Conservatories were things to be tended, living creatures you pledged your loyalty to.
Apollo felt both power and duty between these glass walls.He tended the plants and in turn, they… tended him.Between these glass walls, he felt… full.
He checked on General Grimm, whom he’d put in a corner less scorched by sun, and then he checked on the new plants Mrs.Collins had brought him.Lavender,Linum usitatissimum, primrose,and yes, thyme.He’d only planted them in pots a few days ago, but already little sprouts poked through.He cupped his hands around them.
“You’re hardy, aren’t you.”
The little sprouts seemed to wiggle.
And a throat cleared loudly behind him.
“Yes, Mrs.Collins?”he asked, spraying water on the sprouts.
“It’s the lady,” she said.“Miss Sybil.”
“What of her?”
“She’s making for the stables.”
He cursed and rubbed his temples.“Thank you, Mrs.Collins.”He shrugged into a shirt and waistcoat, tucked himself in, buttoned himself up, wound a cravat around his throat.
“Her foot looks healed up to me.”
He strode out of the room, the housekeeper hot on his heels.“No way of knowing.”He’d not had his hands on her delicate little foot in four interminable days.He made for the stables, leaving the housekeeper behind at the front door.“Thank you, Mrs.Collins!”
Sybil, her deep-blue riding habit a bolt of brightness that cut through the fog, wasn’t too far ahead of him.A flimsy, flirty hat the same color as her habit perched sideways on her head.It took only a few running steps to catch up, swing her up into his arms, and stride back for the house.
She gasped, flailed, chained her arms about his neck.“Put me down.”
“Not a chance in hell.”
“Then take me to the stables.”
He slowed.“And why should I do that?”
“I need to go to the village.More specifically to the forge there.”
“And why must you do that?”
“I need the blacksmith.I have kept myself busy with Stone’s notes over the last several days, but I’ve hit a wall.My exploration can no longer be simply intellectual.I need fire, and I need metal, and I need to make a prototype.But I cannot do that without tools and materials.And I cannot obtain materials unless I go into town.”
He stopped.He’d sent Mrs.Collins after the materials he desired—seeds and dirt and clippings.But he’d not thought to send for hammers and pliers and bellows and whatnot.What a useless alchemist he was, what a worthless teacher.
“I’ll go,” he said.“Alone.”
“No!I want to go.I must go.I’ve been hoping… well… there might be another like Mrs.Paisley.And if you go alone, you will not know how to find her.I’m perfectly capable of riding sidesaddle.And my foot feels much better now.”She pursed her lips, and the bottom one became plump, ripe for kissing.“It’s only a little painful.It’s mostly healed, I swear it.I think, actually, exercise might do it good.”
“Don’t even try it.”But he reversed course, carrying her back toward the stables.“Have you been taking the healing potion I gave you?”
“Diligently.”
“And the sleeping draft?”
“When I need it.”She lifted her chin and it lifted her breasts as well, which were exquisitely snug against his chest.
Every step he took brushed her body against his, and despite their two very hot and very inadvisable kisses, she didn’t seem to feel as awkward as he did.She’d accepted it had happened and had moved on.While he still… Damn.This was his punishment, wasn’t it?The loss of his title, his holdings, his place in the world, his very soul—that the old king’s punishment.Sybil had been sent as divine torment by whatever deity knew him best.
Reaching the stables, he set her on her feet.The stables at Foggy Hill were simple and small but well cared for.His grandfather may not have preferred this residence, but he’d not neglected it.He set about saddling the horses.
