“I noticed most roofs are thatch. Is that not a problem come winter?”
“The slate is too far and thatch is easily mended.” She directed his gaze to a recently limed cottage, a sign dangling over the door denoting its given name of Chylan. Heavy stones hung down from the eaves tied to nets crisscrossing the roof. “When storms blow in, they attach weights.”
As their horses climbed from the harbour, Tamsyn greeted tenants and introduced a shuffling Mrs Sedgmore, the oldest woman in Treloor, who blushed and curtseyed as the marquess jumped from his mount and insisted on kissing her wrinkled hand.
Whatever Lord Winterbourne’s moral failings, he could charm the gulls from the cliffs.
The four of them headed inland, meandering the deep-sided twisting tracks that divided golden fields, timeless corridors amongst an ancient land. Many of the Penrose estate tenants were busy harvesting, shirts loose and throats bare, singing as they toiled.
The last few years had been hard with short cold summers but for now the wheat was heavy and dry. Lord Winterbourne seemed intent on pointing out to his valet the various farming techniques and the value of crop rotation on one’s estate. Perhaps Mr Miggens was being trained as estate manager?
With the two men side by side, she was all at once struck by their similar noses. Wasn’t there a saying about manservants resembling their masters?
After following the river up the valley, they hit open moorland, pink heath softening the earth, a few gorse bushes still bearing yellow blooms.
“Would you care to see Lowena’s Pool where a ghostly ship sails at full moon? I bathe there in fair weather.” She laughed at his wide-eyed expression and set Spriggan to a gallop, let her dash over the moor with a wild snicker, preferring to traverse this flat wide-open ground nowadays rather than the beach, where rocks held danger and caves hid secrets.
Solely when riding did Tamsyn feel like her old self – unburdened and boundless like the land.
Lowdy and Mr Miggens were left far behind – by speed or design, she wasn’t sure, but Lord Winterbourne kept pace, coat-tails aflutter, hat lost to their swiftness, and he tousled his curls as though daring her to gawk…which she did and to hell with it.
The marquess, she had expected to be no more than a fair rider, more used to bumbling around Hyde Park in a yellow phaeton, but she’d been so very wrong – and not for the first time.
On horseback, he stole her breath. A man that controlled the wild creature beneath him with merely a touch, their movements as one. With no need of whip, he allowed the romping gelding its spirit but often murmured caution, reining in when Jowlik’s hooves might have stumbled on rocky ground.
Fleetingly, her childhood sweetheart Jonathan came to mind. The two were so different and yet in some ways alike. Jonathan had never used harshness either – never needed to as the horses had always bent to his persuasive voice.
Tamsyn slowed to a canter, then a trot, let Spriggan shake off the lather, thirst driving her mare to the water’s edge.
Lowena’s pool looked as flat and dark as any scrying mirror but this late summer heat had taken its toll. Crows dipped their feathers in the shrunken edge, squawking displeasure at being thus disturbed, and a few moorland ponies drifted away to bury their amiable faces within the gorse, searching for the sweet grass beneath the prickles.
She made to dismount, placing the reins in one hand and unhooking her foot, but from nowhere, Lord Winterbourne appeared, arms outstretched.
Her guarded side cautioned she ignore them. Her old wild nature commanded she leap into them.
Taking a middle ground, Tamsyn grasped his hand but slid down the horse’s flanks. Spriggan skittered, deciding she didn’t wish to be used in such a way, and Tamsyn fell firmly against the marquess’s rather broad chest.
Honey and almond. The scent flooded Jack’s senses.
As Miss Penrose slithered down his body, he realised how lush she was. Full breasts and slender waist pressed. Rounded hips and light-cotton-clad legs slid.
Brunette wisps of hair stirred his chin as boot-shod feet hit the ground and his larger frame smothered hers.
Desire flared.
He could…skim his hand lower, curving fingers around her rump.
Pull her yet tighter. So tight they’d struggle for breath.
Lick the delicate lobe of her ear.
Nip that tantalising throat, inhale her sweetness.
Kiss those memories from her lips.
But he couldn’t hurt her. His hold loosened.
A rogue he may be, but rules guided these hands and a taste of Tamsyn Penrose would break every single one.
