Sinclair rubbed his hand across his jaw, feeling the beginnings of a beard. He could take Eugenie’s hand in his and they could face the world together. People might sneer and mock, but such things couldn’t hurt them.
Not unless they allowed them to.
Chapter 32
For two days they made their way along the waterways, feeling as if they were in a secluded world all of their own. Captain Johnno went about his work with Rufus for company, saying little and paying them no attention. Lord Ridley had chosen him well, Eugenie thought. She wondered, too, whether Sinclair’s uncle might have had something else in mind when he insisted they take the canals north. Something other than catching up with Annabelle and Terry, that is.
Could His Lordship be playing matchmaker for his favorite nephew? Was he giving them the present of this idyllic time together before the real world intruded once more?
Sinclair sketched her in various stages of undress, all of them flattering in Eugenie’s eyes. But the one she liked best was a sketch he did of her face, half turned away, a little smile tugging at her lips and her lashes lowered, as though she was thinking pleasant and slightly wicked thoughts.
She probably was, and all of them about Sinclair.
And then they made love, for hours, lying in each others arms, falling asleep and then waking up to make love again. She had never been so happy and she believed Sinclair felt the same. Perhaps that was why neither of them mentioned what might happen when this interlude was over. They did not speak of the future, or even the possibility of a future.
To speak of it was to make it all too real and then they would have to make decisions. Every other time they had begun to discuss their future they had fallen out. So Eugenie preferred to drift, with the narrow boat, and enjoy each moment as it came.
But of course their journey had an ending, and now it was fast approaching. When Johnno informed them they were approaching the last lock on this stretch of canal, the last lock before Wexham, where they would take to the road once more, Eugenie was shocked. The last lock had a certain significance. She could no longer pretend they would go on forever, drifting like flotsam, careless of what was ahead.
Sinclair seemed to feel it, too, although he didn’t say so. But he was quieter, more introverted, caught up in his own thoughts.
Of course she didn’t ask what those thoughts were, and if he wondered the same about her, then Sinclair didn’t ask, either.
The lock consisted of wooden gates and levers, and by the working of these the lockkeeper allowed the narrow boat to pass into a closed off section of the canal. The gate behind the boat was then closed while the level of water was altered by sluice gates. When the level was the same as the canal in front of the boat, the other gate was opened to allow the boat to continue on its journey.
Sinclair and Eugenie had already passed through numerous lock gates on their journey, and rather than staying on board they climbed up onto the towpath while the sluice gate was opened and the water rushed in, raising the level of the river. This was an isolated stretch of canal, with meadows and fields surrounding the lockkeeper’s cottage, and they strolled through wildflowers and long grass, the sun warm on their heads.
Eugenie expected Sinclair to speak about his uncle’s horses waiting at Wexham and the journey north and what they must do, but he said nothing of it. There were willows growing in the marshy land south of the lock gates, and instead they found a place to sit in the shade, watching the water birds going about their daily tasks.
Sinclair was wearing shoes without stockings—he’d taken to wandering around barefoot lately—his trouser bottoms rolled up, as were his sleeves. He’d taken to the narrow boat as if he’d lived on one all his life, and the change in him was remarkable. Eugenie, glancing at him surreptitiously, wondered how long it would be before
he reverted to the arrogant duke, once he got back to Somerton.
She dreaded that.
But still she said nothing.
When he reached for her hand, turning it over in his, lifting her palm to his lips, she smiled at him. She knew there was love in her eyes and that he could probably read it plainly, if he wanted to, but she didn’t care.
He sighed and rose to his feet, bringing her with him. The sun was lowering in the sky, the day waning. Another day gone, another day closer to whatever lay before them. Suddenly cold, Eugenie shivered.
Sinclair didn’t ask why. He simply slipped his arm about her waist and held her close.
On their way back to the narrow boat the lockkeeper’s wife spotted them and called out to them. Would they have tea in her cottage?
Her name was Mrs. Burdock and she sat them down at the tiny table in her little kitchen and proceeded to set out her best teacups, blue with pink flowers. As Mrs. Burdock chatted away, her northern accent difficult for Eugenie to understand, she glanced at Sinclair and caught his smile. And for a moment she felt as if they were an ordinary couple.
“Such a pretty time of year,” Mrs. Burdock went on. “You wouldn’t believe how cold it gets in the winter. Frost an inch thick on the canal some mornings.”
Eugenie’s gaze rested on a tall dresser opposite her, with its proud display of patterned china, her best wares probably. Mrs. Burdock had been baking and now she produced a plate heavy with large flat cakes with jam in the middle. Eugenie accepted one with pleasure, and the warm crusty texture crumbled into her mouth, the jam sweet and hot on her tongue.
Sinclair complimented Mrs. Burdock on them and she promptly handed him another.
“Captain Johnno says that you’re an artist, sir.”
“I . . .” Sinclair pushed a lock of his hair off his forehead. Under the table his feet in their shoes and no stockings were truly Bohemian. He gave Eugenie a smiling glance and said, “Yes, I am.”
She thought it was probably the first time he’d ever called himself an artist out loud and was proud of him.