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“Dear God, Tom Merrifield, I am in your debt,” Rafael said not ten minutes later. He wrung Tom’s hand.
Tom gave him a commiserating grin. “The brandy, sir, can be an assassin, that’s certain. Did Miss Victoria also imbibe?”
“No,” Rafael said, suddenly stiff with memory, “no, she didn’t. I do believe I’m even ready to face Mrs. Ripple’s notion of breakfast fare.”
“Lots of eggs, sir. ’Twill do you good,” said Tom at his most sage. “Another of my ma’s suggestions.”
Rafael wondered at Tom’s sudden loquaciousness. The Cornishman had been a niggardly jailer of his words since Rafael had hired him. He said, “Mrs. Carstairs and I will be riding in about an hour, Tom.” At least Rafael hoped he could talk Victoria into accompanying him. How many peace offerings was a man allowed, he wondered as he walked back to Honeycutt Cottage, before his wife cracked his head with a poker? But she had provoked him, she had indeed.
All her ridiculous questions about virginity. Damn her beautiful eyes. And her near-hysteria about the chicken blood.
Victoria had just seated herself at the dining table when Rafael came into the room. He smiled at her, trying for a markedly winsome smile. All he could do was try. Hopefully she wouldn’t notice the bloodshot eyes.
Victoria, for an instant, felt again like a cloudy day with the sun dashing through. She drew herself up. “Good morning, sir,” she said, trying not to become besotted with that smile of his.
“Good morning. Would you like me to serve you?”
What the devil was he up to now? She stared at him for a moment, then shook her head.
“No, I’m not really very hungry this morning. The bacon looks soggier than the toast, unfortunately. It looks to become a lovely day.”
“Yes, that is true. Ah, Victoria, would you like to explore the countryside with me? That Norman church in Milton Abbas, I wager it is worth seeing.”
“For religious or archeological reasons, Rafael?”
“Neither.”
“For cozying-up reasons, then.”
“What do you mean?” The scrambled eggs were more than a bit on the runny side. Rafael eyed them tentatively, then decided to follow Tom’s ma’s advice. He scooped a pile onto his plate.
“Another olive branch.”
“If you, Mrs. Carstairs, would simply practice keeping your mouth shut, I vow we could have a truce to last fifty years.”
“You shan’t gain your truce in that manner, Rafael. However can you eat eggs that are so underdone?”
“I wish that you would keep your attention on your own plate, if you please. Now, why not look at it this way. Perhaps we can be friends during the day, and save up all our venom for the evenings. Half and half. Never be boring that way.”
“Something so predictable would have to become boring, I think.”
“Not with your mouth, madam.”
She sighed and took a bite of buttered toast. The butter, at least, was delicious. “You want to know something, Mr. Carstairs?”
“Fire away.”
“I have never been an ill-natured person in all my nearly nineteen years. You have a grand capacity for making me absolutely furious.”
He looked much struck. “Come to think of it, neither am I. An ill-natured person, that is. What do you suggest we do about it?”
“It is quite simple, really.” He leaned forward at her quite serious tone. “All you must do, Rafael, is to trust me and believe me. I am your wife, if you would but bring yourself to remember that one small fact.”
“You can prove to me quite effectively that I can trust you and believe you.”
“No, you must trust me fully and completely before we consummate our marriage.”
“Consummate? Wherever did a nice young girl like you hear that word?”
