‘No need.’ She was on the log, and from
there to the saddle, as she spoke, chiding herself as she did it.
You have no idea how to flirt, do you? You should have let him help you mount, let his hands linger on your foot or perhaps your ankle. You should have thanked him prettily, as a lady should, not gone scrambling on to Foxy like a tomboy.
‘I will see you at luncheon, perhaps.’ She waved her free hand as she urged the horse into a canter along the path that led to the clifftop pastures and did not look back.
When she knew she was out of sight she slowed, reined Foxy back to a walk, which was quite fast enough on the rabbit-burrowed turf, and turned her face into the breeze to cool the colour that she guessed was staining her cheeks. Cris Defoe had done nothing at all, other than look at her with warmth in his eyes and hold her a little too close when she dismounted, and yet she was all aflutter and expecting more. A great deal more.
She had no excuse, she told herself as she reached the stone and turf bank and turned along it towards the gate. Nor was there any reason not to be honest with herself. For the first time since Jory had died she had been jolted out of her hard-working, pleasant routine by a man. A handsome—oh, very well, beautiful—man. A man of sophistication and education. Someone who could discuss more than the price of herring and the demand for beef cattle in Barnstaple.
He had kissed her in the sea and now she had woken up from her trance, a rather soggy Sleeping Beauty. Not much of a beauty… But I want him. To be exact, and to look the thing squarely in the face, she wanted to go to bed with him, get her hands on that lean body, make love with him. She should be shocked with herself, she supposed. But weren’t widows allowed more freedom? Couldn’t she be a little daring, a trifle dashing? ‘I’m my own mistress,’ she informed Foxy, who politely swivelled an ear back to listen. ‘And I would rather like to be Cris Defoe’s mistress, just for a while.’
He was a man who knew about these things, she was sure. Elegant, sophisticated widows probably indicated their availability to him on a daily basis when he was not stuck in the wilds of Devon. And there was the rub. Sophisticated. Tamsyn hooked the latch with her riding crop and let Foxy push the gate open, then reined back to hook it closed again. She could attend the local assemblies at Barnstaple or Bideford looking perfectly respectable and well dressed. She would receive a gratifying number of requests for dances, she was never short of a supper partner, but none of those gentlemen had one-tenth of the poise or finish that Cris Defoe possessed. And while she entertained with confidence and knew she had nothing to be ashamed of in her education or her manners, her social skills had never been tested in a London drawing room.
Which was not really the problem, Tamsyn told herself as she urged Foxy into a canter across the level ground of the headland. Put her in a drawing room with a duchess and she was sure courtesy and imagination would see her through. But how did one go about indicating one’s availability to a man, other than by coming right out and stating one’s desires? Or dressing immodestly?
She’d had to do neither with Jory. One day she had bumped into him as she came running across the meadow, late for tea because of a difficult encounter with Franklin. They had clung together, breathless. He had been laughing until he saw the tears she was fighting not to show. They had been old friends, comfortable together. And then their eyes had met and the laughter in his had died, and the comfort was replaced by something that was not at all cosy or familiar, and the next thing his mouth was on hers and…
‘Mizz Tamsyn!’ It was Willie, hailing her from the far gate, his battered old hat pushed far back so his weathered face was clear to see. He looked grim, but he raised a smile for her as she drew close. Behind him he had the sheep penned under the watchful eye of his black and white Border collie, Thorn.
‘A bad business, Willie.’ She stayed where she was, not wanting to disturb the remains of the flock any more than she had to.
‘Aye, it is that. And deliberate, too. The hurdle was dragged out of the gap and thrown aside. There’s no way it could have been pushed out by the sheep, or blown by the wind.’
‘I know, you always wire it back into the gap when it isn’t being used to move the flock.’ She saw him relax a little. ‘Does anyone recognise the dog?’
‘No, it’s not from round here. Scrawny, mean-looking beast, but not mad, I reckon.’
‘Someone brought it in, especially?’
‘Aye, that’ll be it. Someone got a grudge, Mizz Tamsyn? Folks is starting to talk, what with the ricks and all that. Isn’t anyone local—you know that. We all owe too much to you and the ladies, and no one forgets Jory Perowne, not round here.’
‘No, it isn’t a grudge, Willie. I think someone is out to scare us, though. Tell people to look out for strangers, will you?’
‘We will that.’ He grinned suddenly, exposing his tobacco-stained teeth. ‘Not likely to be yon merman you fished out, that’s for sure.’
‘He’s no merman, Willie. Just a gentleman who got caught in the current when he was swimming.’
‘Ha! Fool thing to be doing, that swimming lark. They do say that folks are visiting Ilfracombe specially to get in the sea in wooden huts on wheels and they pay to be ducked by hefty great females. Pay good money! What they be wanting to do that for, Mizz Tamsyn? ’Tis foolishness.’
‘Some doctors say seawater is good for you, Willie.’
‘Huh! Good for drowning in, more like.’
‘Well, they must find something good about it, given how hard it is to get to Ilfracombe with the roads like they are.’
‘That what yon gentleman was doing, then? Sea bathing for his health?’ He nodded, obviously pleased that he had solved the mystery. ‘He’ll be some weedy invalid then, all spindleshanks and a cough.’
‘Not quite.’ Tamsyn managed not to smile. There was absolutely nothing spindly about Cris Defoe. ‘But he will be staying with us for a while longer. For his health.’
‘Will he now?’
Tamsyn knew the tone. It could be roughly interpreted as, Some of us will take a look at him and we’ll sort him out proper if he’s up to anything with Jory Perowne’s widow. She appreciated their loyalty, but there were times when the fact that the whole close-knit community knew everyone’s business made her want to scream with frustration.
‘Yes, he will. Now, do you think we ought to pay some of the lads to watch the animals at night for a while?’
‘Good idea.’ Willie, distracted from the thought of a strange man under the Barbary Combe House roof, leaned his elbows on the gate and settled down to a discussion of who was reliable and whether one lad alone was more reliable than two or three, all egging each other on for mischief.