Page 38 of The Rogue and the Viscountess

Morys shrugged. “Yer own fine self, an thas all.”

Little enough that was, on the whole of it. Pete trudged over the pasture toward the house, taking his leave of the farm hands, who watched him wide-eyed that their landlord and local gentleman should roll up his sleeves to help. Morys hopped down from the cart to trot alongside, keeping up with Pete’s long stride.

Not for the first time that morning, Morys glanced over his shoulder at the expanse of Lacock Road, which led to the tiny hamlet of Thingley to the east and then sprouted the smaller veins that led to the equally tiny hamlets of Easton and Westrop before proceeding to Corsham in the west.

Pete knew the roads now, just as he was learning the boundaries of his own land, from the road to the pill, where the land sloped down to the small creek. For the first time in his life, Pete Wilkins was enjoying good fortune.

And for the first time in his life, he wanted someone to share it with.

“Why do you keep glancing about as if the devil were on your tail?” Pete asked, catching Morys’s survey of the trees lining the distant swell of land.

“Acause today, I think he is.” Morys gave a shudder. “Don’t ye feel it, like a black cloud? Or someone watching us.”

“No one is,” Pete said. Morys had always been superstitious, though in their line of work, they often had to watch their backs.

Morys’s comment from earlier haunted him, though. Could Prunella ever care for him, once she knew who he truly was? What he had done?

Could he ever convince her to stay with him? Now that he’d held her again, he couldn’t bear to let her go. If she left, he’d follow. He’d haunt her street in London, watching her door for a glimpse of her, following her to the park or the shops or the houses of her friends or, God forbid, a lover. She was the most brilliant thing that had ever happened to him, and his life would be empty if she left.

There would never be another woman who fit him like she did, who thrilled him like she did. The thought of losing her made him feel someone had punched out that brick in his chest and left a gaping hole.

Of course she wouldn’t want him. Not with his background. Not with the blood on his hands.

His grandmother came out of the small parlor as Pete stomped in the back door, scraping his boots. She placed a hand over the lace fichu tucked into the neckline of her gown.

“Really, Peter. Must you make such a ruckus? You’re nearly as loud as Elmer with his fits and rages. Though not as difficult as Barnaby,” she reflected.

Pete knew of his Uncle Elmer only through the stories his father had told of a brutish, sullen brother who had made Nathaniel’s life miserable.

“What on earth would Barnaby have had to rage about?” Pete wanted to know. “That bloke had the easiest life I can imagine.”

Barbara cradled a book to her chest. “You must prove better than he was, Peter. You cannot go about like a ruffian, without even a coat. What if the neighbors should see? They’ll say you will never be a gentleman. That you’ll never be worthy of your position.”

“No worries, madam, only some of the farm workers saw me. The ones I was helping build the hayrick in the south fields.”

“Peter Wilkins! You are a baronet now! You cannot go about behaving as a farm hand.” Barbara followed him down the hall, keening with misery. “What will the other families think? Elizabeth Guy is not yet promised, and Gertrude Methuen is sixteen years of age this summer—”

“Far too young for me,” Pete said firmly, taking his coat from Morys and shrugging it on. “Prunella, that is to say, Lady Penrydd—she is of a more appropriate age.”

Barbara paused. “But will she have you? Where is she now but gone off into town, and who knows what she will hear, or what people will say?” She hugged the book as if it could protect her from arrows and swords.

Pete stopped in the act of taking off his hat. He stared at his grandmother, a strange prickle going down his spine. He was turning into Morys, getting spooked by the slightest comment, and yet—

“What would Prunella have heard?” Who had been talking about him? What had his grandmother said?

She rocked slightly, cradling the book, which was nothing more than a ledger of household accounts, Pete thought.

“She could save us, Peter. She’s a lord’s widow. She has a high title. She might ensure that the law would simply pass us by.”

The prickle intensified. Just what did his grandmother suppose he had done? “Did Prunella say when she would return?”

“That is what worries me, Peter.” His grandmother moaned to herself, still rocking. “She might not return.”

No. Prunella could not leave. He could not lose her. A cold fear drenched him, so much so that when the front door flew open to reveal Jenny on the porch, he could only stare stupidly, already fearing the worst.

Her glower at Pete said she held him responsible for whatever had caused her condition, face flushed with heat, breath panting with exertion. One straw-blonde lock hung down from her bonnet, damp with sweat. The girl’s eyes burned into him.

“He’s took her, he has!” she exploded. “Right off the street, same as you did. An you’ll have a devil of a time getting ’er back.”