Chapter 22
Fox donned dry clothes, checked the stables, and carried his spyglass out to the cliff edge. Any vessels afloat were hidden in mist.
He should have been out here watching, instead of upstairs fighting with his cock. A man capable of control, he was, but he needed to put that skill to his mission.
In the cove below, nothing stirred. On the hillside to the north, all the shadows stayed put.
He walked the path toward the stables, skirting around them and moving up to the front door of the cottage. The house muffled the waves to a dim roar. Otherwise, all was quiet.
The skin on his neck rippled. If the shadows were moving, he couldn’t see it. Yet something was wrong.
Aye, and much had been wrong this entire day. With Perry, he’d gone from harsh rejection to near ruination, in between spurring her into danger that’d almost killed her. He’d sent the boy, Pip into danger also.
He leaned back into the shadows, bracing himself on the door frame, watching.
Nothing skulked on this moor. All of his unease came from inside him. He’d been wrong—wrong to send Pip alone to speak to Perry’s captors. Wrong not to step in sooner. Hell, when he’d heard her gasping, he’d slipped on the rocks and damn near fallen right onto the rocky beach.
He tapped his head back on the hard wood. He hadn’t been able to see. He’d only heard the big man’s grunting voice, her choked response, but the man’s voice had been familiar. He’d met him, somewhere. Once Perry was rested, he’d question her about her captors. She’d remember some detail that would help him identify the man.
He should have been questioning her tonight instead of stripping her naked and pleasuring her.
He stood in the shadows for long minutes and watched the darkness shift and weave around him. The hair on his neck settled, but the ominous feeling had only sunk deeper into his bones. He made his way back down to the kitchen door and let himself in.
The scent of toasting bread wafted up, and he spotted it next to the boiling kettle on the hearth stove. A great hunk of cheese had been set out on a plate on the sideboard.
“Jenny?”
Dim lamplight moved in the storeroom.
His nerves went on high alert, and his heart did cartwheels. His cock took that moment to stand at attention again.
The storeroom held the smallest of cots, not much more than a raised pallet really, where a kitchen boy could rest between tending the fire on a long cold night.
He had a fire that needed tending.
A figure appeared in the doorway, and he turned away, resting his spyglass on the table, carefully arranging it so it wouldn’t roll off, keeping his hands busy.
“You should be sleeping.”Don’t look at her. That one glance had shown hair brushed into the sparkling halo, and a dress plainer than even the fashions of past years—no laces, no furbelows, no flounces. When he’d gone looking for linens, he’d seen dresses in one of those presses. Perhaps it was her mother’s, or her mother’s maid’s.
He flicked another gaze over her. Lady Shaldon had been shorter, and this dress only hit the top of Perry’s slim ankles. And she was wearing no stays to interfere with the shape of her breasts and the curve of her waist.
“I sent Jenny to bed with a promise to wake her when MacEwen returns.” She set plates on the table and went to turn the bread. “Oh, excellent. It’s not burned. I’ve seen this done. I had only but to remember. Charley and I used to sneak down to the kitchen at Cransdall for toast and eggs.”
She was nervous of him.
“I brought the brandy back for you.” She pushed the bottle over and set about making tea. “Did you see anything outside?”
“No. All is quiet.”
“Chestnut—”
“Is fine. The gelding is not yet back.”
“Is he one of my father’s?”
“Yes.” He grabbed a plate and carried the toast to the table, standing too close to her. “Are you all right, Perry?”
She turned an open gaze upon him. No bruising marred her cheek or her eye. Perhaps she’d found some paint among her mother’s things.
