The carriage madeexcellent time as it trundled away from the wreckage I’d made of Tom Grayson’s life. Guilt, it seemed, was trundling along with me. It hadn’t lessened in the slightest over miles of rolling hills, wet moors, and continued even as we lumbered through the peak district. The guilt, and perhaps a bit of longing.
For a few brief moments, I’d had what everyone else took for granted—an illicit moment in a darkened corner, a sensual tryst in a moonlit garden, a sweet flirtation over a pastry.
And it had been easy, so easy, when his lips met mine, tasting of scotch and freedom, to forget the consequences. They were distant, vague, inconsequential things that didn’t bear consideration with long fingers running through my hair and sliding down my waist, and a hot groan caressing my ears. Entirely amorphous, right up until the moment Lord Grayson’s voice cut through the haze of affection and lust.
I shook away the memory and pulled back the curtain. The hills had increased in frequency and size, and shifted from rolling, gently sloping things to ragged craigs in the last day or so. The most recent coaching inn, I had been assured, would be the last before we reached Kilmarnock Abbey.
The view was scenic. A pretty little cerulean pond—certainly not the precise shade of Tom’s eyes—the far bank dotted by a small copse of beech, oak, pine, and ash trees. The path ahead, though, was unkempt. More grass than gravel. As we continued, a house came into view. Nestled pleasantly among the trees, it had surely once been an impressive manor. Now, it had fallen victim to age. Half-dead vines crawled and dug into the lines of mortar, threatening to reclaim the tan brick facade for nature. The windows that weren’t yet boarded up were broken or cracked. It was unfortunate that such a well-situated property had been so poorly cared for.
We turned, following the pond’s bank, and my stomach dropped. Surely—certainly not. It couldn’t possibly be?—
The carriage shuddered to a halt, and I released a sigh of relief. We’d made a wrong turn. Any moment now it would lurch forward and turn back to the main road. Perhaps they needed to consult a map or?—
I caught the sound of a disgruntled bleat from ahead. Sheep?
“Godfrey?” I called out the window.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Please tell me that we’re lost.”
“Wishing I could.” There was a wariness in his tone I didn’t like.
“We’re trapped by the sheep, right? That is why we’re not back on the road?”
With an unsteady hand, I opened the door. I stepped out on shaky legs, only to feel the unmistakable sinking, slipping sensation—and scent—of a boot meeting feces. My eyes slid shut for a moment before I could brave a look.
I wasn’t an expert in sheep by any means, but the bleat I heard from just beyond the carriage was striking in its similarity to human laughter.
Bracing against the open carriage, I made a valiant effort to scrape the dung off my hessian and into the grass as Godfrey spilled out of his seat and over to my side with a distressed cry for the leather.
Ignoring his fussing, I called out to the driver. He, in turn, vaulted off the seat and rounded the carriage.
“I cannae get ye closer than this, Yer Grace, not without upsetting Fenella something fierce.” He was tall, with a medium build and thinning hair, though what was left of it was an overgrown reddish blond. His nose was hooked and his blue eyes were clear and too small, and a thick beard, the same shade as the hair on his head, covered his jaw.
“Fenella?”
“The sheep,” he clarified, as if that made the comment less absurd.
“The sheep is named Fenella?”
“Yes, Yer Grace.”
“And you cannot upset her?”
“No.”
“Listen…”
“Lochlan Ramsay,” he supplied.
“Mr. Ramsay?—”
“Lock, if ye please.”
I sighed, tightening my hands into fists at my sides. This was a new start, and I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let my feelings be so obvious here. “Listen, Loch?—”
“Lock—Loch is my wee cousin.”
