fire, boiled water, made tea, and poured milk for the child into a telescoping tin cup. With the smell of wood burning in the open air, military campfires came to mind. He frowned, no desire to remember.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He shook away the past, poured her a mug of tea, and set the camp kettle in the coals.
“Never better.” He forced the cheer with which he chose to supplant all melancholy. “I must thank you for agreeing to stay, for suggesting this place. It is--” his voice faded.
“Beautiful?” Her gaze fixed on the lake.
He studied with fascination the golden glitter of sunlit hair against the water’s silvered shimmer.
“Sublime.”
She turned, her eyes the color of the sky, changeable as the wa, questions there.
“I would not have enjoyed it half so much alone,” he said.
“What did you bring to eat?” the child interrupted.
Penny quickly corrected Felicity for her forwardness.
Val’s cook had provided mutton sandwiches, apple tarts, a crock of mustard, another of chutney. Simple fare, but tasty. The child ate heartily, then looked skyward asking him to identify all of the birds she could spy. She had a keen eye. It was an hour before she lay her head in Miss Foster’s lap and snuggled close for a nap, clutching the locket, the bothersome heart-shaped locket.
He poured fresh cups, then sat back to enjoy the aromatic brew that warmed him as much as the sight of Penny Foster stroking the child’s hair away from her brow, the little girl’s face gone slack with sleep--both of them tender, vulnerable, beautiful.
Miss Foster looked up, shuttering away that tenderness, eyes wary, when she looked at him. He had seen that same fear in men’s eyes, in hand-to-hand combat. He did not like to think he provoked it in her, now.
“Tell me about the lake,” he suggested. “These peaks. Have they names?”
“Place Fell.” She twisted to point, careful not to wake the child. “Hellvelyn. Stybarrow Dodd, and Great Dodd backed by Fairfield and Great Seat.” The russet flanks were grayed by distance. Her hand swept northward, over her shoulder. “Loadpot Hill.”
He smiled. “Odd name.”
She nodded, smiling back at him, his heart touched by the sight of those lips upturned. She looked across the lake. “Then there is Little Mell Fell.”
“Mustn’t forget that,” he murmured.
She blushed, and turning serious, told him of lead mines near Glenredding, and the damming of Goldrill Beck, and the forests of Glencoyne, the names like music on her tongue, her love of the place undisguised.
“There is a tower, there.” Again she pointed, and he found himself far more fascinated by the tilt of her wrist, and the curve of her back, and the curls of golden hair that blew in the wind than in the Duke of Norfolk who had built a hunting lodge.
“And over there . . .”
She twisted. He breathed deep as her movement revealed the swell of breast and hip, a bit of cleavage.
“A pre-Roman ruin, Dunmallard Hill is difficult to see for the trees, but Romans, Saxons, Celts, Vikings, Norsemen and Scots have fought to hold it.”
He closed his eyes, imagining the clash of swords, the echo of gunfire from the slopes. “One cannot escape it,” he muttered.
“What?” she asked mildly.
“Man’s violence.” His bitterness was real, each word clipped. “His need to conquer, possess and kill.”
With a stricken look, she covered the sleeping child’s ears. “Yes,” she said. “But that is the past.”
He rose, startling a flock of ducks, their muted honking striking fear in the grebes and cormorants, all of them taking wing, a flock of angels rising, their combined wing beats enough to wake the dead.
The child opened her eyes with a moan.
He regretted his sudden move, unsettling the peace of the lake, and the violence of his words.
So much to regret. So very much to regret.
Chapter Eight
He rode in silence for the first half hour of their return journey, a weight of
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He shook away the past, poured her a mug of tea, and set the camp kettle in the coals.
“Never better.” He forced the cheer with which he chose to supplant all melancholy. “I must thank you for agreeing to stay, for suggesting this place. It is--” his voice faded.
“Beautiful?” Her gaze fixed on the lake.
He studied with fascination the golden glitter of sunlit hair against the water’s silvered shimmer.
“Sublime.”
She turned, her eyes the color of the sky, changeable as the wa, questions there.
“I would not have enjoyed it half so much alone,” he said.
“What did you bring to eat?” the child interrupted.
Penny quickly corrected Felicity for her forwardness.
Val’s cook had provided mutton sandwiches, apple tarts, a crock of mustard, another of chutney. Simple fare, but tasty. The child ate heartily, then looked skyward asking him to identify all of the birds she could spy. She had a keen eye. It was an hour before she lay her head in Miss Foster’s lap and snuggled close for a nap, clutching the locket, the bothersome heart-shaped locket.
He poured fresh cups, then sat back to enjoy the aromatic brew that warmed him as much as the sight of Penny Foster stroking the child’s hair away from her brow, the little girl’s face gone slack with sleep--both of them tender, vulnerable, beautiful.
Miss Foster looked up, shuttering away that tenderness, eyes wary, when she looked at him. He had seen that same fear in men’s eyes, in hand-to-hand combat. He did not like to think he provoked it in her, now.
“Tell me about the lake,” he suggested. “These peaks. Have they names?”
“Place Fell.” She twisted to point, careful not to wake the child. “Hellvelyn. Stybarrow Dodd, and Great Dodd backed by Fairfield and Great Seat.” The russet flanks were grayed by distance. Her hand swept northward, over her shoulder. “Loadpot Hill.”
He smiled. “Odd name.”
She nodded, smiling back at him, his heart touched by the sight of those lips upturned. She looked across the lake. “Then there is Little Mell Fell.”
“Mustn’t forget that,” he murmured.
She blushed, and turning serious, told him of lead mines near Glenredding, and the damming of Goldrill Beck, and the forests of Glencoyne, the names like music on her tongue, her love of the place undisguised.
“There is a tower, there.” Again she pointed, and he found himself far more fascinated by the tilt of her wrist, and the curve of her back, and the curls of golden hair that blew in the wind than in the Duke of Norfolk who had built a hunting lodge.
“And over there . . .”
She twisted. He breathed deep as her movement revealed the swell of breast and hip, a bit of cleavage.
“A pre-Roman ruin, Dunmallard Hill is difficult to see for the trees, but Romans, Saxons, Celts, Vikings, Norsemen and Scots have fought to hold it.”
He closed his eyes, imagining the clash of swords, the echo of gunfire from the slopes. “One cannot escape it,” he muttered.
“What?” she asked mildly.
“Man’s violence.” His bitterness was real, each word clipped. “His need to conquer, possess and kill.”
With a stricken look, she covered the sleeping child’s ears. “Yes,” she said. “But that is the past.”
He rose, startling a flock of ducks, their muted honking striking fear in the grebes and cormorants, all of them taking wing, a flock of angels rising, their combined wing beats enough to wake the dead.
The child opened her eyes with a moan.
He regretted his sudden move, unsettling the peace of the lake, and the violence of his words.
So much to regret. So very much to regret.
Chapter Eight
He rode in silence for the first half hour of their return journey, a weight of
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