Kit rose. His boots were still wet, his clothes felt plastered on him, and he smelled of dirt and woodsmoke. He dragged open the door on its leather hinges and stomped out into the world, his oilskin greatcoat flapping behind him.
He made his way through the trees. The ground was soaked and muddy beneath the leaves and pine needles. The dog had chosen to follow him and now charged into the woods as if he, too, wished for his own company.
The cool air was exactly what Kit needed to restore his equilibrium. What the bloody hell had come over him?
The lass meant nothing to him. She’d had a bad dream. He’d sought to help. In turn, she had just made it clear she didn’t want anything from him. Very well. This was not his first black eye. It probably wouldn’t be his last.
However, why didhefeel as if he’d failed? Why was he so anxious to please? Especially when itcame to women? And why was he attracted to the most independent of their sex?
Just once, he would like to be gallant and have a female do more than act as if his attention was expected. Well, that wasn’t true. Many women had fawned over him... but they were never the ones who sparked his interest.
He stopped by a stalwart oak, taking a moment to himself, before recognizing another unexplained emotion—the chit irritated him.
Yes, she did. Kit wasn’t certain why... but she made him edgy and... uncertain?
He hadn’t felt this particular stew of feelings since Kate Addison.
Now heknewhe was on dangerous ground. The thought of Kate stirred up uncomfortable regrets and a host of unresolved grievances. Her rejection was what had sent him spiraling out of control. Because of her, he’d felt the need to say bloody good riddance to London, and to all the rest—the responsibilities, the gossip, the constant watching, the jaded attitudes.
And it had been fun to escape, at first. He’d experienced unbridled joy in doing exactly as he felt, saying whatever he wished, being unrecognized. If he behaved like an ass, it was Kit who had done it, not the duke. If he lost money gaming, no one raised eyebrows and shook their heads. No one suggested that the “duke” suffered from his father’s misdeeds.
He did miss his mother and the staff at Smythson who had been more family than servants to him. He’d also started to realize that Kate had been a rite of passage in a young man’s life instead of some great love. The older woman and the younger man. His memories of her had grown less bitter as time had passed... or perhaps he’d matured a bit.
But that had been a hard-fought maturity. Kit had no desire to come under a woman’s thumb again.
He scratched his whiskers. They annoyed him, but he was too lazy to pull out the kit in his coat’s pocket to shave. He started back to the hut. The early glow of a July sun was working its way through the trees.
He stepped over a small brook and then knelt for a drink. The rainwater had an earthy taste. It was not unpleasant.
The bushes close to him quivered and shook as the dog came crawling out, his expression one of wolfish delight. This morning’s run through the woods must have been good. He loped over to Kit as if they were the closest of partners and started drinking.
“Not ready to give up on us yet, eh, lad?” Kit asked, pleased the dog had returned.
The dog looked up, panted with his red tongue lolling out, and then returned to the stream.
Kit took what was left of the salted meat from his pocket. There wasn’t much. He gave the dog a piece.
One stick left. He wrapped it back up. The chit would need it. He’d find something to satisfy his appetite later. He knew how to go hungry.
Rising, he said, “Come, let’s see if the princess is ready to return to the road.” He wanted to be at the coach when it was discovered. People jumped to conclusions, especially around dead bodies. He wanted to tell his story before one could be made up. Also, another Mail should be coming through, and he planned to be on board.
Having gulped down the meat, the dog was happy to dance at his heels as Kit walked back to the hut. He ducked in, and then stopped. The hut was empty.
The dog’s bark made him look outside—the chit was leaving. He could see Elise’s cloaked figure tramping off hurriedly through the forest.
After all he’d done to see her safe, she was just marching away without even a farewell?
He looked at the dog. “Some people are never grateful.”
The dog didn’t comment but observed Elise work her way through the trees.
“Do you believe we should tell her that if her goal is the road, she is going in the wrong direction?”
A tail wagged.
Kit shook his head. “I’m tempted to let her discover for herself.” He watched her. The damp, heavy cloak weighed her down. She stumbled, and his view was blocked by some shrubbery. He heardher make a frustrated sound. Her head popped up into view as she righted herself. She trudged on.
Elise wasnothis responsibility.
