Lenora sucked in a sharp breath as her needle found her finger. She watched dully as a small drop of blood welled up before sticking the wounded digit into her mouth.
It wasn’t the first time that afternoon she had pricked herself. No doubt it wouldn’t be the last. To make matters worse, her efforts at embroidery were no better than a tangle of threads. Heaving a sigh, she tossed the pillowcase aside and looked out the sitting room window. From behind her, Margery’s voice droned on as she read to her grandmother. Suddenly she stopped.
“Lenora,” Lady Tesh called, “are you bored of embroidery? Would you like me to have your drawing things fetched?”
Lenora nearly blanched. If there was anything she didn’t want to do in that moment, it was to draw. Since the kiss with Peter and the realization that she had foolishly fallen in love with him—a man who had bluntly stated he could never return her affections—it was more imperative than ever that she stifle her emotions. She could not again be tempted as she had been at the pools to draw what her heart willed her to. For if she opened herself up to the danger of that again, there was no telling what pain would follow.
“No thank you, Gran,” she said, giving the woman a wan smile. “I think perhaps I haven’t recuperated from the ball the other night, is all.”
“Oh, pish,” she scoffed. “We were home before midnight. I’m sure you’ve stayed out much later during your time in London.”
She shrugged, trying—and failing—to keep her gaze from flitting to Peter. He seemed to be entirely focused on the card game he was playing with Mr. Nesbitt. She should be happy he managed to ignore her so completely.
So why did it cause such an ache in her chest?
“Yes, well,” she said now, forcing her gaze back to Lady Tesh, “perhaps it’s the weather then. It’s quite gray outside.”
“Hmmph. No doubt another storm,” the older woman muttered. “It really is too bad, for I did so want you to go to the cliffs today.”
Lenora sent up a prayer of thanks. She couldn’t continue with the tragic tale of Synne and Ivar. Not today. Perhaps not ever.
Margery, who had been waiting patiently to continue reading to her grandmother, spoke up then, turning an understanding smile on Lenora. “Perhaps I should play something on the pianoforte.”
But the thought of some cheerful tune filling the room made Lenora’s skin crawl. “No, you’d best continue your reading. I’m sure Gran is waiting on tenterhooks. I’ll write to my father; I haven’t heard from him since we arrived.”
Her attempt at deflection didn’t clear the worry from Margery’s face. But her friend did as she was bade, lifting the book and starting off again.
Lenora rose and made her way to the small escritoire in the corner. She busied herself straightening the blotter, sharpening the pen nib, searching for paper. Finally she had everything precisely as she liked.
But the blank page stared up at her, mocking her. What could she say to her father? That she had fallen in love? That the man would soon be leaving? That her heart would be broken when he left?
On the heel of that thought came another: had her father begun the search for her latest betrothed as he’d promised to do? Her hands clenched until the knuckles showed white, misery pooling in her breast. Of course he had. Her father wasn’t one to let moss grow when there was an opportunity to be had. And though the scandal surrounding her third failed engagement was dire indeed, Sir Alfred was clever enough to turn it in his favor. And she would once more be destined for a loveless match. Which was just as she deserved, after Hillram.
But how much harder would it be, now that she had tasted the possibility of something more with Peter?
She felt his eyes on her, burning into her back. Longing swept through her, making her want things she knew she could never have. She closed her eyes, dragging in a shuddering breath. She had to get out of this room before she went mad.
The click of small nails on the polished floor alerted her to her salvation. Freya had leapt down from her seat beside Lady Tesh and made her way to the sitting room door, where she stood with an imperious look as if to say, “I am ready for my walk, peasants.”
Lenora stood so quickly, the chair scraped the floor, startling the other inhabitants.
“I’ll take Freya out, shall I?” she blurted out.
“Nonsense, child. Let one of the footmen, for it looks about to rain.”
But Lenora was already striding for the door. “There’s no need for that. I’ll be only a few minutes; the clouds look like they’ll hold out for a good hour or more.”
Before Lady Tesh could argue—and before Lenora’s traitorous eyes could seek out Peter again—she was out the door and heading toward the front hall and freedom.
* * *
When he saw the bright flash of lightning and heard the low rumble of thunder, Peter realized Lenora had not yet returned.
No, that wasn’t entirely true. He had been fully aware of her absence from the moment she had left with the dog. The storm only drove the fact home more fully.
“Lenora and Freya should have been back by now.”
Lady Tesh’s words, so closely echoing his own thoughts, snagged Peter’s attention. She peered at the fresh drops of rain on the window, her brows drawn in a pucker of worry.
