Chapter 3 #2
“I am.” Hendrie stared rather wistfully into the fire.
“Jack thought her a great gun. Said she had more spirit and courage than most lads. If I recall, there were several times when she outrode him in some rush to adventure. And outfoxed him as well, leaving him to take the blame for their mischief.”
“She must be a clever lass to have bested Jack at his own game.” Rafael, too, watched the flames lick up around the logs, feeling an odd sort of sadness for the young lady. A female who showed a spark of fire ended up getting burned, while a man was cast in a much different light.
“It seems unfair,” he said slowly. “Jack enjoyed the favors of many a signorita in Spain, and was only thought the better for it by his peers. Yet a young lady gives way to a moment of passion, and she is ruined forever.”
The earl looked shocked at such sentiment, then thoughtful. “It has always been thus.”
“That does not make it right.” Rafael frowned. No wonder she had shied away from his smiles. “After all, for the young lady to have erred, she must have had a partner. What is said of him in English Society?”
“Oh, he is definitely considered a cad,” assured Hendrie. “But from what I hear, Lady Kyra refuses to name the fellow.”
Steadfast loyalty, however undeserved, took courage, especially in the face of overwhelming odds. Rafael found himself liking her even more.
His uncle looked slightly abashed at being privy to gossip.
“It is not that I seek out such scandalous talk. But my housekeeper’s sister serves in the same position at Pierpont Hall, and Mrs. Ganton does like to chat during our morning meetings.
” He sipped at his brandy. “In truth, I pay little attention to the details of Lady Kyra’s disgrace, but I am pleased to hear that she is recovering from her own injuries. ”
“She was hurt in the accident?”
“A broken leg, which is nearly healed. But as for her spirits, it seems she is a mere shadow of her former self.
She barely eats or speaks, and spends most of her hours alone in her workroom, painting botanical watercolors.
When she does venture outside her own quarters it is only to gather specimens for her paintings.
A sketch of an idea took form in Rafael’s head. “Does Mrs. Ganton say what sort of subjects the lady favors?”
“Why, er, I believe she has mentioned wildflowers, though I wouldn’t know a larkspur from a holly bush.
” Hendrie turned slightly, the light from the hearth accentuating the hollows under his cheekbones and the deep cut lines that gave his eyes a downcast look, even when he essayed a smile.
“Forgive the melancholy musings of an old man. At my age, it is so very sad to hear of the bloom fading from one so young, and so full of promise. But let us turn to a more encouraging subject.”
He rose and gathered up several books from the reading stand. “I have found some very interesting volumes on the New World that may prove useful in your research.”
A dashing soldier, decorated for bravery.
Kyra thought about what her maid had told her that morning about the Earl of Hendrie’s visitor.
So, the handsome Spaniard was an even more romantic figure than a corsair.
Still, she could not help thinking of him as a pirate, a dark and dangerous specter come to plunder her peace of mind.
“The devil take it!” Kyra steadied her wayward shears in time to keep from ruining the twist of honeysuckle.
It did not matter in what shape or form her imagination saw him.
He might as well be the Man in the Moon, for all the distance she meant to keep between them.
She had already flown far too close to the sun. She would not risk being burned again.
A snap of twigs, sharp as the crackle of coals. Steps cut through the tall grass and a shadow fell across her blade. The steel turned cold to the touch.
Kyra turned.
Limned in the afternoon light, the Spaniard looked like Lucifer ablaze. Why, oh why, did her body betray her resolve? She must be truly wicked at heart to feel a devilish tingle from head to toe.
“Ah, signorina, I hoped I might run into you again.” He inclined a bow. “I owe you an apology, more than one in fact. To begin with, I neglected to properly introduce myself. I am Rafael de Villafranca Greeley.”
Rafael. What a sinuous sound. It wrapped around the tongue like silky smooth toffee.
“No doubt you thought me an errant gypsy, on the prowl for something to steal,” he continued. “But in truth, I am quite harmless. I am visiting my uncle, the Earl of Hendrie.”
“Yes, my maid made mention that His Lordship had a relative staying for a time.”
“I think, perhaps, there is a connection between our two families. Are you perchance Lady Kyra Sterling?”
She nodded, searching his face for some sign of a smirk. What gossip had he heard?
His smile, however, seemed as sweet as the day before.
“Please allow me to offer a formal acknowledgment of the acquaintance. I have heard that my cousin Jack considered you a good friend.” His breath was whisper soft against her knuckles as he bent low over her hand.
“And a formal apology for my awkward language. My English leaves much to be desired.”
“On the contrary, sir. You speak very handsomely.” Dear God, would he think she was encouraging a flirtation?
She turned abruptly. “My condolences about Jack. He was indeed a dear friend, and I shall miss him. But unfortunately, I cannot tarry for a talk. These flowers will wilt without water.” Grabbing up her basket of cuttings, she added a curt dismissal over her shoulder.
“I am sure you will make great strides while you are here.”
“As to that, se?orita . . .” He fell in step beside her. “Might I ask you to read one other passage? It will only take a few moments, and the folly is close by.”
Folly indeed. Kyra had every intention of saying no, but the word stuck in her throat.
“Gracias.” He had already tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. “And today I come ready to repay your kindness in helping me with my English.”
“You do not owe me anything, sir. Indeed, it is hardly worth mentioning a few trifling words.”
“It is naught but a tiny token of thanks.” He reached in his pocket and withdrew a small round object wrapped in a twist of marbled paper. The swirls of burnt amber and buttery yellow rolled to the center of his tanned palm.
Rafael de Villafranca Greeley looked to have a strong hand, thought Kyra. A capable hand, the hardened calluses complementing its long-fingered grace.
She tightened her grip on her basket of cuttings. “Still, I do not feel right in accepting it.”
“Then we shall share it.”
Even with its wrappings, the object looked no bigger than walnut. Curiosity got the better of her. “Pray, what is it?”
Rafael crossed to the far end of the folly before answering. “Open it and see.” Before she could demur, he took her basket and set it down next to the portfolios on the stone slab.
The paper fell away to reveal a ball of rich brown paste flecked with bits of scarlet. Its soft sheen had the patina of oiled mahogany. Still mystified, she looked up.
“It is a special blend of cacao, made according to my grandmother’s recipe,” he explained. “Will you join me in a taste? It takes only a few minutes to prepare, and it will fortify our stamina for an attack on English grammar.”
Surely he did not mean now. “But you have no kitchen, no cook.”
“I have all the utensils I need right here.” He produced a tin pot from his satchel, along with a small knife and two mugs. “As for a cook . . .” Wielding a wooden whisk, Rafael cut a rakish flourish though the air. “I have honed my skills under the tutelage of a culinary master.”
“You!” Kyra could not contain her surprise. “Men don’t cook.”
“Au contraire.” His fingers moved with a fluid grace, assembling a pyramid of twigs and leaves in the crude stone hearth. “Only think of the best French chefs—are they not all male?”
A spark from flint striking steel lit the smile in his eyes. A leaf curled in the first flare of flame.
Kyra suddenly felt warm all over. “Yes, but English gentlemen?—”
“Ah, but I am no English gentleman. I am afraid I share some of the same hot-blooded temperament as our Gallic enemy. Mayhap is it the Mediterranean sun that gives rise to a fervor for artistic expression.” The whisk came to life between his palms, whipping the boiling water, shaved cacao and cane sugar to a creamy froth.
“Like painting or music, cooking requires a passion for creativity.”
Rafael pour out a measure of the brew and passed her a steaming mug. Their hands touched, and she was far more aware of the heat of his fingertips.
Was he flirting with her? If he knew the truth, he would have little taste for her company.