Page 34 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

“Colonel Patterson’s liable to pull you into helping if you do,” responded Tom with a grin.

“Colonel Selwyn Patterson?”

“I don’t know his first name, my lord.”

“Not a large man, but a commanding manner and a fierce gaze. White hair, wiry. I suppose he’s about sixty years of age.”

“That fits,” said Tom.

“I’m acquainted with him.” Arthur wondered if this connection would be any help to his plans. He couldn’t see how at present, but one never knew.

Seven

Roger went out riding the next day at the same time he’d encountered Fenella before, and along the same path. There were clouds today, but the firm sand at the edge of the waves still beckoned, offering an invigorating wind and a sense of boundless freedom. As he’d hoped, after a while a figure on a glossy gray horse appeared, riding toward him. Fenella handled her spirited mount expertly, he thought as she came closer. Of all the ways she’d changed, this one was the most observable. “Shall we ride together?” he suggested.

She smiled at him, and for an instant Roger felt as if his heart had stopped. Had she ever offered him such an easy, open smile before? He couldn’t recall one. It lit her face and fired his spirits. “Let’s,” she replied, turning her horse.

They took a broad, smooth path that led inland from the North Sea, with no large stones or rabbit holes to endanger a horse’s legs. After a bit, Fenella drew ahead. Roger caught up and overtook her, just by a head. Fenella urged her horse to more speed and moved a little to the front. He did the same. She followed suit. And then they were galloping full tilt, side by side, bent over their saddlebows, grinning into the wind.

Roger’s mount was larger, but he was a heavier burden. She managed her reins with enviable skill. They were remarkably evenly matched, he thought as they hurtled across the countryside, clods of earth flying in their wake. The impromptu race was the most exhilarating thing he could remember in recent months.

When they at last pulled up, Fenella was laughing. Strands of ruddy hair had pulled loose and curled about her face under her small cocked hat. Her face was flushed, her blue eyes sparkling. She looked absolutely enchanting. Then a frown creased her brow. “How funny,” she said. “We’ve come to the Duddo Stones.”

Roger turned and saw the circle on a low rise a little way off. The gray stones stood out against a sky of racing clouds. “I didn’t mean to head here,” he said.

He would have turned away, but Fenella signaled her horse and rode up the incline. Roger dismounted when she did and followed her inside the circle.

The four standing stones were only about his own height, and yet they had a presence that made them seem larger. “You can see the Cheviot Hills from here,” said Fenella, pointing south. She turned. “And the Lammermuirs up north. It’s no wonder they built their monument here.”

“They?”

“The old people. That’s what my nurse used to call them. Whoever set up these kinds of places. There are others not far away, you know.”

“Yes.”

“People still leave offerings at some of them.” Fenella ran her hand along one of the lichened stones.

“What sort of offerings?”

“Flowers. Ribbons. Prayers and requests? I don’t know.”

“You’ve never done so?” She smiled at him again, and Roger felt that novel soaring sensation in his chest.

“No,” she said. “Why didn’t I think of that, when my father was being difficult? Do you think some old spirit would have helped me? What did they call them? Genius loci?”

Roger couldn’t be bothered with Latin. He couldn’t be silent, and yet he didn’t know just what to say. “Have you ever… Do you think we… When you came back from Scotland…and then this last year.” He paused to gather his wits. Why were words so dashed difficult? “I said and did some things—”

“You kept saying I killed Arabella,” she interrupted. She looked out over the panorama, her expression unreadable. “But you’ve apologized. Remember?”

It wasn’t as if his lost wife was here. She was gone. But the constraint that had bound them during her life lingered. Roger made a rejecting gesture. “I was an idiot. Full of anger and guilt.”

She blinked at the last word, but didn’t ask what he meant.

“I’ve done more than apologize,” Roger added. “I’ve told people I was wrong. My mother. Macklin. I’ll tell everyone.”

Still she didn’t look at him. “It might be better just not to speak of it,” she replied. “People have forgotten.”

Conscious that he had repeated the accusation a few months ago, Roger cringed. But that had been far away, in London. He would never say it again. Should anyone mention the idiocy, he would contradict them.

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