was a homey feel that had never been part of this dwelling. It was a bit disconcerting, making him

think that at long last he could find the peace that he’d come here seeking.

She glanced up. “Your brother is a bit of a scamp.”

“He is that.”

“And you’re wet.”

He looked down at his sodden trousers. He’d left his boots just inside the doorway. “I shoved him”—at her eyes widening, he

decided an amendment was in order—“his boat into the water. I won’t be long.”

After dashing up the stairs, he was surprised to find the bed set to rights. He seldom bothered to make the bed, because he’d

only unmake it later.

Nothing about the room seemed the same. The sunlight appeared brighter, coming through the windows. He couldn’t look around without seeing her within these walls or hearing her cries of fear soon followed by shouts of pleasure.

He shrugged out of his coat, stripped off his trousers. He set them in front of the fire to dry before drawing on another

pair. He followed that with a dry set of boots. His stomach rumbled. Stuart’s arrival had delayed breakfast.

He made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. He smiled at the large wicker basket resting on the table, not needing

to look inside to know what he’d find. He added a few things before popping back upstairs and grabbing a quilt from the cupboard.

He didn’t know why he suddenly felt lighter, like he could float on air. Did she feel this way when she was in her balloon?

It had been so very long since he hadn’t felt weighted down. Perhaps that night of the railway accident was finally leaving

him.

With wicker basket in hand, the quilt draped over his arm, he returned to the front room, crossed over to where she sat, and

held out his hand to her. “Come on.”

She studied the items he was holding. “What’s that?”

“My mother sent food. We’re going on a picnic.”

They didn’t go far from the dwelling, just to the edge of the cliff, where he’d spread out the quilt and she’d lowered herself to it. She’d stuffed her feet back into his boots that she’d borrowed the day before. His coat was draped over her shoulders. Wearing only his trousers, shirtsleeves, and boots, he didn’t seem at all bothered by the chill in the air as he spread out the fare: Scotch eggs, ham, scones. His mother had even included clotted cream and jam. The last thing he pulled out was a crock and two earthenware mugs. “My contribution,” he announced and poured her some tea.

Still a trifle hurt by the entire introduction fiasco—even though it had been obvious his brother knew who she was—she refused

to be charmed, even when he stretched out on his side, rose up on an elbow, and snatched up a piece of ham with his fingers.

“We’re to eat like barbarians?” she asked.

He grinned. “I suspect most of my ancestors who lived here did. Besides, I find it refreshing from time to time not to have

to follow all of Society’s strictures.” He waved the hand holding the ham over the food. “Help yourself.”

She took a sip of tea instead. He must have put half the sugar in England in it. She didn’t know if she’d ever had anything

quite so delicious. Setting the mug aside, she went for a scone.

“You like sweet things,” he murmured.

“I do. Although I’m sweet enough without them.”

“You’ve no idea.” He looked out over the narrow strip of water separating his island from the mainland, leaving her with the

impression he was referring to her taste.

If she stayed any longer, she might discover the taste of him. She wasn’t quite certain that would be a wise thing to do. “While you were seeing your brother off, I took an inventory of the tears. I estimate I’ll be able to finish my task in only a few hours.” He was staring out over the water, but she was left with the impression that he was bracing himself for an onslaught of words he didn’t want to hear. “We should go back to the mainland today.”

Without looking at her, he nodded. “I agree.”

She didn’t know why his answer disappointed her. It was the correct answer. It assured they didn’t quarrel. “I think you should

know, in case you should ever cross paths with Hollie, that I’m not going to tell him about my little adventure.”

He did look at her then, his face set in a somber mask. “That’s probably for the best.”

“He wouldn’t be jealous. But he would be upset by my dunderheadedness.”

He rolled a little more onto his side so he was more squarely facing her. “And which dunderheadedness would that be?”

“Placing myself in a position to fall from the sky.” To fall for you. “I never tell him when I’ve gone up because he worries so.”

His brow furrowed. “But it’s a part of you. Not to share it with him... how can he fully appreciate you?”

“That’s the way of mistresses. You don’t give your benefactor the whole of you. You have to keep a portion just for yourself, something to which you can remain true.” She shook her head. “Or perhaps it’s necessary for survival for everyone, not just mistresses. Like you, with your room of crumpled paper. Other than you, who knows about the reasons behind it?”

He chuckled darkly. “It’s not an aspect of me that I want or intend to keep. But if I was going to share it with anyone, I

might share the reason behind it with you.” He grinned. “But I’m not.”