“In that case”—she looked up at the rooms giving onto the courtyard—“let’s explore.”
Anything to prolong their time in this place, this haven from the world; Charles fell in with her wish without quibble, inwardly acknowledging his own inclination. Outside a murderer might stalk their families’ lands, but while here, time and place were theirs, sacrosanct, inviolable.
He caught up with her in the hall and took her hand. Together, they ambled through the rooms, recalling incidents from earlier times, laughing, smiling at their younger selves. Restormel was a shell keep, the various rooms built around the courtyard. They were traversing the armory beneath the south battlements when Penny glanced out of an arrow slit—and stopped. “Charles?”
He was beside her in an instant.
She pointed. “Isn’t that Gerond?”
A tiny figure on horseback was trotting along the road to Lostwithiel; it was, indeed, Gerond. He was wearing a caped riding cloak.
“He’s alone,” Penny murmured.
“Hmm…I wonder where he’s been.”
“That cloak…” Penny glanced up at him. “You kept that scrap your knife caught last night. Couldn’t we check to see which of them has a torn greatcoat?”
“We don’t need to check—the answer is none.”
She frowned. “Because he would have got rid of it?”
He nodded. “And in this season, it’s perfectly reasonable for a gentleman to go visiting without a greatcoat.”
Staring at the dwindling figure was pointless; it reminded him of their lack of success in identifying the villain thus far. He nudged Penny. “Come on—let’s go on.”
They did, passing through the rest of the chambers, some still roofed, others open to the elements, eventually reaching the ladies’ solar. A small chamber built on a mezzanine level above the main hall, it faced southwest and was bathed in sunshine for most of the day. Its roof was intact. A stone platform worn smooth over the years filled the space beneath a series of thin vertical windows, each narrow enough not to be out of place in a keep, yet the mullions had been cunningly shaped so that, from inside, the series appeared as one large divided window spilling golden light into the room.
As usual, the chamber was invitingly pleasant. Penny stepped onto the stone platform and felt the warmth seep through her boots’ soles. For her purpose, this was the perfect setting. Walking to one window, she looked out; long, thin, and open, the windows stretched from above her head to a foot above the platform. “I used to sit here and stare out, and imagine I was the lady of Restormel Keep, waiting for my husband to return from some typical male military endeavor, like chasing off a band of outlaws.”
Charles came up behind her. He stepped close, then his hands slid around her waist, and he eased her back against him. It felt wonderful to stand there, supported and surrounded by his strength in the sunshine; she leaned back, relaxed, closed her eyes, let her senses unfurl.
And sensed a sudden sharpening of his attention. Opening her eyes, she immediately saw what had caused it. Another of their three suspects, Fothergill this time, was striding across a field, heading west. “He must have been out looking at birds.”
“Hmm.” Charles’s response came as a low growl. “At least he’s heading away from here.”
So he wouldn’t disturb them in their enchanted place. Penny smiled. She had no difficulty following Charles’s thoughts; leaning back against him as she was, it was apparent in which direction they’d gone.
Fothergill marched steadily on, then disappeared over a rise. They’d seen no one else; no one else was likely to stop by. They were as alone and as safe as they could be.
Memories and questions hung suspended in her mind. Possibilities beckoned.
She swayed, just a little, against Charles, then turned sinuously in his arms. He met her gaze, arched a brow as she draped her arms over his shoulders. His hands firmed and he drew her close, her hips flush to his thighs. “So what else did you think of when you sat here, all those years ago?”
His voice had lowered to a tone she thought of as distilled seduction.
Her lips curved, but she kept her eyes on his. Wondered for one second if she truly dared…decided she did. Would. “I thought about us.”
“Us?” One brow arrogantly arched. “You and me?”
She nodded. “Yes, even then. I used to think about you being half-Norman, and the other half French, very much like your ancestor who came over with the Conqueror.”
Eyes locked on his, she knew when he picked up her train of thought. He started to follow it, not quite sure…
“And, of course,” she continued, “I’m Norman with a healthy dash of Viking, enough to make me interesting, more of a challenge to a French-Norman lord.” She opened her eyes wide, stared into the midnight depths of his. “Don’t you agree?”
His hold on her firmed. “As a French-Norman lord, I definitely agree.”
He bent his head; before she could stop him he covered her lips with his and demonstrated, amply, just how interesting he found her. For an instant, the rising tide of desire threatened to sweep her before it—the gloriously familiar heat of his mouth, the flaming brand of his tongue, the silkily slow, sensuous claiming of her senses—then she remembered her goal.