Page 16 of Dare it all for Love

“What?” he demanded.

Florence shook her head, not about to share her observations. He glowered at her. The urge to laugh was tempting but she fought it, moving to the fireplace. She took off her gloves and touched the initials carved into the stone. H.W. for Henry Waldegrave, whose family had owned Hever Castle from the fifteenth century until the early seventeen hundreds. She traced the H with a fingertip, up and down, caressing the cool stone. He watched her, his gaze following the path of her finger.

“Have there been any more strange goings on?” Florence asked, needing to break the peculiar atmosphere. It was becoming hard to breathe. “Things that go bump in the night?”

Henry hesitated and she felt her heart skip as she realised there had been. He frowned, saying nothing, which seemed answer enough. She hurried towards him.

“What?” she demanded. “What now?”

He gave her an impatient glance and shook his head. “I shan’t tell you, for you’ll turn it into some Gothic horror.”

“Mr Stanhope, you are the most pig-headed man. Can you not see? I don’t need to turn it into a Gothic horror, it’s already begun. What has happened?”

She stared into his hazel eyes, noticing this close that they were a complex shade of gold and bronze and amber. His skin was darkly tanned, and she could not help but wonder if he was that colour all over. After a long moment, he let out a breath.

“Someone poisoned one of my sheep with rhododendron leaves, and there have been more corn dolls. One was hanged by the neck on my front gates and I….”

He hesitated, clearly not wishing to tell her.

“What?” she asked, almost breathless.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, tumbling the thick locks into disorder. “I found one on my pillow when I woke up this morning.”

“Oh, Henry!” Florence rushed forward, too shocked and afraid to think of what she was saying or doing as she moved closer to him, grabbing the lapels of his coat. “You’re in danger. Can’t you see that? Someone was in your bedroom whilst you slept. They killed your sheep already. The hanged corn doll was a warning, a threat…. Oh, please, you must take care.”

“It was only a sheep,” he said in consternation, making light of it, the wretched man.

“For now!” she exclaimed, horrified that someone might really mean him harm.

“Do you worry for me, Miss Knight?” he asked, his voice soft, such warmth in his eyes as he reached out to touch her cheek.

Florence closed her eyes, shivering under his fingertips. It was barely a touch, feather-light, and yet she felt it to her toes, and felt an answering spark of flame ignite at the question his touch posed… the one he would never speak aloud.

“Of course I worry about you. Someone means you harm.”

He dropped his hand but did not step back. Standing close enough to kiss her, he did not move but just stared down at her. Florence was too aware of the rise and fall of his chest, the sound of his harsh breath suddenly the only thing she could hear above the thudding of her heart in her ears. The scent of him enveloped her, fresh linen and horses, leather, and the subtle musk of his body, drawing her in, muddling her senses. She wanted to touch him, to have him touch her, so badly it was a pain beneath her skin, a longing so profound it hurt to be this close without physical contact.

“Henry,” she said, too aware that there was pleading in the sound of his name on her lips, that her voice begged kiss me, please kiss me, without her ever uttering the words.

Something flickered in his eyes, there and gone before she could read it. He took a step back, any emotion wiped from his face.

“You ought not be alone with me, Miss Knight. Come, I shall return you to the others.”

She stared at him in shock, at the indifference in the tone of his voice, the nonchalant way he dismissed her.

“I don’t want to return to the others,” she said, aggrieved that he could ignore the force of whatever it was between them, as if it were nothing. “And I’m only alone with you because it’s what you wanted. You brought me here.”

“A mistake,” he said crisply. “One that won’t happen again. Come along.”

Florence glowered at him. “I’m not a child,” she snapped. “I can find my own way outside and, unlike some, I am not a coward.”

With that parting shot, she turned and stalked away.

As exit lines went, she was rather pleased with herself, though less so when she discovered she’d gone the wrong way and had to retrace her steps. Muttering crossly about the male of species, she was in a fine temper by the time she made it outside, to find everyone was waiting for her. Her spirits were further lit by the look of amusement in Henry’s eyes as he turned away from her.

Oh, the fiend. He would pay for that look, and the fact he made her act like a complete lunatic.

The party made their way the short distance to the pub on the corner, the Henry VIII. It was a handsome property. In traditional Kentish style, the bottom half of the building was made of warm red brick, the upper half tile hung, and the middle punctuated by a half-timbered gable. Impressive chimneys soared into the sky and the leaded light windows shone brightly, promising a clean and well-run establishment.