thoughts hanging about his head like a dark cloud. The gray horse set the pace for their steady trot, long tail swishing. Archer kept up well enough.
His leg, slightly higher than her own, on the taller animal, drew Penny’s eye. Well muscled and rock hard, clad in breeches that clung, limbs worthy of study. The legs of a man who had spent hours in the saddle. She did not try to fill the silence, simply watched the flex and bulge of muscle, wondering if he tired of her company, of their company.
Felicity, little magpie, chattered non-stop, spewing questions unending, about the trees, the clouds, and the squirrels that skipped across the road ahead of them in quick, red flashes. She responded patiently, quietly, wondering if their conversation disturbed him.
He roused at last, as they crossed the bridge at Temple Sowerby, when at last she asked, “Do you mean to fish while you are here, Mr. Shelbourne?”
He broke his speechless reverie with a puzzled grimace. “Fish, Miss Foster? It is Oscar who is mad for fishing. Why?” He eyed her up and down, as if imagining her in gumboots, rod and creel in hand. “Do you enjoy angling?”
“For safe topics, yes.”
His gaze sharpened. He shifted in the saddle, and looked past her, toward Cross Fell. “I am poor company,” he apologized.
She sighed. “Lost in thought. I often do the same. What were you thinking?”
His hands, for miles so still, now fingered the reins uneasily. “I fear I dwell too much on the past.”
“The war?”
He nodded. His gaze flickered in Felicity’s direction. “Things best forgotten.”
She considered for fleeting moment what it must have been like. His concern for the child touched her. “I appreciate your sensibilities, sir, but surely such events must never be forgotten.”
His brows rose.
She stroked Archer’s mane, the dark hair course and long, and wonderful between her fingers. She wondered what Mr. Shelbourne’s hair felt like. She wondered if she offended him. “I have never been to war, but I find, in my own trivial conflicts, I come to better understand myself and human nature, good and bad.”
He studied her a moment, deep green eyes unreadable --she could not tell if he thought more or less of her for her remark, only that it would seem to have startled him.
“I am not one for chit-chat, Mr. Shelbourne.” She wondered if he expected some kind of apology for her outspokenness. “I find it a waste of breath, thought and energies.”
“Indeed?” His eyes narrowed.
Had she said too much? Spoken too freely? It was what she considered both a strength and a failing, voicing her opinion, especially when it ran contrary to common beliefs or practice. It had earned her something of a reputation. She was in addition to her questionable status with regard to Felicity, and her mother, considered an oddity for her own sake. Eccentric. Had Lady Anne been considered thus?
“Whose eyes you would have me open, Miss Foster?” he asked abruptly. “And to what end?”
She frowned. He raised the one topic she did not care to delve. And yet, she had asked for this. She could not now refuse him.
“The world’s eyes, sir,” she said simply “to who and what I am.”
“And what is that?”
She bit her lower lip. “An unfit topic,” she said elusively.
He glanced beyond her, to Felicity, clinging quietly, listening. The child soaked up everything.
“You set me a difficult task.” He shifted in the saddle, thigh muscles flexing, driving all thought and sense from her for a moment.
“Yes.” She laughed. “Perhaps impossible.”
“Who are you?” he asked.
She lifted her gaze from the strength of his thigh to find him regarding her with intense curiosity, and a gleam of mischief in his eyes.”
“You know me, sir.”
“Not really. I know your name, and that you like Darjeeling tea better than China black, and fells better than dales, but above and beyond that . . .” His eyes scanned the horizon, distance
His leg, slightly higher than her own, on the taller animal, drew Penny’s eye. Well muscled and rock hard, clad in breeches that clung, limbs worthy of study. The legs of a man who had spent hours in the saddle. She did not try to fill the silence, simply watched the flex and bulge of muscle, wondering if he tired of her company, of their company.
Felicity, little magpie, chattered non-stop, spewing questions unending, about the trees, the clouds, and the squirrels that skipped across the road ahead of them in quick, red flashes. She responded patiently, quietly, wondering if their conversation disturbed him.
He roused at last, as they crossed the bridge at Temple Sowerby, when at last she asked, “Do you mean to fish while you are here, Mr. Shelbourne?”
He broke his speechless reverie with a puzzled grimace. “Fish, Miss Foster? It is Oscar who is mad for fishing. Why?” He eyed her up and down, as if imagining her in gumboots, rod and creel in hand. “Do you enjoy angling?”
“For safe topics, yes.”
His gaze sharpened. He shifted in the saddle, and looked past her, toward Cross Fell. “I am poor company,” he apologized.
She sighed. “Lost in thought. I often do the same. What were you thinking?”
His hands, for miles so still, now fingered the reins uneasily. “I fear I dwell too much on the past.”
“The war?”
He nodded. His gaze flickered in Felicity’s direction. “Things best forgotten.”
She considered for fleeting moment what it must have been like. His concern for the child touched her. “I appreciate your sensibilities, sir, but surely such events must never be forgotten.”
His brows rose.
She stroked Archer’s mane, the dark hair course and long, and wonderful between her fingers. She wondered what Mr. Shelbourne’s hair felt like. She wondered if she offended him. “I have never been to war, but I find, in my own trivial conflicts, I come to better understand myself and human nature, good and bad.”
He studied her a moment, deep green eyes unreadable --she could not tell if he thought more or less of her for her remark, only that it would seem to have startled him.
“I am not one for chit-chat, Mr. Shelbourne.” She wondered if he expected some kind of apology for her outspokenness. “I find it a waste of breath, thought and energies.”
“Indeed?” His eyes narrowed.
Had she said too much? Spoken too freely? It was what she considered both a strength and a failing, voicing her opinion, especially when it ran contrary to common beliefs or practice. It had earned her something of a reputation. She was in addition to her questionable status with regard to Felicity, and her mother, considered an oddity for her own sake. Eccentric. Had Lady Anne been considered thus?
“Whose eyes you would have me open, Miss Foster?” he asked abruptly. “And to what end?”
She frowned. He raised the one topic she did not care to delve. And yet, she had asked for this. She could not now refuse him.
“The world’s eyes, sir,” she said simply “to who and what I am.”
“And what is that?”
She bit her lower lip. “An unfit topic,” she said elusively.
He glanced beyond her, to Felicity, clinging quietly, listening. The child soaked up everything.
“You set me a difficult task.” He shifted in the saddle, thigh muscles flexing, driving all thought and sense from her for a moment.
“Yes.” She laughed. “Perhaps impossible.”
“Who are you?” he asked.
She lifted her gaze from the strength of his thigh to find him regarding her with intense curiosity, and a gleam of mischief in his eyes.”
“You know me, sir.”
“Not really. I know your name, and that you like Darjeeling tea better than China black, and fells better than dales, but above and beyond that . . .” His eyes scanned the horizon, distance
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