Lady Tamsyn and the Pixie's Curse Page 4

  He nodded.

  “Perhaps . . .” She moved closer to him on the bench. “You might still like . . .” She lifted her face, so close to his. “To show it to me?”

  His brow knit into a frown as he stared down at her. For a moment she feared she’d gone too far—but then he leaned down, grasped her shoulders and kissed her.

  It was a soft kiss, for all that it was abrupt. Smooth as a petal. His shoulders blocked the scant light left from the sunset and she felt enveloped in shadows and strength. She was also unexpectedly awash with longing, surprise—and the sudden knowledge that she’d never truly been kissed before.

  Despite what she’d thought, those paltry meetings of lips had been nothing next to this. There was no coquetry, flirtation or play. This was a true kiss, felt to the tips of her toes and reverberating deep in her soul. She was compelled to respond. Letting go of his hands, she reached upward and wrapped her arms around his neck. He made a gratifying sound in response.

  She knew what he meant. The feel of him, so sturdy and well formed, it made her insides melt, her brain fog and her nipples tighten. He deepened the kiss, his tongue searching for entry, and she let him in and pulled him closer. This was passion. Fierce possession. Awesome potential. His hands slid around her waist and she knew that this was a defining moment. From now on her life would be clearly divided into before and after.

  And suddenly—it was after. He broke the kiss and very slowly and deliberately kissed each freckle across her nose. “I’ve been wanting to do that for eight years.” His voice rumbled, tickling the space behind her ears.

  He rested his forehead against hers. “To answer your question: Yes, I still would like to show you the pixies’ barrow. Very much.” He sighed. “But I also know that that is exactly why I should not.”

  She reared back, hoping this time to see a contradicting image between them—but there was none.

  “But why?” It came out a whisper.

  “I remember the first time I saw you,” he gestured, “in there. You were a rare, fine girl, Tamsyn, and now, I see the woman you’ve grown into.” He touched her cheek. “Your skin is like porcelain. It’s so easy to see you in a London ballroom, decked out in grand finery and catching the eye of every elegant gentleman. You belong there, being pampered and feted with wine and music and jewels. You’ll have your pick of nobles and likely lead them all a merry chase.”

  He made a face as if the mere thought pained him.

  “Right now, in this moment, I wish I could follow you there. But I’m a simple man.” He grinned ruefully. “Too big to be at ease amongst the porcelain ladies, too rough to blend with the beau monde. Ballrooms and Venetian breakfasts are not my milieu, my lady. I am a man of my land, of my tenants and people, of the earth and the sky out here—and yes, even of the magic that floats on our sea breezes. My boots are planted firmly in the soil of this wild land. I belong here—and you belong in the great world beyond.”

  He caressed her cheek again, cupped her jaw in his large hand and then letting his hand fall away, he stood. “You’ll be fine, Lady Tamsyn. I know you will.” He took a step back and turned to go.

  And for the second time in two days, she watched him leave her behind.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning, Tamsyn was still deep in thought. She’d been much affected by all that Gryff had said last night—she just wasn’t sure he’d got any of it right.

  She waited impatiently for the maid to finish her hair. Marjorie would be sure to have insight into Gryff’s opinion, and if anyone knew Tamsyn, it was her next oldest sister.

  But Marjorie was occupied with her friend Jane Hawkins. Jane was a sweet girl, a friend to them all, but closest with Marjorie. Tamsyn joined her sister in bolstering the girl’s confidence and in convincing her to wear a borrowed gown, and then trooped down to breakfast with her family.

  Too caught up in her own musings, however, she couldn’t concentrate fully on the conversation. She felt like she’d reached a crossroads—been dragged to it, in fact, and not at her own choosing—and felt more than a little irate about it.

  She felt like she had to choose between two versions of herself. Was Gryff right? Was she no more than a delicate doll, meant to be promenaded before the ton, then pampered for the rest of her life?