Mrs. Kitteridge wore a similar expression. “I hope she hasn’t had an accident or gotten lost.”
“Nonsense,” Lady Tesh responded heartily. “Lenora knows this land almost as well as you do. No, she should be walking through the door any minute now with Freya in tow.” Even so, the older woman didn’t command Mrs. Kitteridge to continue her reading, instead keeping her gaze fixed to the window and the steadily increasing rain.
Mrs. Kitteridge’s knuckles were white as she gripped the calfskin volume to her chest. “Lenora would have turned back immediately at the first hint of rain. No, something is wrong.”
Without thinking twice, Peter stood. “I’ll search for her.”
Lady Tesh and her granddaughter looked at him as if he’d sprouted angel wings.
“Oh, Peter, will you?” the viscountess asked.
“Of course. And Quincy will help as well.”
Quincy, who had begun the solitary pursuit of tossing playing cards into a large vase once Peter had lost interest in their game, started. He lost his grip on the remaining cards and they scattered across the floor. “What will I do?”
“You’re accompanying me out of doors.”
His friend looked to the window, his mouth falling open. “But it’s raining.”
Peter just kept his eyes from rolling. “Then I apologize in advance for the damage to your outfit. But Miss Hartley hasn’t returned.”
To Quincy’s credit, he quickly redeemed himself, jumping to his feet and striding for the door. “Then let’s be off. If she’s out in this, there’s not a moment to lose.”
They made for the front door, donning their outer garments and retrieving umbrellas. Even as prepared as Peter was for the rain, the wind caught him completely off guard. It tore through his clothing, making his use of the umbrella impossible. His mind filled with images of Lenora, huddled wet and cold, maybe hurt.
Panic reared, nearly choking him.
Just then Freya came tearing up the steps. She bounded through the still open front door and stood on the pristine floor, looking as bedraggled and offended as any creature could.
As the butler scooped the shivering canine in his arms, Peter spun back around. Surely Lenora could not be far behind. She would never leave the dog’s side, loved the old lady too much to let anything happen to her pet.
Yet the seconds ticked by, and his hopeful scan of the horizon became a desperate search for even the smallest sign of her.
“Where did the damned dog come from?” Quincy asked.
“I don’t know.” Peter turned to his friend. “Make for the north and inland,” he ordered. Desperation had turned his voice sharp and jagged, fear chilling it to ice. “I’ll head south, along the shore.”
Quincy didn’t hesitate, nodding and starting off at a run.
Peter took off in the opposite direction. By now the skies had opened up completely, the torrent pummeling him, the wind turning the heavy drops to pebbles that stung his skin. Within seconds, his hair was hanging limp in his eyes, his coat was sodden.
Yet how much worse off was Lenora? With her flimsy dress and those tiny little slippers on her feet, she wouldn’t stand a chance against the storm. He hurried his steps, sloughing the water from his eyes before cupping his hands around his mouth and calling out for her. But the wind carried his voice back to him, mocking him for thinking he could defeat it.
Where could she have gone? He’d seen her walking the dog along the path that curved along the cliff’s edge. The thought of her taking that path on today of all days sent a chill down his spine. Every instinct warned him away from that ledge. But he had to look, had to know if she’d fallen to the rocks below. He went there now, testing each step before placing his weight down. When he was close enough, he peered over the edge.
No telltale pale yellow gown dashed to the rocks below, no broken limbs, no golden hair tangled in the jagged stone.
The relief that filled him was so great, he nearly sagged to the ground. But she was still out in the storm, so he hurried away from the danger of the ledge and began a sweep of the land. Far to the right, then back toward the cliff, then back inland again. His eyes scanned every rock, every hedgerow, searching for even the smallest sign of life.
He didn’t know how long he searched; it could have been minutes or hours. All the while, as his boots moved swiftly across the saturated earth, his heartbeat pounded in his ears, a desperate accompaniment to his calls for her.
After traversing what felt like the entirety of the Isle, he came to a low fence. Beyond was a valley, large puddles forming in what he suspected was a field of wildflowers this time of year. Surely she wouldn’t have come this far from Seacliff. Yet something called to him, propelling him over the fence, across the valley. The ground was soggy beneath his feet, the mud sucking at his sodden boots. “Lenora!” he called for what must have been the hundredth time that day.
It was then he saw it, the slight movement in the tree line ahead. A pale arm waving frantically.
His heart seemed to stall, then stop altogether, before starting up again at a gallop. He sprinted forward, his feet kicking up mud and water. And there she was, just inside the doorway of a dilapidated little hut. Her hair hung about her shoulders in bedraggled locks, her pale yellow dress soaked and muddied, plastered to her shivering form.
