She jerked in surprise and flushed. “Ah, yes. Synne.” She cleared her throat and turned back to her easel. “This was the time of the Viking colonization, you know, of Danelaw. The Norsemen were not welcome here, though the land was theirs by right. The villagers had a long memory, and did not forget the raiding of their monastery a century before. And so, when the Vikings came to settle the island, they were met with barely banked hostility. Synne was no different. She despised the Norsemen. She might have gone the way of many others in history, forgotten over the intervening years, a mere stepping-stone in the grand scheme of it all.”
Here she stopped, frowned, and erased a section of her drawing. Peter nearly growled his impatience. “What happened then?” he demanded, pushing away from the tree. Mrs. Kitteridge, however, was not listening. Instead she was talking quietly to Quincy as she attempted to fix whatever muddle her sketch had become mired in. Peter blew out a frustrated breath.
“One of the Vikings fell in love with her,” came Miss Hartley’s quiet voice.
He spun to face her. “I’m sorry?”
Her gaze darted to him for a moment before returning to her paper. “Synne dared to stand up to the Norseman Ivar. He resented being on the island, wanted to be sent to the mainland and the Jarldoms there, where the Danish political centers were located.”
Now that was something he understood only too well, Peter thought acidly, being forced someplace you had no wish to be.
“But Synne captivated him,” Lenora continued. “Despite himself, he fell in love with her.”
Her voice had taken on a magical cadence, drawing him in. Without knowing he was doing so, he stepped closer to her. “How do you know the story so well?”
She shrugged. “I came to stay with Lady Tesh often as a girl. This island is like a second home to me.” Her lips quirked, softening her face. “Margery and I begged her to tell us the stories every chance we got. And how could we not be fascinated? The Viking warrior, a brave maiden, true love.” Her smile wavered for a second, like a flame in a gust of wind, before it vanished, casting her face in shadows.
Was she thinking of Hillram and their doomed engagement? A sour feeling sat heavily in his gut at the thought. Confused—for it was unlike any emotion he had ever felt before—he slid his gaze from her profile to her drawing.
The valley was laid out on the paper, the minimal lines of her sketch imbuing a perfect—if strangely emotionless—sense of the place. Peter had the sudden desire to ask what had happened to Synne. Had she and her Viking lived happily together? At the last minute, however, he stopped himself. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to ruin this moment with the truth of it. For he knew, in his gut, that things could not have ended happily for the couple.
Perhaps there was a curse on this place if that was true. He looked at Miss Hartley’s downcast profile. For wasn’t she suffering through her own failed chance at love?
Again that sour feeling in his belly. Surely this wasn’t jealousy. He could not be jealous of the hold some dead man had on Miss Hartley’s affections.
Perhaps that walk wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Without a word, Peter turned and strode away, down the back of the rise. Leaving his confusing feelings back in the grass at Miss Hartley’s feet.
Chapter 10
Peter kicked his mount on, needing the rush of speed. The horse obeyed immediately, lowering its head, its hooves pounding out a heavy, quick beat on the dry earth. Beside him Quincy’s mount kept pace as they flew across the land.
He was going mad. That was all there was to it. He had been at Lady Tesh’s home for a mere six days, and already he was going utterly mad. How else could he explain the complete disarray of his thoughts? Instead of revenge and anger filling his heart at every turn, instead of the constant burn in his gut to see Dane’s legacy torn asunder, his mind was full of nothing but Miss Hartley. His eyes strayed to her when they were together; his thoughts strayed to her when they weren’t.
Like now.
Peter growled and concentrated on the way the air hit his face, pulling on his hair and stinging his eyes. They crested a small hill, rounding a grove of trees. Heading for the next farm on his list.
It was this complete distraction from his purpose here that had prompted this particular outing. He was surrounded by people who loved the duke, who never spoke ill of him. Yet if anyone could attest to how miserable it was to be under Dane’s thumb, it would be his own tenants. He’d decided then and there to interview the people who worked the land. Not that he needed proof that what he was planning was right. But some kind of confirmation that Dane was an unfeeling bastard and deserved what was coming to him would not be unwelcome.
But the people he had met thus far had proven to be a frustratingly happy lot. Not a one of them had an unkind word to say about the duke. Surely, he thought with growing frustration, someone despised the man as much as he did.
So anxious was he to get to the next property and find proof of Dane’s cruelty, however, that he rounded the bend in the road much too fast.
And ran smack into a group of fat, freshly shorn sheep.
The animals rolled their eyes and bleated, scurrying away like so many bowling pins. Peter sawed back on the reins, his horse rearing. Over the noise he heard Quincy shout at his own mount and the accompanying yell of a third person. It was not until his stallion had all four feet safely on the ground that Peter could breathe and take stock of the chaos.
An older man in rough but neat homespun, his belly as round as that of his sheep, stood close by, his hands fisted on his hips. He glared at Peter and Quincy. “I’d ask you to take care when riding about these parts,” he barked. “You near scared my flock to death.”
Quincy touched a gloved hand to his brow. “Our pardon, sir. We meant no harm.”
The man’s eyes narrowed as he took them in. “You’re not from around here. Visitors to the Isle don’t usually come this far north. You’re not up to any mischief, are you?”
“No more than usual,” Quincy quipped with a grin. “But allow us to introduce ourselves. I am Mr. Quincy Nesbitt, and this is Mr. Peter Ashford.”
The herder’s animosity disappeared in an instant, his eyes widening as he took Peter in. “You must be the Duke of Dane’s heir then.” He sketched a bow, his face breaking into a delighted grin. “It’s a pleasure, sir. My name’s Hale Tunley, at your service.”
