Page 32 of Aurelia

“Do not be angry about the ducking stool, Miss Burton,” Lord Crewe said, his voice cajoling.

“I am not angry,” she said. And then was annoyed by her clearly angry tone.

He laughed again and the sound was so rich, vibrant, and masculine that she felt her lips pulling up into a tiny smile.

“There, that is better,” he said. “If we cannot laugh at ourselves, then who can we laugh at?”

“You seem to be doing fine laughing at me.”

He grinned. “You are absolutely right. And I promise not to do so again—"

Aurelia gave him a look of disbelief.

“—for the rest of our ride,” he finished.

Yet again she felt herself beginning to smile and quashed the urge.

Lord Crewe pointed toward a ruin not far from the castle. “There is the abbey my ancestor built to curry favor with King David I.”

“There doesn’t appear to be much remaining.”

“No, it was pillaged for stone by yet another ancestor of mine. Yet again to curry favor, this time to a Tudor monarch when he built an addition to the castle to lure the king for a visit.”

“I think you are proud of your opportunistic ancestors and how willingly they changed sides to suit their needs.”

He grinned. “Again, guilty as charged.”

Aurelia lowered her gaze, unable to meet his bold eye. How much more disconcerting must he have been when he’d had a perfect face and the use of both eyes?

She stole glances at him from beneath her lashes as they rode. Not surprisingly, his seat was excellent, his posture kingly. Well, he was a sort of king on this island, wasn’t he?

Aurelia suddenly noticed that his left hand rested on his thigh, the gloved fingers flexing into a fist and then relaxing. Flexing and relaxing.

She glanced up and found him looking at her. “My physician in Edinburgh says I must exercise my arm to regain dexterity,” he explained.

It was unfair how easily he was able to read her thoughts, especially when the only emotion she had been able to recognize on his face had been amusement, usually at something she had said or done.

He pointed to a long, low building on a pier where a half dozen larger boats were docked. “That is part of our guano operation.”

“Guano?”

“It is a South American term—from Peru, I am told—for animal droppings, usually those of bats or birds.”

“To make gunpowder?”

His eyebrow lifted. “You have heard of it?”

“I read about the Spanish harvesting it somewhere—an island, I believe.”

“Yes, they have several mines in South America. It is indeed used for gunpowder if the chemical composition is correct, but this will be used for farming.”

They started up a slight incline and as they crested the rise the village of Crewe spread out before them.

The small town was essentially one main street, and as they approached people called out greetings, doffed caps, or curtsied. Lord Crewe responded with names and a special comment or question for everyone they encountered. It was clear he knew all his subjects well enough to be on a first-name basis.

A surprising number of businesses lined the main street, including a tiny mercantile, a smithy, and a bakery and tea shop.

They were just approaching the public house—The Sea Hag—when a woman stepped out and Lord Crewe brought his mount to a halt.