Jessica heard the bitterness and discerned the flush under his olive skin. For a few moments, she fretted that she’d done something to offend or disgust him. But halfway down the incline, he slowed to let her catch up with him. And when she took his hand—the crippled one—and squeezed it, he glanced at her, and said, “I hate crows. Noisy, filthy things.”
She supposed that was as close to an explanation or apology as he could come. She glanced back at the ancient temple. “I collect it’s because you’re a high-strung thoroughbred. He was merely part of the atmosphere to me. I thought it all very romantic.”
He gave a short laugh. “You mean ‘gothic,’ I think.”
“No, I don’t,” she said. “There was I in the arms of a dark, dangerous hero, amid the ruins of Stonehenge, an ancient place of mystery. Byron himself could not have painted a more romantic scene. I’m sure you believe there isn’t a romantic bone in your body,” she added with a sidelong glance. “If you found one, you’d break it. But you needn’t worry. I shouldn’t dream of declaring otherwise to anyone else.”
“I’m not romantic,” he said tightly. “And I most certainly am nothigh-strung. As to thoroughbreds—you know very well I’m half-Italian.”
“The Italian half is blue-blooded, too,” she said. “The Duc d’Abonville told me your mother’s line is very old Florentine nobility. That, apparently, reconciled him to our marriage.”
He uttered a series of words she couldn’t understand, but guessed were curses in his mother’s tongue.
“He means to marry Genevieve,” she said mollifyingly. “That’s what made him so overprotective of me. But there are benefits to the attachment. He’s taken Bertie in hand, which means you won’t be bothered with my brother’s financial difficulties in future.”
Dain brooded silently until they’d reentered the carriage. Then, releasing a sigh, he leaned back and closed his eyes. “Romantic. High-strung. And you think it’s reassuring that your grandmother’slovermeans to take your brainless brother in hand. I do believe, Jess, that you are as demented as every other member—and prospective member—of your entire lunatic family.”
“Are you going to sleep?” she asked.
“I might, if you could manage to hold your tongue for three minutes.”
“I’m tired, too,” she said. “Do you mind if I lean on your arm? I can’t sleep sitting bolt upright.”
“Take off that idiotic bonnet first,” he muttered.
She took it off and rested her head on his brawny arm. After a moment, he shifted sideways a bit and tucked her head against his chest. That was more comfortable.
It was also all the reassurance Jessica needed for now. Later, she’d try to figure out what had upset him during their embrace—and why he’d become so very tense when she spoke of his mother’s family. At present she was content to enjoy what felt delightfully like husbandly affection.
They slept through most of the journey, until they reached the Devon border. Despite the delay in setting out, they reached Exeter by late afternoon. They crossed the River Teign shortly thereafter, then wended down to Bovey Tracey, and across the River Bovey. A few winding miles west, Jessica had her first glimpse of the strange rock formations of Dartmoor.
“Haytor Rocks,” he said, pointing out his window at an immense stone outcropping at the top of a hill. She climbed onto his lap to get a better view.
He laughed. “You needn’t worry about missing it. There are plenty more. Hundreds of those things, everywhere you look. Tors and cairns and barrows and bogs. You married me, only to wind up in precisely the ‘remote outpost of civilization’ you wished to avoid. Welcome, Lady Dain, to the howling wilderness of Dartmoor.”
“I think it’s beautiful,” she said softly.
Like you, she wanted to add. In the orange glow of the lowering sun, the rugged landscape was dark and harshly beautiful, as he was.
“I’ll have to win another wager,” she said into the moody silence. “So that you’ll take me to those rocks.”
“Where you’ll contract a lung fever,” he said. “It’s cold, windy, and wet, and the climate changes from brisk autumn to bitter winter and back again ten times in an hour.”
“I never take ill,” she said. “I’m not a high-strung thoroughbred—unlike certain individuals who shall remain nameless.”
“You’d better get off my lap,” he said. “We’ll be at Athcourt very shortly, and the staff will be out in full battle regalia. I shall make a poor enough appearance as it is. You’ve rumpled and wrinkled me past repair. You squirm and fidget even more asleep than awake. I scarcely closed my eyes the entire way to Exeter.”
“Then you must have been snoring with your eyes open,” she said as she returned to her place beside him.
“I was not snoring.”
“On my head,” she said. “And several times, straight into my ear.” She had found the deep, masculine rumble inexpressibly endearing.
He scowled at her.
Jessica ignored it, returning her gaze to the passing landscape. “Why is your home called Athcourt?” she asked. “After a great battle, like Blenheim?”
“The Ballisters originally lived further north,” he said. “One of them took a fancy to the Dartmoor property as well as the daughter and sole surviving issue of Sir Guy de Ath, a powerful fellow in this area. The name, incidentally, was originally Death. It was changed for obvious reasons. My ancestor got the daughter and the estate on condition he keep the quaint name alive. That’s why the males of the family get Guy de Ath stuck on just before ‘Ballister.’”
