Her lips formed a perfect “oh” of surprise. The worry line reappeared, and she pulled her hood over her head to hide her face, a face that could make angels weep, he realized, what with her glorious halo of golden curls—
That is when Kit realized he might be a touch mad—the little maid was starting to appear like Helen of Troy to him.
Hunger apparently made him delusional.
He turned on his heel and went stomping toward the woods. He needed either a moment of peace or to find a few trees to uproot and throw.
The dog started after him, his eyes worried. Kit snapped his gloved fingers. “Stay with her.” The animal proved his intelligence by returning to Elise’s side.
Kit stormed into the forest. Slowly, his temper subsided.
Once again, life was not going the way he wished, and that was when Kit recognized the true source of his anger. He was actually ready to return home. To Smythson, his seat in the village of Maidenshop.
The thought caught him off guard. But once he evaluated it, he realized it was true.
He longed to see his mother, to share a laugh with her over the breakfast table the way they once had before he’d gotten himself all tied into knots over women and defending who he was. He wanted to sleep in his bed. The longing for that haven had been appearing with increasing frequency in his thoughts. He wished to connect with friends he’d ignored with his wild ways.
Most of all, Kit wanted to be right with himself, and he wasn’t.
He was also clueless about how to go about discovering what was wrong. The more he tried to make the best of things, the deeper he seemed to sink. Who the devil was he? Why did he matter?
Why was he not ready to return to the life he’d left?
He reached for a sapling and attempted to pull it up in his muddied, gloved hands. His palms slid on the smooth bark. He heaved with all his might. The damned tree held on to the earth. The ground was still muddy and soaked, but the tree would not give—
“What are you doing?”
Elise. Of course.
Kit straightened. He attempted to ease the tension from his shoulders and faced her.
She watched him with the shepherd’s dog at her side. The dog had his head cocked, as if to be asking the same question she had. Whatwashe doing?
A ray of morning sun shot its way through the trees to land directly upon her. The light caught the glints of gold in her hair. Her jewel-bright eyes appraised him as if he was some sort of strange specimen she should understand and didn’t. The little worry line still lingered between her brows.
And she was waiting for an answer.
He looked down at his gloves. It would take hours for the mud to dry and flake off. He raised his gaze to meet hers. “I was having a fit of temper.”
Her mouth, a generous mouth, quirked to one side as if he’d just confirmed her suspicions.
How old was she? Last night, he’d thought she could be as young as five and ten. Now, she appeared older than his own three and twenty—wait, was that his age? Right now, he felt ancient.
It was the world-weariness. There were times he wondered if anything mattered.
Then she said, “When you are done, let us know and we’ll be on our way. Come, Tamsyn.” She turned away, but he stopped her.
“Tamsyn?”
Her fingers found the top of the dog’s head. “Yes. Do you like the name I choose?”
“Tamsyn sounds like a female name.”
“I know,” she answered. “Apparently, Tamsyn had us fooled about her sex. Or we had jumped to conclusions. Now I know why she has been so openhearted about helping us.”
She paused, letting that mild barb against hisgender sink in. She might look like a goddess, but he’d wager she was a scold at heart. To prove his point, she added, “Come join us when you are finished with tantrums. Apparently, we have a bit of walking ahead of us. I think it wise we make our way to the next posting house.”
And then she strode off, Tamsyn, her newly designated sister-in-arms, trotting at her heels.
