Feeling smug, she met his eyes, only to see—was that unholy amusement?—lurking in the amberish—tigerish—depths.
He knew why she’d so graciously handed back the festival, but he’d seen some advantage in that for him.
Damn! She managed to keep the word from her lips, managed to keep the linked expression from her face, but her mind raced.
To no avail. She would have to wait and see what he did—how he capitalized on her first offensive move.
Sybil rang for the tea trolley; Madeline set aside her pondering—too dangerous with him so close—and set her wits to avoiding him and his attentions for the rest of the meeting, until she could escape.
She learned how Gervase planned to capitalize on her action the next day; in the early afternoon, Milsom knocked on her office door to announce his lordship, the Earl of Crowhurst.
Surprised, Madeline stared as Gervase entered. After one glance at her he turned his gaze on the room, taking in the many bookshelves filled with ledgers, the huge map of the estate on the wall, the brass lamp poised to shed light over the polished surface of the enormous desk so she could work on papers and accounts at night.
The door closed behind Milsom. Gervase’s eyes rose from the open ledger before her to her face. “So this is where you hide.”
Where you hide the real you; the insinuation was clear in his tone, in his acute gaze.
She deflected that disconcerting gaze with a bland smile. “Good afternoon, my lord. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” She waved him to an armchair angled before the desk.
He smiled, quite genuinely, and sat. “You owe my presence to your suggestion to shift the festival back to the castle, of course.” Sitting back, he met her gaze. “I’ve come to pick your brains over the details involved.”
She kept her all-business smile on her lips. “I’m afraid I know nothing about how the festival was hosted at the castle. My experience only relates to the four years it’s been held at the Park.”
“Indeed. However, as you no doubt are aware, many of the staff at the castle retired when my uncle died. The current staff have little idea of the logistics involved. I fear that without guidance we’ll be hopelessly unprepared.”
“Ah.” She looked into his eyes, and saw no way out. She’d saddled the castle with the festival; it was only fair that she explain what they’d have to accommodate. “I see. What do you need to know?”
“While Mrs. Entwhistle has supplied a detailed list of the types of entertainments and amusements involved, she was regrettably unspecific about quantities. How many booths, tents and enclosures will we need to set up for the various activities, how many for the produce displays and for the visiting peddlers and dealers?”
She held up a hand. “One moment.” Rising, she went to a nearby cupboard. Setting the door wide, she searched through the numerous papers stacked within; finding the packet she sought, she extracted it—or tried to, but the whole two-foot-high stack started to tip.
“Oh!” She tried to hold it back—and would have failed, but suddenly Gervase was there, his shoulder brushing hers as he reached past her; his big hands spanning so much more than hers, he first steadied the stack, then gripped the packets above the one her fingers had closed around.
“Take it now.”
She slid the packet out. She stepped back immediately, trying to calm her thudding heart—wondering if she could convince herself it was shock and not his nearness that was making her pulse race. Making her curiosity not just stir, but leap. She slapped it down, and decorously returned to the desk. Sitting once more, she nodded wordless thanks to him as he closed the cabinet, and came back to drop into the armchair.
“The number of booths and so on should be listed in here.” Untying the ribbon securing the packet, she rifled through the sheets. “Yes.” Pulling out one sheet, she glanced at it, then held it out. “The accommodations we provided last year.”
Gervase took the sheet; sitting back in the armchair, he studied it.
And thought of her.
She was too deeply entrenched as “her brothers’ keeper” in this room; not even his brushing against her, inadvertent though that had been, had seriously undermined her hold on her damned shield—it had slipped, but she’d recovered all but instantly. Neat figures marched down the page in his hand. How to get her out of here? “What areas are we looking at in total? What was the approximate square foot-age—or acreage—required?”
Looking up, he prayed she, like most females, had little ability to accurately estimate such things. The blank look on her face, and the frown that succeeded it, confirmed that beneath her shield, she was all female.
“I really couldn’t put a figure to it,” she admitted.
He met her gaze with unstudied innocence. “Perhaps you could show me the area used last year.” He brandished the list. “Together with this, that should give me enough to work with.”
She was suspicious; she searched his eyes, but he made very sure she would see nothing of his intent therein. Lips tightening, she pushed back from the desk. “Very well.”
Madeline led him out of the office, ridiculously conscious of him strolling with tigerish grace beside her. Quite aside from that novel and irritating sensitivity, there were few men who could make her feel…if not small, then at least not a physical match for them. Gervase Tregarth could make her feel vulnerable in a way few others could.
And he did.
On that one point, her instincts and her intellect were as one: He was dangerous. To her. Specifically her. Aside from all else, because he could make her feel so.
Unfortunately, instinct and intellect reacted completely differently to that conclusion.
Shoving her burgeoning curiosity back into a mental box, she swept down the corridor to the garden door. Pushing through—he reached over her shoulder and held the door back, making her nerves quake—she marched into the gardens and headed down the path through the roses. He fell into step beside her, his strides easily matching her mannishly long ones.