  Hogwash. She was a bruising rider, a tireless dancer. She’d seen a ghost yesterday and talked with it! And she thought she’d handled the sudden onset of this new, uncanny ability quite well. She hadn’t run screaming through the castle—

  Well, she’d run once, but she hadn’t screamed. Nor had she blurted the truth to everyone and got herself sent to Bedlam.

  Gryff was wrong about her. Wasn’t he?

  Yes, by heavens. He was. She was as stalwart and steady as he. As worthy of a life in Cornwall as he—

  “Tamsyn? Tamsyn?”

  She looked up.

  Marjorie frowned at her. “Did you hear me? A group of us is going to walk into the village this morning. Would you care to join us?”

  Blinking, she shook her head. “No, thank you. But I do hope you will all enjoy yourselves.”

  She had serious matters to attend to. She was going to prove herself. And she was going to start by mastering her new . . . talent. Take control of it, rather than the other way around.

  A footman cleared his throat and she realized that she was the last one at the table. Rising, she gathered her shawl about her and left the dining room—and found her father in the corridor outside.

  “Father, you look as distracted as I feel.”

  He started. “Oh, yes. Good morning, Tamsyn.”

  Did he not realize that they’d just breakfasted together? “Woolgathering, Father?”

  “What? No. No. I’m just thinking of all that I have to do today.”

  And there it was—the truth coalescing above his head, a scene of what he’d really been thinking. It was a vision of him sitting and enjoying a cigar and a brandy, laughing with a tall, blonde gentleman. She sensed he’d enjoyed himself and looked forward to doing so again.

  “Tamsyn.” He reached out to grab her arm. “Later today I’d like to introduce you to someone. In fact, I’d like all of you girls to meet him, but you and Marjorie in particular.”

  The blonde man? “Yes, of course.”

  “Good. Good, then. Well, I’m off to find Hunt. I shall see you later, shall I?”

  “Have a good morning, Father.”

  She set out through the castle, intent on learning to adapt to her new . . . talent, hoping she would be able to put it to good use. Perhaps Gryff had been right about just this one thing. If this Second Sight was here to stay, she was going to have to learn to live with it.

  Although she was still going to hightail it in another direction if she encountered Lucien de Roye.

  Her luck held, however, and she didn’t meet him. In fact, there were few guests around at all. She ran into a kind fellow as he left the billiards room, but nothing Mr. Lancaster said triggered a reaction. She found a young boy in the library. Toby Priske said he was looking for a lost poodle, but he also seemed to be strangely contemplating . . . pouring ink into a gentleman’s tea?

  Tamsyn shook her head and pulled her shawl close. One thing she was learning from this experience—the male mind was a strange thing, indeed.

  Unfortunately, her own mind kept drifting, focusing on a certain gentleman’s—as well as the stretch of his broad shoulders, the feel of his arms, and the heat of his kiss. Hoping to distract herself, she tried a different tactic, and began to search out the servants.

  She didn’t get much practice seeing untruths with her questions, but she did begin to get a picture of what it was like to live here, in this castle and in this community. And it didn’t sound nearly as bad as Marjorie had predicted. She asked each person she ran into about his or her favorite local spot and almost wished they’d fibbed in their answers, so she could see the beauty that they described.

  But the servants mostly see
med happy to answer her questions and ask a few of their own, so she continued on, until she heard giggling coming from the portrait gallery.

  Two of her sisters were there, poking fun at the ancestral portraits.

  “Mother tired of our chatter and sent us to learn something about our ancestors,” reported Gwyn.

  “And what have you learned?” Tamsyn asked with a grin.

  “That they seemed to have passed a questionable fashion sense from generation to generation,” said Rose.

  Tamsyn laughed. “Their fashions were dictated according to the custom of their time, as are ours.” She waved toward a lady in wide panniers and stiff stomacher. “She’d likely think us wanton and fast for going about in muslin.”

  “It’s the Elizabethans I always feel sorry for,” Gwyn said. “Those ruffs look horridly uncomfortable.”

  “And those short pantaloons on the men,” Rose groaned, “all puffed up and beribboned. Look, here’s a whole collection of them.” She made a face at a mid-sized painting of a group.

