The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh (The Cavanaughs 2)

She laughed—and the sound teased apart the remaining knot of his own anxiety.

After a moment, she went on, “I saw Jack slip out of the boot before Nunsworth dragged me into the mill, so despite not knowing who Jack was, I realized someone had gone to fetch help, yet not knowing you were already on the way, I truly didn’t think anyone would reach the mill in time.” She paused, then said, “I suspect I should have been much more frightened than I was. Instead, I was trying to keep Nunsworth occupied with telling me how clever he’d been until I could get free of his bindings.”

“Thank God you did.” The desolation that had threatened in the instant he’d thought she would die would stay with him for the rest of his life—an evocatively effective reminder of just how much she mattered to him.

“Looking back,” she said, her tone considering, “I was only truly terrified in that moment after I’d avoided his first blow, but thought I had no chance of escaping the second.”

Kit felt his jaw clench and fixed his gaze on the narrow lane ahead.

Then he felt her gaze on his face again, a softly radiant touch tracing his profile.

“But then you were there, between me and him. And I wasn’t afraid for myself anymore—I was afraid for you. That Nunsworth would somehow overwhelm you—he was so violent and ferocious.”

Kit admitted, “I’m not entirely sure he was sane—not in those moments after I intervened.”

She went on, “But then the boys were there, and... I have to say I’m finding it hard to be afraid of a man with a pail on his head.”

Kit felt his lips lift in what was assuredly his first smile in hours. “They did lighten the drama somewhat.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw she was smiling.

“I honestly don’t think I’ll be having any nightmares about Nunsworth.”

Kit let his gaze linger on her face, on her increasingly serene expression. For himself, he wasn’t so sure.

“Around to the left,” Sylvia said as they approached the village’

s High Street. “Then take the first turn to the right, and the vicarage is the first house along.”

She accepted that the tale Nunsworth had spun about her father being at death’s door was all lies. Nevertheless, she wanted to see her father with her own eyes. Only then would she be completely cured of the anxiety Nunsworth had provoked.

Kit turned into the vicarage drive as the last of the light faded from the sky. Looking ahead, Sylvia saw lamplight filling her father’s study, the welcoming glow spilling through the mullioned windows onto the neat path that circled the house.

Kit drew the horses to a stamping halt level with the front steps. Ollie dropped to the ground and raced to hold the horses’ heads, crooning to quiet them.

Smiggs descended more slowly, joining Kit on the gravel as he stepped down. Accepting the reins Kit held out to him, Smiggs glanced at Sylvia. “Is there a stable out back?” He tipped his head at the horses. “After the afternoon they’ve had, I really should rub them down and give them some feed.”

Taking the hand Kit offered, Sylvia climbed down and smiled at Smiggs. “If you walk them around to the back of the house, you’ll find the stable. The stableman, Egbert, will probably be there—he’s a curmudgeonly old soul, but he’ll love to help with horses such as these.”

Smiggs grinned. “I know the sort—I’ll be like him one day. We’ll get along.” To Kit, he said, “I’ll take the lads with me. They can help.”

Kit nodded. “Settle the horses and leave them in the stable until we know what we’re going to do next.”

Sylvia met his eyes and realized what he meant. This would be the first time he would meet her father, who Kit hoped would eventually be his father-in-law. She let her smile deepen and looped her arm through Kit’s. He set his hand over hers where it rested on his sleeve, and together they walked toward the door while Smiggs and the boys led the horses and curricle away.

As, beside Kit, Sylvia climbed the shallow steps to the porch, she glimpsed movement through the nearer window of her father’s study. She didn’t try to suppress her smile; she wasn’t sure she could have. She’d caught sight of two faces as their owners—her father and his close friend Deacon Harris—had stood at the window and, with open, not to say avid, curiosity, watched the action in the forecourt, and now, both men were making for the front hall.

Kit halted before the door and reached for the bellpull.

“Don’t bother.” Sylvia smiled at him, grasped the doorknob, and opened the door. “It’s never locked.”

That was one of her father’s dictums—that he was always available to his flock.

“Trusting,” Kit murmured, as he pushed the door fully open and ushered her in, “but admirable in a vicar.”

Sylvia thought so—and then she saw her father standing in the middle of the hall with Deacon Harris beside him. With one swift glance, she confirmed that Nunsworth’s tale had been a complete fabrication; her father’s lean figure appeared as sprightly as ever, with the soft tufts of his white hair framing his face, and his blue eyes alight with the curiosity concerning all God’s creatures and their doings that had marked him throughout her life.

Her smile deepening—indeed, wreathing her face—she went quickly forward, hands outstretched. “Papa!”