He had never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life.
His feet ate up the distance between them. And then he was pushing into the hut, and she was in his arms, and he felt his world right as his lips found hers.
* * *
Lenora’s fear melted away under the urgency of Peter’s kiss. She clung to his shoulders, opening her mouth to him. She had never thought to feel this again, this roiling need that only he brought out in her, that only he could quench. How it had frightened her when it had first come crashing over her. Yet now she grasped onto it with both hands.
But she couldn’t stop shivering, no matter how she pressed herself against him and tried to bury herself in his embrace. The violence of it seemed to break through to Peter. He pulled back and peered down at her in the gloom of the hut.
“My God, you’re pale.”
The warmth of his kiss was wearing off now, the chill reaching down into her again. She wrapped her arms about herself, rubbing hard at her upper arms. But no amount of friction could take away the bone-deep cold.
He came close to her, pushing her hands aside, replacing them with his own. As he tried to bring warmth into her limbs, he scanned the single room. “We have to get you warm.”
She let out a shaky laugh. “You’re no better off than I am,” she admonished, the words coming out in a chatter of teeth.
He peered down at his drenched clothing as if just noticing them before shrugging. “Never mind that. I’ve been through worse.”
He quickly pulled off his jacket, draping it over her shoulders. Though it was soaked through, it still held his warmth. She pulled it tightly about her, willing that warmth into her, even as she said, “Now you’ll be chilled.”
He waved her concerns off. “Have you looked for any wood for kindling?”
She nodded as well as she could. “There isn’t any.” And she had looked, in every nook and cranny of the small cottage. But not a stray log or bit of kindling had been found, nor even a stick of furniture to break up and make use of.
Peter nodded grimly, eyeing the streams of water pouring in through the rotting thatch roof, the door that listed sideways on its hinge. “As horrible as it is outside, it will be infinitely more dangerous if we stay here. With no way to get warm or dry, we’ll quickly fall ill.” He looked at her, his grim expression sending his face into sharp shadow. “We need to get back to the house. Now.”
She gave a cautious look out the doorway. She couldn’t imagine going back out into that. “I don’t know…”
He came closer, hooked a finger under her chin, forcing her worried gaze to his. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” she said, without the least bit of hesitation. She was stunned to realize just how true that was. She would trust this man with her very life.
His eyes warmed. “Then let’s be off.” Without warning, he swept his arms beneath her and headed out the door. Immediately they were deluged with rain. It came down in buckets, making it nearly impossible to see.
“You needn’t carry me, you know,” she said into his ear. “I’m perfectly capable of walking on my own.”
“The ground is soaked, and you have the most abysmal footwear possible for this,” he replied without the least bit of breathlessness. His steps were long, eating up the distance to the house. “And,” he continued, his voice darkening, though he tried to keep his words light, “your teeth are chattering so loud, I can hardly hear myself think.”
His worry was palpable, his shoulders tense beneath her hands. A warm glow started up in her chest. She clenched her stiff fingers in his linen shirt, pressing her face into his neck, feeling safer than she ever had, though they were not yet out of danger.
He shifted her slightly, stepping over a low fence. “Why the devil were you out so far to begin with? Why didn’t you return at the first hint of rain?”
Suddenly it all came crashing back down on her, the reason for her fear before Peter had found her, washing it away with his kisses. “It was Freya. There was a clap of thunder and she ran off. I looked for her as long as I could. Lady Tesh will be frantic. And that poor sweet pup. She must be frightened out of her wits, out here in this.”
He snorted, shaking his head to clear his vision. “Oh, I wouldn’t be overly worried about that dog. She’s already back at Seacliff. By now she’ll be warm and dry, and no doubt on a gilt-embellished cushion before a blazing fire.”
Relief filled Lenora. “Thank goodness,” she breathed.
Peter shook his head again. His hair, which had fallen out of its queue, was plastered to his cheek. Without thinking, Lenora reached up and smoothed the strands back, wiping the water from his eyes.
His arms constricted, his step faltering before starting up again. “Thank you.”
“It is I who must thank you. You saved me, Peter.”
His eyes shifted to her for the briefest moment, the tenderness in them taking her breath away. She studied his face as he trudged on, taking in the tense line of his jaw, his blue lips, the hair stuck to his temples, as if he were the most precious thing in the world. And to her, he was. That glow in her chest burned brighter, warming her from the inside out as no fire ever could.
She tightened her arms about his neck. “I’m sorry you had to come out after me.”
“I’m not,” he whispered, so low she almost didn’t hear it above the sound of rain, the words going straight to her heart.