  “Isn’t that the kirkyard in Bocka Morrow?” Tamsyn stepped closer.

  “Oh, yes, I believe it is. Gryff took us there, remember? On our last visit?”

  “I remember.”

  Gwyn nudged Rose. “One of the maids told Mama that you were outside talking to him on the terrace.”

  “Yes. I bumped into him in the passage. Quite literally.”

  “And what were you talking about?” Both sisters waited expectantly. “Hmmm?”

  “Nothing!” she protested. “Oh, I beg your pardon, he did make it clear that he thinks I belong in London, not Cornwall.”

  “Well, of course you belong in London,” Rose agreed.

  “But that doesn’t mean you cannot also belong here,” Gwyn continued. “Honestly, why do men always try to fit everything within tidy little boxes?”

  “It’s as if they are blind to nuances,” nodded Rose. They exchanged a look, and rolled their eyes.

  Tamsyn stared at her sisters. “They are, aren’t they?” Just as her parents tried to fit her into Marjorie’s marriage minded mold. But the girls were right—and Gryff was wrong. She didn’t have to choose London or Cornwall, one life or the other. She was nuanced. She lifted her chin. “Thank you, girls.”

  “Well, I’ve had enough education,” Rose waved a hand. “Now, I’m off to primp before tea. I caught a glimpse of the newest arrival last night, before Father closeted himself away with the man. Good heavens. Trust me, my dears, you’ll want to look your best when we all meet up again.”

  “I’ll come.” Gwyn turned to Tamsyn. “You, too?”

  Tamsyn was looking at the painting again. “I’ll be along soon.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  The girls left and she stepped closer to the painting they had been discussing. It looked like a gathering of village notables, with everyone in fine dress and drawn together around a temporary stage beyond the church. One of the gentlemen in the painting had caught her eye. An old man he was, bald, and with stick-thin legs clad in the tight fitting hose of the day. But it was the brooch holding his shoulder cape that had caught her attention. Even this smaller version showed the intricate design and the head of a bird in relief. It looked identical to the one in the carving downstairs.

  Curious. Could it be the same brooch? It wasn’t a child wearing it, but then again, the child Grindan would have been long gone. This painting had been done hundreds of years after the time of the Domesday Book and that carving below. But if the story was a local legend, perhaps the brooch had become a family heirloom? The Cornishmen did seem to love a good story.

  With a shrug, she set off. She was beginning to feel like she’d been embroiled in a story herself. Well, perhaps she had been. Just like a heroine in a story, she had layers, and no matter what Gryff said, she was going to do her best to make sure she had the happy ending she wanted.

  Just as soon as she figured out what that might be.

  Gryff threw down his quill. Three times he’d added this column. Three times he’d calculated a different sum. And he still hadn’t driven the taste of Tamsyn from his mind.

  Lord, but she’d been sweet. And soft. And curved in all the places that made a man itch to feel more.

  Sighing, he gave up his task and strode away from his study and through the house. Tearing the leather strip from his hair, he let it fly loose, his headache easing and his breath coming more evenly once he reached the cloistered court that was still his mother’s favorite retreat.

  “Good afternoon, dear.” She beckoned him. “Are you finally ready to tell me what’s got you stamping about, grumpy as a hungry bear?”

  “No,” he growled. He should have known she’d realized something was going on. The bad joints in her hip kept her largely confined to the house and this garden, but his mother still knew everything that occurred on the estate—and beyond.

  “Oh, dear.” Her lip quivered. “You truly must have been an ass.”

  He laughed out loud, and then sighed. “I fear so.”

  And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? The thought that had distracted him all day, in the same way that the memory of Tamsyn’s lips beneath his had tortured him all night. He had rushed to judge her. All jokes aside, he was a big enough man to admit when he’d been wrong—and he feared he’d been so last night.

  He’d let his own shortcomings—and their old misunderstanding—alter his view of her. But he couldn’t judge her on what had proven wrong—or on his own failings. It was true that London did not appeal to him, but he didn’t know her well enough to judge what she would like, or where she would thrive.

