She thought about the dishes, as silly as it was, how Mrs. Grant passed family heirlooms to her, entrusted her with something so precious, knowing she might break them.
Would she break Archie if given the chance? Would he break her?
She could acknowledge what she wanted—she wanted the night from the party again, the open trust and passion they’d shared, the thrill that they held something special, something sparkling and precious, something that would consume her in the best way if she allowed it to grow.
But it was impossible. She’d been a different woman that night, one stripped of her fears by the relative anonymity of circumstances. Archie may care for her, but he’d never love her for the person she was. Who could?
As though she’d summoned him, Archie burst through the back door and into the kitchen. “Mum, we have a problem.”
The girls were close behind. “Petunia is missing again,” Samantha said, and Eloise trailed in her wake, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Oh Eloise,” Mrs. Grant said, cupping her youngest daughter’s face. “I’m sure she hasn’t gone far.”
Eloise sniffed mightily. “But what if—”
“I’ll find her. Hand me that jug and I’ll try to lure her with some milk.” Archie cut in, then looked at Marigold. “Do you want to help?”
Her lips parted. She wanted to be alone with him, although apparently this mysterious Petunia would be joining them. “Y-yes. But who is Petunia?”
Archie winced and Mrs. Grant chuckled. “You’ll find out, dear,” the woman said. “But you need to borrow a skirt and some decent boots.”
Chapter 17
“Petuniaisasheep?”
Archie waited for Marigold to navigate around a craggy rock sticking up from the path, then stepped beside her. “Petunia is a demon in the form of a sheep.”
He didn’t miss her subtle smile. “I can’t imagine one of Satan’s minions inhabiting such a fluffy creature.”
“It’s a brilliant disguise.” He slowed to match her pace. The trail to Petunia’s favorite rogue grazing spot was almost directly uphill, but the sun setting over the rolling pastures made the hike worthwhile. “Had I not given the beast to Eloise when it was a cosset, I’d leave it out here to die, but I feel a certain obligation to the wee monster.”
She turned, and the wind pulled a lock of her hair over her cheek. “You have an obligation to your sister.”
Archie fisted his hands to avoid pushing the hair behind her ear. He’d been desperate to touch her since she arrived, to feel herhand in his, press his palm to the small of her back as he guided her along the edge of a copse of trees. In the three days since he’d made the ridiculous offer to host a marchioness at his country farm, he’d imagined all sorts of scenarios. Ones where she ridiculed his humble upbringing or never came at all. But one crept into his mind and took hold, the dream where she enjoyed her simple supper, laughed with his mother and sisters, felt at home.
And damn, if that hadn’t come true. She would become an obsession if he let her—oh, why was he kidding himself? She already was, had been, from the moment she’d approached him about the trapped bee.
They climbed higher, the verdant hillside turning a darker velvety evergreen as the sun began to set. Orange and purple clouds streaked across the lavender sky, casting long shadows over the patchwork of fields below.
Marigold gasped, stopping in her tracks. “Do you see that?” She pointed towards a dead tree, its trunk nearly consumed by creeping ivy.
“What about it?” Archie asked, but she was already moving, picking her way through wild daisies, sorrel, and wood anemone toward the tree in question.
He followed blindly, like he’d follow her anywhere if she’d only lead him. Before long, he felt the subtle vibrations in the air, the low hum that set his nerves on end. “Marigold.”
“There, can you see it now?” She turned back to face him, the wind tugging at her hair and skirt, her eyes bright. “An open-air hive!”
“Christ,” he mumbled. “It is.”
He’d never seen the likes of it, honeycomb hanging from an extended branch, thick slices of yellow dripping with honey and insects. He shuddered. “We shouldn’t get too close.”
“It’s nightfall.” She was stepping closer to the hive, gliding along as though drawn by some siren call. “They’re calm now.”
His pulse was thundering. “It’s not safe.” He swallowed down his rising panic. “They’re not your hive. Don’t they need to know you?”
“May I have the milk jug?”
Wordlessly he stumbled forward, shoved the ceramic vessel in her direction. She took it with a steady hand and poured its contents onto the ground, her attention not leaving the hive. “Have you ever had fresh honey?”