Recalling that he’d been overseas with the army for the past ten and more festivals, she waved ahead. “We staged the festival beyond the gardens, in the park itself, closer to the cliffs. People could reach the site by the cliff paths as well as through the estate.”
Gervase nodded, idly surveying the gardens she led him through. The further they got from the house, the more he sensed a certain tension rising in her. No matter how she tried to hide it, he affected her, although he was reasonably certain she viewed that effect more as an affliction. She was very conscious of being alone with him.
“Last year we had sixteen local merchants as well as thirteen itinerant vendors who set up booths. We don’t need to provide the booths for them—they bring their own—but we do need to set aside specific spaces, and mark each with a vendor’s name, or they’ll shed blood over the best positions.”
“You’ll need to give me some indication of who takes precedence.” The path they were on continued beyond the garden into the heavily treed park. Although the clifftops and downs were largely devoid of trees, there were pockets such as this where the old forests still held sway. She shivered lightly as the shadows fell over them. He glanced around. “I’d forgotten how densely the trees grow here.”
“Only for a little way in this direction.” She gestured ahead to a clearing. The path led to it; afternoon sunlight bathed the coarse grass as they stepped out from beneath the trees.
She spread both arms, encompassing the entire clearing. “We needed all this space, and last year we had to put some booths and tents right up against the trees.”
Halting in the center of the expanse, Gervase slowly turned, estimating. “I think…” He looked at Madeline. “With luck, we should manage with the area between the forecourt gate and the ramparts.”
Head tilting, she considered, then nodded. “Yes, that should do.”
She hesitated, eyes on him; any minute she would suggest they return to the house.
He glanced around again, then pointed to another path that led further from the house. “The cliffs are that way?”
She nodded. “Many came via the cliffs.”
“Hmm.” He set off in that direction, but listened intently; after a fractional hesitation, she followed. “We might have to open up some of the older gates—we usually only have the main one open, but with lots of people streaming in, the forecourt entry arch might get too crowded.”
“If you do”—he’d slowed enough for her to come up beside him—“you’ll need to put men—burly ones—on watch at each gate.” She grimaced and glanced at him. “After the first year here, we realized that multiple entries also meant multiple exits, and although most of those who attend are law-abiding, the festival is well known and attracts a small coterie of…”
“Poachers, scavengers and outright rogues?”
She grinned fleetingly. “Thieves and pickpockets mostly. We found that the best method to discourage them was to have men on watch visible at each entry. That was enough to deter them.”
He nodded. “We’ll do that.”
They reached the edge of the trees; a wide expanse of clifftop, verdant and green, opened up before them with the sea an encircling mantle of blue slate that stretched to the horizon. Just out from shore, a light breeze kicked up small white horses, sending them rollicking over the waves.
He slowed to an amble, but continued walking; she went with him, reluctantly perhaps but, like him, drawn to the view. To the incomparable sensation of standing just back from the cliff edge and feeling, experiencing, the raw, primal power of the windswept cliffs, the ever-churning sea and the sky, huge and impossibly wide, careening above.
It was an elemental magic any Cornishman responded to. Any Cornishwoman.
They halted, stood and looked. Drank in the sheer, incredible beauty, harsh, bleak, yet always so alive. To their left, Black Head rose, a dark mass marking the end of the wide bay. Far to their right, almost directly opposite where they stood, the castle sat above the western shore, keeping watch for invaders as it had for centuries.
Even as late as the early half of the previous year, there’d been a watch kept from the towers.
Unbidden, unexpected, Gervase felt a visceral tug, a grasping that went to the bone. A recognition. This was the first time since he’d returned to England that he’d stood on the cliffs like this.
And, for the first time, he truly felt he’d come home.
He knew she stood beside him, but he didn’t look at her, simply stood and gazed out at the waves, and let the sensation of home, the place of his ancestors, claim him.
Madeline glanced at him. He stood to her right, between her and the castle; when she looked his way, she saw him with the distant battlements and towers as a backdrop.
An appropriate setting.
She would have wondered at his absorption, but she knew what had caught him, could sympathize. She came to the cliffs often herself, to the places like this where cliff, wind, sea and sky met, and melded.
It was in the blood, his as much as hers. She’d forgotten that, for not every soul was attuned to the magic, to the wild song the elements wrought.
She followed his gaze, and was content, in that moment, to simply stand and know. And, unexpectedly, share the knowing.
Eventually he stirred, and faced her. His eyes searched hers, and she realized he, too, had sensed the mutual connection, but didn’t know how to speak of it.
“It’s powerful.” She gestured all-encompassingly. “The essence of nature’s wildness.”
His lips quirked; he glanced out again. “Yes. That it is.”
And it lived in each of them.
Feeling the tug of the breeze, she raised her hands to her hair, verifying that it was a tangled mess. She gave a disgusted sound that had his head turning her way. “We’d better get back.”
He grinned, but swung to follow as she retreated toward the path.
“I tell you there has to be something . It stands to reason.”
Both she and Gervase halted and turned back to the cliff edge. The breeze rushed off the sea and up the cliff face, carrying voices—familiar voices—in its current.
