Chapter 7

It had begun to drizzle, but Sylvie sat outside under the big oak tree along the drive waiting for Kit to return. She dearly hoped that he would return with Moses, but knew that if he returned alone he'd have a plan to try again. As long as she'd known him, if Kit Mathison could solve a problem for someone he would do it.

It was a trait she'd come to cherish over the past several weeks. Not just because she benefited from it, but because he didn't do it for recognition or attention. He simply wanted to make her life easier because he cared about her.

Was there something she could do for him?

Shortly before sunset, a lone rider trotted up the drive and Sylvie jumped to her feet. "Kit?"

"We're home, lad," he said to the dark bundle tucked against him. A white head popped out and glanced around, then began honking.

"Moses!"

Kit handed down the bird, wrapped in a rough blanket, before he dismounted, and Sylvie hugged the bundle to her. After just a moment, Moses expressed his displeasure at being unceremoniously crushed and she unwrapped him, setting him loose to become reacquainted with his home.

Then she threw her arms around Kit.

"I don't know how you did it," she said softly, pressing a kiss to his wet cheek, his temple, "but I'm so glad you did."

He held her tightly, reciprocating each kiss she gave him. "I'll tell you the story later tonight, if you want to hear it. I'm sure your grandparents are anxious to have you back indoors, out of this rain."

The mention of her grandparents, who had a clear view of them from the sitting room, cooled her enthusiasm slightly, but she nodded. Whatever this was—or wasn't—between her and Kit, they did not need to play it out for an audience.

She did take his arm as they walked up the drive, and helped him stable his horse, unwilling to go inside until he was ready to do so. Moses came running into the barn behind them, honking happily with his wings spread, asking for neck scratches before darting back outside.

"Look how happy he is," Sylvie exclaimed, clasping her hands together. "Kit, I don't know how to thank you."

He stole one more kiss, murmuring, "We can talk about that later as well."

The butterflies returned to their fluttering in her stomach and she shivered deliciously. "Looking forward to it."

They somehow managed to go inside and eat supper with Sylvie's grandparents, then to sit side by side on the sofa in the sitting room afterward, as if they were two friends who were merely excited to have a special pet returned safely home.

Or at least, she thought they had. When Grandpère decided to go up to bed, Grandmère decided to follow but paused at the sofa. "Enjoy the evening," she said quietly, giving them a little wink.

Apparently they hadn't concealed their eagerness as well as she'd thought.

Well, no matter. The hour had finally arrived when Sylvie could thank Kit properly for bringing Moses back, and perhaps to figure out how she felt about this man who had, until very recently, been little more than an acquaintance to her these past two years.

She scooted closer to him on the sofa and took his hand in hers. "You must tell me how you managed to find Moses."

He gave her hand a squeeze, then explained his stop at the market, his negotiations with the steward at Orchard Lake, and having to wrap Moses in the blanket in order to carry him on horseback.

"All that just to bring a bird back to me," she said when he finished.

Kit cleared his throat. "For you, yes."

His words squeezed her heart. "And I know that steward didn't just give you Moses. You will let me repay you for that cost at least."

"Absolutely not," he replied firmly.

She pressed her lips together for a moment. "I saw the roof yesterday, I know that it's nearly completed. You'll need to pay the builder very soon for everything you still owe him."

"You and your grandparents need every penny you can save," he reminded her. "I will have enough from the sale of my livestock to pay for the repairs to the house."

"Kit—"

"No," he said, turning to her, "I'll not budge on this point. If you feel that strongly about it you can owe me a favor, but I won't take your money."

She slid an arm around him and drew him down to her, capturing his lips with all the emotion she'd been suppressing. "You stubborn man," she mumbled, pulling back just a fraction of an inch before kissing him again.

His arms came around her, one big hand splayed across her back, holding her securely. "Yes, but you love me for it."

He was grinning, and likely joking, but her heart jumped into her throat and she rested her forehead against his. "I do love you, for your stubbornness and many other reasons."

"What?"

"I love you," she said softly, combing her fingers through his hair. "I can no longer pretend I don't."

Kit didn't pull away, but he didn't celebrate the news either. In fact, he didn't react at all. If it weren't for the increased thumping of his heart in his chest, Sylvie might have thought he hadn't heard her at all.

She loosened her arms about him. "I don't expect you to return my feelings—I've only just realized myself that I had them. But please don't say we can no longer be friends."

His eyes met hers in the light of her grandparents' treasured oil lamp and he traced a finger down her cheek. "I would never say that. You've caught me by surprise, that's all."

"You're sure?"

"Yes," he said with a nod. "I've also thought of a favor you can do for me, if you're willing."

"What's that?"

"Let me escort you to the Harvest Festival next week," he said. His voice was a bit rough and his breathing rapid, but his eyes were locked on hers.

Her hands found his shoulders. "That hardly seems like a fair trade after you rode half the county to bring Moses back to me."

"It's more than enough," he assured her. "Will you?"

His arms were still around her, his body warm against hers, and she wanted badly to kiss him again. But he'd spooked like a frightened horse when she told him she loved him, and she didn't want to spook him further.

Instead, she simply said, "It will be my pleasure."