  “Mother,” he asked abruptly. “How did Aunt Morwen act when she discovered she had the Sight?”

  “I don’t think I can answer that question. She’s always had it. She was born with it.”

  He frowned. “How could you tell?”

  “Oh, she always saw things we did not, and talked to creatures we couldn’t see. Even in her cradle, she laughed at things that weren’t there. It’s a part of her, and always has been. Why do you ask?” She turned her head sharply. “And why do you not ask her?”

  He kept silent and sighed when his mother’s grin spread across her face.

  “So. She would know why you were asking, would she?” She sat back. “Who is she?”

  “Are you sure you don’t share in my aunt’s talents?” He rolled his eyes.

  “Come now. Tell me all. You’ll feel better.”

  He told her, and finished with a sigh. “So there it is and I don’t feel better, for I fear I judged her too quickly.”

  “I should say so. Most girls would be a blubbering mess, confronted so suddenly with such a circumstance. The fact that she’s not hiding in her room or tearing her hair up on the parapets speaks well of her.”

  “That thought did occur to me—too late.” He groaned. “I’m sorry for it—but I’m afraid I’ve bollixed everything up.”

  “It does seem so.” His mother shook her head. “Now, what will you do about it?”

  “I’m going to go for a walk and figure that out,” Gryff said. He pressed a kiss on her forehead and strode quickly through the gardens. A dilemma like this required the peace and consolation of the forest. He let his feet guide him toward the newly reacquired pixie barrow. Perhaps they would take pity on him and send him a sign, letting him know what he should do.

  He didn’t hurry, so he wasn’t yet at the turning that would lead to the barrow when he heard a strident barking. Not one of his great hounds, yapping like that. Curious, he left the path and pushed through the underbrush, moving toward the ceaseless racket. After a few minutes hacking, he emerged from a thicket at a curve in the stream. A high bank had formed and below the dark hole of an animal burrow stood a little black poodle, covered in mud and happily haranguing whatever creature might be hiding there.

  “By Merlin’s beard, I hope whatever is in there is worth all of that caterwauling.”

  The dog stop
ped immediately and came to stand at his feet, hind end wagging in ecstasy, like he’d been waiting for Gryff all along.

  “Aye, then. I suppose you are the lap warmer of some lady guest at Keyvnor?”

  The dog yipped once.

  “Well, then, come on,” Gryff sighed. “I did ask for a sign, after all.”

  “Tamsyn, there you are.” Her father approached as she entered the parlor, stopping her before she could go further. “I’m glad you are here. Marjorie is still in the village, drat the girl. I want you to meet a new arrival to the castle, a man here to consult with Hunt about a matter in the will.” He leaned in close. “There is no title, but quite a sizeable fortune, and he cuts a dash in Town—received by all, even the highest sticklers.” He nodded sagely. “This could be quite a useful connection for you girls, next Season.” Turning, he urged her on. “If not something more.”

  Tamsyn gave a little laugh. “Fine, Father, I hear you.” The message could not be clearer—but neither could the image of Gryff fixed firmly in her head.

  Following him to where her family had grouped before the fire, she craned her neck to see.

  “Ah, here you are, Tamsyn dear.” Her mother turned, all smiles. Her movement opened a gap, so that Tamsyn could see at last the man who had them all in a tizzy.

  She stilled, utterly unable to move.

  “May I present to you my eldest daughter, Lady Tamsyn?” Her mother urged her forward.

  She couldn’t make herself bend, curtsy, smile, speak a greeting—any or all of the things that she knew she must do. She could only stare.

  Her father beamed, her sisters simpered. But Tamsyn was caught by the sight of the man before her—his form old and stooped. His clothes were rich, but the brightness of his linen could not hide the age spots or the stray hairs that bunched in places everywhere but his head. The smoothness of his superfine coat could not disguise his wrinkled skin or emaciated form.

  Her mother elbowed her. “Tamsyn, meet Mr. Rowancourt.”

  “Oh. I—uh, do excuse me,” she stammered. “How nice to meet you.”