“We’ll have to search further afield.”
“Lots of caves, after all.”
The last comment came in a light, piping voice.
Frowning, Madeline started back.
Gervase’s hand closed over her arm, staying her.
When she looked at him, he shook his head. “You don’t want to startle them.”
She looked back at the cliff edge, and bit her lip. He’d spoken softly; when he tugged, she let him draw her further back so her brothers, climbing the narrow, dangerous cliff path, wouldn’t see them until they’d stepped safely onto the clifftop.
First one bright head, then a second, and eventually a third—Harry, bringing up the rear—appeared. Madeline breathed a little sigh of relief; Gervase’s restraining hand fell away and she walked forward.
“Oh!” Edmond was the first to see her. Guilt—she was expert at detecting it—flashed across his face, but then he saw Gervase. Edmond brightened. “Hello.” He bobbed politely.
The greeting was echoed by Ben, who had all but jumped when he’d seen her. Harry, rather more controlled, nodded and said, “Good morning.”
Gervase acknowledged the three with an easy smile. “Hunting for something?” he asked, before she could demand.
The younger boys looked to Harry.
“Ah…birds’ nests,” he offered.
Gervase raised his brows. He believed that no more than Madeline. “A bit late in the season.”
“Well, yes,” Edmond said, “but we’ve only just got back from school so we thought it was worth checking.”
Three angelic faces smiled at him, looking from him to Madeline.
Gervase glanced at Madeline. Her expression was severe, but…although she knew she was being lied to, she was suppressing her reaction.
“It’s tea time,” Ben stated. “We were going in for scones.”
Lips compressing, Madeline nodded; stepping out of their way, she waved them on. “Off you go, then.”
They went, with telltale alacrity.
She watched, then sighed. “They’re up to something—I know it.”
Gervase fell in beside her as she started back more slowly along the path. “Of course they are—they’re boys.”
“Indeed.” She cast him a sharp glance. “You probably understand better than I do.”
His lips quirked. “Very likely.” After a moment, he added, “You didn’t call their bluff.”
They walked through the clearing; he thought she wasn’t going to respond, but then she said, “If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s never to force a confession or an accounting. They’ll either tell me the truth of their own accord…or whatever they tell me won’t be worth a damn.”
Truer words were never spoken. Gervase inclined his head. They trailed the boys back to the house; he had a strong suspicion about what they were up to, and it had nothing whatever to do with birds.
He’d spoken a little with Harry at the castle two nights before; the lad had reminded him of his cousin Christopher, he who had died of consumption unexpectedly, leaving Gervase as his uncle’s heir. Gervase had been a few years older, and like him Christopher had been a child of this coast. He’d been as adventurous as Gervase, yet underneath there’d been a quiet seriousness, as if he’d always known that at some point the responsibility of the earldom would fall on his shoulders.
Gervase had seen the same combination of traits in Harry, adventurousness running hand-in-hand with an acceptance of fate. He couldn’t see Harry leading his brothers into any truly dangerous enterprise.
Sometimes, however, danger wore a disguise.
They reached the house; he held the door open for Madeline, then followed her in. She led him into the front hall, then turned to give him her hand. “If you have any further questions abo
ut the festival, I’ll be happy to answer as best I can.”
Closing his fingers about her hand—not shaking it as she’d expected—he smiled. “I’ll bear that in mind.” Lowering his voice, he said, “I suspect your brothers are hunting for the smugglers’ caves.”
Her lips tightened. “I think so, too.”
“If you like…I still have excellent contacts with the local fraternity. I can mention the boys’ interest—they’re unlikely to come to any harm if the locals know they might stumble on them.”
The local smuggling gangs were one arena of male activity to which she would never, ever gain admittance; she would never know who was involved, let alone be invited to join, as every male in the locality, especially those of the major houses, usually were.
Her eyes narrowed as she searched his. “It must be some time since you sailed with any of them.”
“On a run? More than a decade.” He hesitated, then admitted, “But I had other, more recent reasons for keeping those contacts alive. I know all the leaders along this stretch of coast, and they will all talk, and listen, to me.”
He watched her put two and two together, and come up with a revealing answer. Over the years he’d been away “fighting Boney,” he’d reappeared now and then, when his father had died, and Christopher, and later his uncle, and then again to install Sybil and his sisters at the castle, and put his agents and stewards in charge of the estate.
Her eyes widened; her lips formed a soundless “Oh.” Refocusing on his face, she hesitated for an instant more, then nodded. “If it’s no trouble…I would like to know that they don’t need to fear anything from that direction.” Meeting his eyes, she grimaced. “While I would much rather they didn’t get involved in such exploits, I might as well try to hold back the waves.”
“Indeed.” He hadn’t released her fingers. Now he raised them; closing his other palm gently over her hand, he lifted the slender digits to his lips and pressed a light kiss to their backs.
Her eyes went wide; her breathing suspended.
A light blush rose to her cheeks.
He smiled, more intently. He lightly squeezed her fingers, then released them. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything definite about the boys.”