Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(40)

“Coward,” she said.

“I have boots,” he said. “I will wager you do not.”

“I have stout shoes,” she told him. “They and the hems of my clothes will dry. So will my person. I am going out there. If you would prefer to remain here, nibbling on your toast—”

“Ten minutes,” he said, snatching up his dressing gown from the floor and striding toward the door. “I will meet you downstairs. Just be warned. I do not want to hear any whining or complaining for the next hour or so.”

She poked her tongue out at him, something she could never remember doing before, even as a child. But he did not turn back to see.

Ten minutes later she watched him come downstairs, all elegant practicality in a greatcoat with too many capes to count at a glance and top boots that gleamed with polish and reached almost to his knees. She hoped he would expire from the heat before they returned to the house. She hoped his boots would be ruined beyond repair. She smiled at him and felt that welling of happiness again.

“A punctual woman,” he said. “No, a woman who is early. A rarity indeed.”

“You were never a woman in my household, Mr. Lamarr,” she said.

He made her a courtly bow, unlocked and opened the door, and offered his arm.

They walked sedately along the dirt terrace that would take them onto the driveway to the top of the valley if they continued. But she did not want to go up to the top. She had seen the view from there yesterday. She slipped her hand from his arm and stepped off the path among the ferns. They did indeed reach her knees, some of them even higher than that, and, yes, they were beaded prettily with moisture, as she had seen from her window. The moisture did not feel nearly as pretty when transferred to her dress and cloak and even her stockings and legs, however. There was still a chill in the air, but there was warmth in the sun too and the promise of another lovely afternoon.

“Are you satisfied, ma’am?” he asked, all righteous and smug inside his top boots. “Shall we go back in for breakfast?”

She smiled dazzlingly at him and turned back to the valley. She spread her arms wide, lifted her face to the sky, whooped with delight, and began to run downhill. It did not take long to discover that it was not as easy as it looked. The carpet of the ferns suggested a smooth slope, but the ground under them was anything but. It was also spongy from the mist and the dew. The slope was a lot steeper than it had looked from above, and certainly longer. After a few moments she needed both hands to hold up her skirts so she would not trip over them. With her eyes she tried to map out a path ahead, but it was virtually impossible to see all the dips and rises and rocks and mud patches. Even the trees were dripping water. She found herself laughing helplessly. It was either that or scream. Somehow she kept her feet under her all the way down, but she was very thankful that the slope leveled off to a grassy bank for a few yards this side of the river. She was able to slow down in time to save herself from the shock of an early-morning swim.

Good heavens, she did not even know how to swim.

And when had she behaved with such little regard for dignity and propriety and even safety? Probably never. There were hills aplenty in Bath. She had never run down any of them as a child. Or spread her arms or whooped or laughed helplessly.

He was still standing on the terrace where she had left him, his arms folded across his chest, looking handsome and virile and disapproving. Oh goodness, oh goodness, when had she ever felt so free? When had she ever felt so happy? There had been fleeting moments—her first love when she was sixteen, the births of her children, Camille’s wedding, Jacob’s christening . . . For the life of her she could not recall any other such moments until she had waltzed on the village green.

Every day since had been crammed with such moments. And every night too.

He was descending the slope with measured steps and great dignity. “You ruined my morning,” he said when he was close enough to be heard. “I was waiting for the giant splash and the shriek as you dashed into the water.”

“And you would have rushed to the rescue like a knight-errant,” she said.

“I must caution you, ma’am,” he said, “against making a gallant hero of me in your imagination.”

She had the satisfaction of seeing that his buff-colored breeches were wet above his boot tops as well as the lower third of his coat. She was soaked almost to the waist, and there was nothing remotely warm about the moisture. Her feet, half frozen, were squelching inside her shoes.

“You still wish to do your ecstatic pirouette on the bridge, I assume?” he asked, offering his arm.

It was some distance away.

“Perhaps we ought to keep that treat for another day,” she said. “Breakfast seems like a lovely idea, does it not?”

“It seemed even lovelier from the top of the hill,” he told her.

“I believe,” she said, “you are not a lover of country living, are you, Marcel?”

“I am not renowned for tramping about my fields admiring my crops,” he admitted, “a faithful hound panting at my heels.”

“How can you look about this valley,” she said, indicating it with one sweeping arm, “and not feel something . . . here?” She tapped her heart.

“I would rather look at the woman in the valley,” he said, his eyes following her hand.

“Would you?” She gazed at him, his face harsh and cynical, his dark, hooded eyes unfathomable, and despite her earlier resolve, wondered what lay behind them. Or who lay behind them.