The pianos he wouldn’t have to abstain from playing. Hot cross buns… Hot cross buns…

“Think of your back hurting so badly you can hardly walk,” Darius rejoined as he crossed the yard beside Val. “The endless small talk at the local watering hole, the pleasures of the village churchyard on a Sunday morning, where no man escapes interrogation.”

“You’re not”—Val paused in mock drama—“afraid, are you, Lindsey?”

While giving Darius a moment to form the appropriate witty rejoinder, Val pushed open the door to the carriage house. No doubt because vehicles were expensive and the good repair of harness a matter of safety, the place had been built snugly and positioned on a little rise at the back of the house. The interior was dusty but dry and surprisingly tidy.

“This is encouraging.”

Darius followed him in. “Why do I have the compulsion to caution you strenuously against going up those stairs, Windham? Perhaps you’ll be swarmed by bats or set upon by little ghoulies with crossbows.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, what could be hiding in an empty old carriage house?”

Ellen had meant to take herself off for a little stroll in the dense woods separating her cottage from the crumbling manor, but the chamomile tea she’d drunk must have lulled her to sleep. When she awoke, Marmalade was curled in her lap, the kneading of his claws in her thigh rousing her even through her skirts and petticoats.

“Down with you, sir.” She gently put the cat on the porch planks and saw from the angle of the sun she’d dozed off only for a few minutes. Something caught her ear as she rose from her rocker, a trick of the time of evening when dew fell and sounds carried.

“Damn them,” Ellen muttered, leaving the porch with a swish of skirts. Bad enough the village boys liked to spy on her and whisper that she was a witch. Worse was when they ran tame over the old Markham manor house, using it as a place to smoke illicit pipes, tipple their mama’s brandied pears, and practice their rock throwing.

“Little heathen.” Ellen went to her tool shed and drew a hand scythe down from the wall pegs. She’d never had serious trouble with the boys before, but one in particular—Mary Bragdoll’s youngest—was growing into the height and muscle for which his brothers and father were well known. By reputation, he could be a sneering, disrespectful lout, and Ellen was more afraid of him than she’d like to admit.

She tromped through the woods, hopping over logs to take the shortest path, until she came out of the trees at the back of the old house. That view was easier to look on than the front—the roof wasn’t quite so obviously ruined.

When Francis had been alive, this property had still been tidy, graceful, elegant, and serene, if growing worn. The years were taking a brutal toll, leaving Ellen with the feeling the house’s exterior represented her own interior.

Time was slowly wearing away at her determination, until her reasons for going through each day without screaming and tearing her hair were increasingly obscured.

“You have started your menses,” she reminded herself, “and this is no time for silly dramatics.”

The voices came again from the carriage house, and Ellen’s eyes narrowed. Heretofore, the encroaching vandals had left the carriage house in peace, and their violation of it made her temper seethe. She marched up to the door, banged it open with a satisfying crash, brandished her scythe, and announced herself to any and all therein.

“Get your heathen, trespassing backsides out of this carriage house immediately, lest I inform your papas of your criminal conduct—and your mamas.”

“Good lord,” a cultured and ominously adult male voice said softly from Ellen’s right, “we’re about to be taken prisoner. Prepare to defend your borders, my friend. Sleeping Beauty has awakened in a state.”

Ellen’s gaze flew to the shadows, where a tall, dark-haired man was regarding her with patient humor. The calm amusement in his eyes suggested he posed no threat to her, while his dress confirmed he was a person of some means. Ellen had no time to further inventory that stranger, because the sound of a pair of boots slowly descending the steps drew her gaze across the room.

Whoever was coming down those stairs was in no hurry and was certainly no boy. Long, long legs became visible, then muscles that looked as if they’d been made lean and elegant from hours in the saddle showed off custom riding boots and excellent tailoring. A trim, flat torso came next, then a wide muscular chest and impressive shoulders.

Good lord, he was taller than the fellow in the corner, and that one was a good half a foot taller than she. Ellen swallowed nervously and tightened her grip on the scythe.

“Careful,” the man in the shadows said softly, “she’s armed and ready to engage the enemy.”

Those dusty boots descended the last two steps, and Ellen forced herself to meet the second man’s face. She’d been prepared for the kind of teasing censorship coming from the one in the corner, a polite hauteur, or outright anger, but not a slow, gentle smile that melted her from the inside out.

“Mrs. FitzEngle.” Valentine Windham bowed very correctly from the waist. “It has been too long, and you must forgive us for startling you. Lindsey, I’ve had the pleasure, so dredge up your manners.”

“Mr. Windham?” Ellen lowered her scythe, feeling foolish and ambushed, and worst of all—happy.

So inappropriately happy.

Valentine Windham continued to smile at her, an expression of concentrated regard that formed a substantial part of Ellen’s pleasurable memories of him.

“Mrs. Ellen FitzEngle.” Mr. Windham’s gaze—and his smile—remained directed at her. “May I make known to you the Honorable Mr. Darius Lindsey, late of Kent, come to assist me in the assessment of damages on my newly acquired property.”

Lindsey fell in with the introductions with the smooth manners sported by any well-bred fellow.

“You’ve bought this place?” Ellen kept both the hope and the dread from her voice, but just barely.

“I have acquired it, and apparently just in the nick of time. Do you often have to shoo away thieves and vandals?”

Ellen glanced at the scythe in her hand. “It’s worse in the summer. Boys wander around in packs and have not enough to keep them busy. There’s a very pleasant pond in the first meadow beyond the wood, and it draws them on hot days.”

“No doubt they are responsible for my broken windows. Perhaps they’ll be willing to help with the repairs.”

“You’re going to restore the house?” Ellen asked, though it was none of her business.

“Very likely. It will take a good deal of time.”

“Where are my manners? May I offer you a pot of tea, gentlemen, or a mug of cider, perhaps?”

“Cider.” His just-for-you smile broadened. “An ambrosial thought.”

“I take it you live near here, Mrs. FitzEngle?” Mr. Lindsey interjected as they left the carriage house.

Ellen gestured vaguely. “Through the wood.”

“Well, darkness approaches,” Mr. Windham said. “Darius, if you’ll bring the horses along down the track, I’ll escort Mrs. FitzEngle through the wood.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Ellen replied. “I know the woods blindfolded.”

“You wound me.” His smile—and worse, his green eyes—put a hint of sincerity in the words, leaving Ellen to feel a little flip of excitement in her vitals. Oh, God help her, her tame, tired memories of his single previous visit did not do him justice. Either that, or Mr. Windham had become even more intensely attractive in the year of his absence. Dark hair slightly longer than was fashionable went with those green eyes, and if anything, in the year since she’d seen him, he’d grown leaner, taller, and better looking than was decent.