Curiosity piqued, Courtney readily agreed. “I’ll need to change.”
“No need,” he said. “I thought you could ride with me on my horse. Like we used to when you were learning. Thank you for telling me that, by the way.”
The suggestion sent a flutter of anticipation through her. “Double? That’s hardly proper, Lord Furoe.”
“As I recall, you hinted that propriety never concerned us when we were here?” he challenged, his green eyes dancing with amusement. “Besides, the place I want to show you is difficult to find if you don’t know the way.”
Half an hour later, they were mounted on Lucien’s sturdy bay gelding, Courtney seated sideways before him, her back supported by his strong arm. The intimacy of the position was not lost on either of them. She arranged her skirts as modestly as possible over her legs, his arm encircling her waist to balance her, their bodies pressed close from necessity.
They rode away from the house, taking a path through the home woods that opened into rolling meadows. The day was gloriously warm, the countryside alive with summer abundance. Birds darted through the hedgerows, rabbits scattered at their approach, and wildflowers nodded in the gentle breeze.
“I’ve been exploring the estate since I arrived,” Lucien explained as they climbed a gentle hill. “Trying to reconnect with the land, to understand what it might have meant to me before.”
“And has it helped?” Courtney asked, enjoying the solid warmth of him behind her. “Do you feel connected to it now?”
He considered this for a moment. “Not in the way my father does—not with the weight of generations of memories. But I feel…responsible for it. Protective.” He guided the horse around a fallen log. “It’s strange. I have no memory of growing up here, yet I feel at peace.”
“You did always say it was the one place you could be yourself,” Courtney observed.
“Exactly.” The appreciation in his voice warmed her.
As they crested the hill, Courtney knew where they were heading, and her pulse raced. Soon Lucien drew the horse to a halt. Before them, nestled in a small, sheltered valley, stood a picturesque stone cottage. A stream gurgled past it, and a small garden, overgrown but still showing signs of careful planting, surrounded the dwelling. Smoke rose from the chimney, suggesting someone was in residence.
“It’s exactly as I remember it,” Courtney said.
“You’ve been here before?” he asked. “Who lives here?”
“Your old gamekeeper and his wife. Your father gifted them the cottage for his years of service. They own it,” Courtney replied. “They…” She couldn’t tell him. Not yet.
He dismounted and lifted her down, his hands lingering at her waist longer than necessary before releasing her. Taking her hand, he led her down the gentle slope toward the cottage, the horse following behind them.
“Three days ago, I was riding alone, letting my mind wander,” he explained as they walked. “I wasn’t following any particular path, just allowing the horse to choose his own way. And somehow, we ended up here.”
As they approached the cottage, the door opened, and an elderly woman emerged, wiping her hands on her apron. Her weathered face broke into a wide smile at the sight of them.
“Lord Lucien! You’ve returned!” she exclaimed. “And you’ve brought Lady Courtney, just like old times!”
“Mrs. Baxter,” she said warmly, “good morning. It’s been so long since I was last here. It’s good to see you looking so well.”
The woman bustled forward; her blue eyes bright with emotion. “It does my heart good to see you both together again. When we heard you’d returned from the dead, I told George straight away, ‘Now he’ll bring his lady back to see us, mark my words.’ And here you are!”
Lucien cast Courtney a questioning glance, and she stepped forward. “Mrs. Baxter used to make your favorite game pie, and we used to visit with the Baxters just so you could have a slice. And how is Mr. Baxter?” she asked while taking the woman’s work-roughened hands in her own.
“Kind as ever, my lady. George is fighting fit if not a bit stiff when it’s cold.” Mrs. Baxter beamed. “Come in, come in! I’ve just taken a rabbit pie from the oven, and I’ll put the kettle on.”
Inside, the cottage was neat and cozy, with a small sitting room dominated by a sturdy oak table and comfortable, if worn, furniture. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling beams, and a collection of carved wooden animals lined the mantelpiece. A large ginger cat dozed by the hearth, opening one eye lazily to assess the visitors before returning to its nap.
Mrs. Baxter busied herself preparing tea while Lucien and Courtney took seats at the table. “George is out checking the rabbit snares,” she explained. “He’ll be sorry to have missed you. He always said you were the best shot among the young gentlemen, my lord.”
Lucien accepted this information with a nod, though Courtney could see the questions in his eyes. She leaned closer, keeping her voice low.
“George taught you to shoot. You loved him and missed him when he retired, so you would visit a lot,” she explained. “You would bring game from your hunts, and I would bring yarn for Mrs. Baxter to spin and knit. You taught their grandson, Tommy, to fish.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes. “Thank you,” he murmured.
Mrs. Baxter returned with a tray laden with tea, fresh bread, and a golden crust pie cut into slices. “Now then,” she said, settling across from them and offering a plate to Lucien, “tell me everything. We’ve heard such strange tales that you were inIreland all this time, with no memory of who you were! Poor Lady Courtney has been so steadfast, waiting for you.”
Courtney felt heat rise to her cheeks, but Lucien answered smoothly.
