For she would follow him anywhere.
*
Alessandro led Catrionathrough an overgrown gravel path. The late summer sun had long since settled, leaving the moon high overhead to bathe the landscape in a silver glow.
His abbreviated inspection of the immediate grounds of Marchmont earlier had revealed once pristine gardens dreadfully overrun. Even the path on which they traversed now was in desperate need of attention. Laurels and trees crowded them on either side, in some places narrowing the pathway enough so it was almost closed entirely.
“You do realize it is dark, do you not?” his wife grumbled at his side.
“Is it?” He feigned shock. “I thought the sun was a trifle dim this evening.”
His lightheartedness appeared to surprise her, for she was silent. It surprised him as well, in truth. He had believed returning to Marchmont at long last would bring with it the bitterness that infected him whenever he thought of England. He had thought it would be strange and unfamiliar, that it would leave him with the same unwanted sense of obligation that weighed down his chest whenever he thought of the earldom and the entail.
But strangely, it had not. His initial discovery of his steward’s duplicity and the ravages the home and grounds had suffered had infuriated him. Gradually, however, the rage had been replaced with something else.
As he rode into the village in search of decent men and women to employ, a barrage of reminiscences had settled over him. His mother had been happy here, and so, too, had he, a lifetime ago. He recalled the old mossed oak he had climbed in his youth. Fishing in the river. Hiding from his governess in the temple of Artemis, which overlooked the rolling park grounds and lake.
“Where are you taking me?” Catriona demanded now.
“It is a surprise,” he said easily, breathing in deeply the lush scent of the countryside. London, with its soot and fog and its crowded streets, was a far cry from where they were now. He had not known how much he had missed this rich smell of summer, of grasses and flowers in bloom, of life at its fullest blossom.
She huffed a little sigh he was certain had more to do with his refusal to reveal to her their destination than it had to do with aught else. “I am tired after a long day of travel and attempting to restore Marchmont into some semblance of a home once more. And that is to say nothing of the battle I waged with our resident ragamuffin.”
“I know the day has been long, and I appreciate your efforts and patience.” As they continued their stroll, he rested his hand over hers where it lay in the crook of his arm. “I am grateful. But what is this about the squatter? I ought to have taken the little devil back to the village with me. Was he giving you trouble?”
What a strange creature. Scarcely more than a grimy face, two bright, blue eyes, and greasy brown hair stuffed beneath a cap. Short legs encased in dirty breeches. After losing Francisco, children had oft filled him with a sense of dread, as if the sight of them alone would cause him to be swallowed by the voracious maw of grief perpetually waiting to claim him.
Strangely, this one did not. This one filled him with consternation.
“Oh, you must not send him back to the village,” his wife said then in her sweet, dulcet voice that never failed to make his cock twitch to attention. “He has already been abandoned by his greedy villain of a guardian. I shudder to think what will become of him if he does not stay at Marchmont with us.”
The way she saidusshould not affect him.
But it did.
Even so, he would not allow the beggar to remain. “He must go to the village. He is not our burden to bear.”
“He is a child,” Catriona admonished. “And a hungry one at that. We are fortunate indeed Monsieur Olivier brought plentiful stores with him. The lad initially refused to eat a bite, clinging to his pride. He was destined to lose any battle of stubbornness against me, however.”
The notion of his wife battling with the dirty imp touched a place inside him he had not known existed. He wished he could have seen it. “How did you defeat him?”
“I told him his pet mouse would be fed to my cat if he did not eat,” she said, her tone ringing with pride.
What the devil?
“Do you mean to tell me the squatter is keeping a rodent as his pet? And still you wish for this squalid little ragamuffin to remain?” He paused, warming to his cause before something else occurred to him. “You do not have a cat.”
She laughed softly, and the sound sent heat licking through him, settling in his groin. Why must he like every part of her so much? Too much?
“Olly has not yet discovered I do not have a cat,” she confided. “Do not tell him, if you please. I cannot imagine how I shall convince the rascal to break his fast and have a bath without the threat that Ashes will meet a bloody end by my feline’s ravenous jaws.”
“Why should we care if the rascal eats his kippers and eggs or not?” Alessandro returned. “And what sort of creature names a mouse Ashes?”
“A child who has been mistreated and ignored. A child who was so desperately in need of companionship, he befriended a rodent,” she said softly, breathlessly. “I am quite resolute in my determination to keep Olly with us for the time being. And you must cease calling him the squatter. He has a name.”
“Yes,” he said peevishly. “Olly. But I have already told you, madam, I do not like children.”
“I will make sure Olly stays out of your way. Since your time here will be short, we need not fear doing so should prove unusually onerous.” There was a hint of censure in her voice.
