Instead she’d felt…anger. Anger she’d stayed away for so long. That she’d let that beast frighten her from her own land.
Because it was all so beautiful.
Wave rushed upon shore, reclaiming smooth pebbles for its own, whilst a freshness which couldn’t be found on land drifted its saline breeze upon them. Jagged boulders hid shallow pools deserted by sea, the biting crabs and clinging limpets awaiting its return.
How could she have stayed away so long?
Memories of Jonathan no longer pained quite so deep but gave pleasure, of her childhood, a time she’d forgotten…or hidden away.
A trill of thrilled giggles broke from further down the table where the marquess was wedged beside Miss Roskruge. Although, hadn’t he been seated with Mrs Tripconey not a moment past?
Tamsyn gritted her teeth.
Lord Winterbourne, as she was back to calling him, appeared to be in full rogue demeanour this morning – teasing, flirting and being so full of affability that she wanted to muffle him with that perfectmathematique neckcloth.
“Fop,” declared Captain Lynch from her side. “Wouldn’t have lasted a moment on the battlefield. Downed like a hare.” He clicked fingers in her face.
Was she supposed to do something? Fill his wine glass? Salute? Agree?
Maybe once she would have agreed but now she no longer knew. Last night, Lord Winterbourne had been so protective, reassuring and…he’d kissed her.
Such a light touch and yet even her toes had savoured a tight tingle of passion.
Pushing her rabbit pie to one side, Tamsyn sipped mead instead, allowing the heather honey to soothe her thirst. Cook added rosemary and ginger to the brew and its refreshing taste suited such fine weather.
Many guests had quaffed the blackberry wine with imprudent haste, and she suspected great advantage would be taken of the sumptuous reposing area for an afternoon snooze.
The poor servants, in stark contrast, had looked worn to the bone, and she’d told Benjamin to simply leave the pudding dishes on the table as the guests could help themselves.
“Lowdy?” she asked. “Could you pass the blancmange?”
“Hmm?” Brown eyes swivelled from Mr Miggens, sitting upon a boulder, book in hand whilst the rest of the servants began to get giggly on a flagon of cider in the shade of the cliff face. “No thank you, not for me.”
Tamsyn blinked, a little baffled, before unencumbered tittering ensued from three places down the table.
“If I were to squeeze in here,” a deep rumble suggested, “you would see it better.”
Frowning, Tamsyn noticed Lord Winterbourne now sitting beside Mrs Heligan, a widow of little fortune but large bosom.
Scoundrel.
Captain Lynch passed her another glass of mead and smiled; at least, she supposed he did, as his moustache shifted upwards.
Tamsyn beamed back and he angled his chair close. “Miss Penrose, my esteem for you is limitless. Shall we–”
“Have you any Cornish legends for us, professor?” bellowed Lord Winterbourne, on his feet again with decanter of brandy.
“Oh, er…” The professor peered up from his claret, half a jam puff to his mouth as Lord Winterbourne seated himself next to Mrs Tresize nigh opposite, a widow of both large fortuneandbosom.
Double the scoundrel.
“If I might suggest,” Mr Sewell interrupted from further down the table. “Perhaps the mermaid of Zennor?”
The professor gazed into his goblet as though searching for her in the red depths. “Hmm, good one. You start, Rufus, and I’ll pour another little nip for us both.”
Mr Sewell’s gaze swept over the table, and Tamsyn was surprised he’d spoken up as she’d thought him a man of sullen temperament but his tone was pleasant with a Yorkshire bent.
“The legend tells of Mathew Trewella, a fine young man with a tremendous melodic voice, who every evening would sing the closing hymn at the church of St Senara, on the north coast.”
