And, more worrisome, that smile sent a buzz of warmth through her. She’d not felt such buzzing in years, not in many, many, many years, not since Reginald.
And that memory was like a dash of cold water. She was no longer that foolish young girl.
“I’ll send men with you,” he said.
She put a hand to her heart. “I shall go pack. Safe travels, my lord. I will be close behind you.”
When he finally accepted thatsleep would not come to him, Fox rose, dealt quickly with the mocking, incomplete canvas, dressed, and departed the cottage through the kitchen. All had been quiet on Perry’s floor. She and her maid were both sleeping.
His fingers itched with the memory of curling around her shoulder and legs. She’d had a hard, worrisome journey from her brother’s place. There was no telling when she’d last slept, for not even his manhandling her up the stairs to her bed last night had awakened her.
Lovely Perry. He needed it to be the last time he touched her. Touching her made him want her. Touching her made him rethink her ghostly usefulness.
All was quiet in the stable. MacEwen had either gone back out or was bedded down here after his late night.
Fox hurriedly saddled his horse. These locals were not stupid—they would see that Perry was flesh and blood, that she was a real woman, young and beautiful and very much alive, no ghost. He needed her to leave before danger found her. As soon as he could, he’d get a message to her brother Charles to come get her. She would despise him for it, but then, her dislike for him had always been his best defense—and hers.
For now, a bruising ride was what he needed, and then he’d pay a midday visit to the inn in Clampton.
It was wellon in the morning when the tapping began in Perry’s dream. Her mother was tapping at the door, and she had a pillow over her head. She was a great big girl, too old to throw herself onto a bed. Too old for tears. Too old to say what was wrong.
She sat up, heart pounding, and rubbed her eyes.
Charley had come down to her portrait sitting and said she must have legs under her skirts like thegirafepictured in one of Mama’s French travel books. Fox had kicked him out. Fox hadn’t laughed, nor even smiled, but she’d seen the effort it had taken him to resist. Even so, he’d coaxed her to stop frowning. He’d teased her about leaving him a great glowering subject, tried to make her smile, and finally, put away his brushes, disgusted with her.
Lady Perpetua, if you would but understand your brother is jealous that his sister is taller than him, you wouldn’t be so missish. You’re as sensitive as a raw egg. You’ll grow up and take the ton by storm. For now, it’s impossible to find your portrait in all of your frowning, and I am not going to waste another minute today trying.
And then he’d spent the evening flirting with one of the local squire’s daughters who’d come to dinner. The hurt still stabbed at her.
“Miss.” Jenny stuck her head in.
She pushed back the blanket, confused. Gray light streamed through the windows. Not a fine day, but she couldn’t hear rain either. The green room was her mother’s and—
She’d been in the kitchen. It was the last thing she remembered.
Jenny twisted her hands. “We’ve slept half the day away. Sure, and he must’ve carried you up, miss.”
Up two flights of stairs.
She shoved back the covers and leapt from bed, searching her memories. “Did MacEwen come back?”
“Yes, miss. He carried me up. I remembered that, lessen I dreamt it.”
“We don’t know what MacEwen learned. What he did.”
“No. We don’t.”
“I’m going to wake them.” She searched for her robe.
“Do you not want to dress first? We’ll hear them if they try to leave while you’re dressing.”
Jenny had thrown on her plain brown gown and tucked her hair under a cap, rather hurriedly from the way pieces stuck out. She had a pale morning gown draped over her arm, the stays in her other hand.
And she had a point.
“Yes. No stays though.”
“None, miss? Well, I’m thinking you don’t need them a bit.”
