Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(53)

“Wh-what?” Phoebe asked dazedly.

“The cat. Put her in a basket and I’ll take her back to the barn. Unless you want to keep her.”

“No, I . . . thank you, no, but—”

“Go get her. I’ll wait.”

Seeming disoriented, Phoebe disappeared, leaving the door ajar. Soon she returned with a large, lidded basket, a few plaintive mewls slipping through the woven reeds.

West took it from her. “When you leave, I won’t be there to see the carriage off. I can’t. If I try to say good-bye, I’m sure to do something that would embarrass us both.”

“Wait,” Phoebe began, sounding breathless, “I need to ask—”

West didn’t want to hear whatever it was. He couldn’t bear it. Keeping the basket tucked in one arm, he reached out with his free hand, clasped the soft nape of her neck, and kissed her. He felt her lips tremble beneath his. The delicious warmth of her response stole through him, melting through the frozen despair. Finally, he could take a deep breath again. He savored her full, sweet mouth, pulling and teasing the silkiness, stealing as much of her taste as he could. He wanted to spend years kissing her. Instead he finished with a strong nudge and let go of her.

“Let’s forget about that one too,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse. And he left her while he was still able, carrying away the protesting cat in the basket.



“You can’t go anywhere,” Devon said, when West told him he was heading out to the barn. “The Challons will be leaving soon—you’ll want to bid them farewell.”

“No, I won’t,” West replied shortly, still holding the unhappy cat in the basket. “I’m going to stay away until I’m sure they’re gone.”

His older brother scowled. “I thought you might accompany them out to the railway halt.”

“I’m accompanying this vicious cat back to the barn.”

“What should I tell the duke if he remarks on your absence?”

“There are only three reasons anyone ever needs me around here,” West said sourly, “when something is broken, overflowing, or mired in a bog. Use one of those. I assure you, the Challons won’t give a damn whether I’m here or not.”

“Did you quarrel with Lady Clare? Is that why you appeared to be sitting on a hedgehog all through dinner?”

West’s lips twitched despite his bad mood. “Is that how it looked? I assure you, I wasn’t nearly that comfortable.”

Devon’s frown eased. “You can’t outrun your problems.”

“Actually, I can,” West said, walking away with the basket. “Look—I’m doing it right now.”

“Have you tried being honest with her about your feelings?” came Devon’s voice from behind him.

“Sweet mother of God, can you hear yourself?” West asked without turning around. “I’d get more manly advice from Kathleen.”

He exited the back of the house and didn’t stop walking until he’d reached the group of farm buildings. The familiar sights and rhythms of the farm helped to restore his balance and blunt the sharp edges of misery. The coming days would be filled with no end of hard physical work, which would hopefully exhaust him enough to let him sleep at night.

After reaching the hay barn, he gently set the basket on the ground, lifted the lid, and tipped out the little black cat, who hissed and gave him a baleful stare.

“Sorry, Galoshes,” he said. “It’s back to work for both of us. Go catch some mice.”

The cat slunk away.

West went to the blacksmith’s shop, where Stub and some of the men were busy repairing a broken axle. They had raised a heavy cart with a set of differential pulley blocks to reach the broken parts beneath. Although they didn’t need his help, nor was there a good reason for him to stay and watch, he lingered as long as possible. Every few minutes he consulted his pocket watch, which finally prompted Stub to ask good-naturedly, “Are we not moving lively enough for you, Mr. Ravenel?”

West smiled slightly and shook his head, replacing the watch. “I want to make certain the guests have left before I go back.”

Neddy glanced at him with cheerful interest. “What o’ the red-haired widder and that little brush o’ a lad?” he dared to ask. “Didn’t you wish to see ’em off, sir?”

“Lady Clare is a rare, fine woman,” West replied ruefully. “Too fine for me, unfortunately. With her, it would be the cart before the horse, and I’m not a man to walk behind the cart.”

There was rumble of agreement among the men. But Neddy ventured, “Myself, I don’t care if I’m at the tail of the cart, as long as my wife keeps us on the straight road.” They all chuckled.

“Naither would I mind, if the wife was sweet to look upon,” Stub declared. “And the Widow Clare’s a breeder: you’d get healthy kittlin’ off such a good cat.”

Although West knew the comment hadn’t been meant disrespectfully, he gave Stub a warning glance to indicate the subject was closed. After the axle had been removed from the cart, West walked back to Eversby Priory manor. The morning had risen cool and blue. A good day for traveling.

He followed the graveled path around the side of the house to take a glance at the front drive. There were no carriages, no throng of busy servants; the Challons were definitely gone. Letting out a measured breath, he went in through the front entrance.