~*~

The day before the Harvest Festival, Kit moved back into his own home. The repairs had been finished for several days, he'd hired a local woman to thoroughly clean the interior, and there was no longer any reason to continue staying with Sylvie and her grandparents.

He gathered his clothing and personal items together along with the loaves of bread Mrs. Devereaux had baked for him, and carried them to his house through a fine mist that emanated from low, dark clouds. Sylvie had offered to help him, but he'd declined. He wanted to get his head and his heart sorted out before spending time alone with her again, to decide what he wanted and what his next step should be. He had nearly burst with joy when she said she loved him, but no words would come when he'd attempted to summon them.

And now he was afraid he might well be too late.

Arriving at the house, Kit left the bread in the kitchen and headed up the stairs to the master's chamber. The last time he'd been there, water had poured from the ceiling and soaked everything within its reach. But when he opened the door, the room was freshly plastered and painted, the hole in the ceiling no longer even visible.

He put his things away, then sat down on the upholstered chair he kept by the large window and sighed.

"It cost me every penny I have, but I have my house back."

There were other problem areas the builder had identified which would need repairs sometime in the future, and the farm wasn't producing the way it had when Kit was a boy. He ought to sell it to someone with the means to restore it to its former glory, but despite the money and effort he knew he would be putting in—had already put in—he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Would Sylvie love this old heap as much as he did? Would she wish to preside over a home that was constantly in need of expensive repairs?

Did he want her to?

He had no doubt in the world that he loved Sylvie. He was less convinced that her declaration was true. Not that she would purposefully mislead him, of course, but he had returned her beloved pet to her thereby saving the goose from a fate as someone's Michaelmas dinner. Had she only thought she loved him because she was so relieved?

Or was she truly sincere?

Kit leaned his forehead against the cool glass and closed his eyes.

The memory of Sylvie in his arms overwhelmed him just then and his breath caught in his throat. Ye gods she was an amazing woman! What would it be like to wake up beside her every morning? To discuss the workings of the estate together, reinvigorate this house together, handle account ledgers together?

Handle account ledgers? If he thought that was romantic pastime, he must be in love.

What if she really did love him in return?

He stood and gave himself a mental shake. "I can't just sit here brooding all day. Even with the livestock sold and the crops ruined, there is still work to be done."

When Kit returned to the house later that evening, he was tired and sweaty, looking forward to washing, eating a quick supper, and going to bed early. But just as he was about to head upstairs, a knock sounded on the kitchen door. He trudged over and opened it, then rubbed his eyes. Had he conjured her with his thoughts?

"Good evening, Kit."

"Good evening, Sylvie." He opened the door wider and gestured for her to come inside, but couldn't help making a joke as she entered. "Miss me already?"

"Yes," she said with a grin. "But that's not why I'm here."

She touched his shoulder as she passed by him and his stomach did a somersault, then he cringed. He hadn't had a chance to wash or change yet, and he must smell like an ox.

But Sylvie didn't seem to notice or care. "I have a favor to ask of you."

"I'll do it."

She laughed lightly. "You don't even know what it is."

He took one of her hands and gave it a gentle squeeze. He didn't care what the favor was. He would do anything for this woman. Didn't she know that? "Very well then, what is your favor?"

"My grandparents' wedding anniversary is tomorrow, and I'd like to surprise them at the Harvest Festival. But I need a partner."

"Come sit down, and tell me what I'll need to do."

He led her into the sitting room, careful to choose an old, tatty chair for himself, pulling it closer to hers. She explained her plan, her eyes shining with excitement and love for her grandparents, and he couldn't help but love her more.

"I would be happy to," he said when she was finished. "And you're welcome to use the kitchen whenever is convenient. I'll be out most of the morning, but I'll leave the door open for you."

"Oh, Kit, thank you," she replied, clasping her hands together on one knee. "It's not much, but I think they'll enjoy it."

"I think so too." He paused, desperately wanting to tell her how much he loved her but unable to find the right words. Ah, but there was one thing he could do. "I'm glad you came over tonight, because I have something for you."

He excused himself and went to the room his mother used to jokingly call the conservatory because it was the sunniest room in the house. He returned with a slip of a plant in a small pot.

"It's not much to look at yet," he said, the slightest hint of trepidation creeping into his voice, "but I'm told that roses take some time to root properly from cuttings."

She stood and accepted the pot from him, curiosity written all over her face. "It's a rose cutting?"

He nodded, gaining confidence from her interest. "From the rose bush on the south side of the house. The variety is called ‘Duchess of Portland.' My mama and papa planted it underneath the window of the master's chamber when they were first married. Apparently this variety was rather rare at the time, and neither of them would tell me how they happened to obtain one."

Her lovely eyes went wide. "What a wonderful way to celebrate their marriage. And you're giving me a cutting?"

"I took that cutting the day after our first kiss," he told her softly.

Her reaction was slightly delayed, as if it took her a moment to fully understand what he had said. Her gaze dropped to the nearly bare stem in the pot then back to Kit, her mouth forming a small o.

She set the pot on the floor, then stepped close to him and slid her arms around his neck, heedless of the sweat and smell. "Thank you," she whispered.

He closed his eyes and held her close against him, thankful that his gift could say what he couldn't.