The Leopard Prince (Princes #2)(18)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

He turned back to Mr. Pye. “It’s for the best, Harry. I can’t answer for what will happen if you don’t.”

Harry Pye didn’t reply. His green eyes had grown stony.

Nobody spoke for an uncomfortable period of time.

Mr. Granville suddenly slapped his hand on the throw. “Disgusting things.” He lifted his hand, and George saw that he’d squashed the cabbage butterfly.

She must’ve made a sound.

Both men looked at her, but it was Mr. Granville who spoke. “The butterfly. They come from worms that devour leafy crops. Nasty things. All farmers hate them.”

She and Mr. Pye were silent.

Mr. Granville’s face reddened. “Well. I must be going. Thank you for the repast.” He stood and clambered back down the hill to his horse.

Harry Pye watched him go, eyes narrowed.

George looked down at the pickle jar beside her hand. She hadn’t the appetite for them anymore. She sighed mournfully. A perfect picnic ruined.

“YOU DON’T LIKE HIM.” Lady Georgina frowned, looking down at the picnic blanket. She was trying to fold it, but it was turning into a tangled mess.

“Who?” Harry took it from her and shook out the fabric, then handed her the corners on one end.

“Thomas Granville, of course.” She held her end of the blanket limply as if she didn’t know what to do. Hadn’t she ever folded a sheet before? “You swore when you saw him, you weren’t going to invite him to join us, and when he did, you were barely civil to him.”

“No, I don’t like Thomas Granville.” He backed up to draw the fabric taut, then brought his corners together so that a rectangle hung between them. She caught on. They folded the blanket once more, and then he walked toward her to take her corners from her. He met her eyes.

They were narrowed. “Why? What’s wrong with Mr. Granville?”

He’s his father’s son. “I don’t trust him.”

“He knew you.” Her head was cocked to the side, as if she were a curious thrush. “You knew each other.”

“Aye.”

She opened her mouth, and he expected more questions, but she simply pressed her lips together again. Silently they packed away the rest of the picnic. He took the basket from her, and they climbed down to the waiting gig. He stowed the basket under the seat, and then turned to her, steeling his features. It was harder to keep his emotions in check around her these days.

She watched him with thoughtful blue eyes. “Who do you think is poisoning the sheep?”

He put his hands around her waist. “I don’t know.” He felt the stiffness of her stays, and beneath that, warmth. He lifted her into the gig and let go before she could see the longing in his eyes. He jumped into the seat beside her and untied the reins.

“Maybe it’s Thomas Granville,” she said.

“Why?”

“To make it seem as if you were doing the crime? To enrage his father? Because he hates the smell of wet wool? I don’t know.”

He could feel her gaze on him, but he kept his eyes straight ahead as he guided the horse back to the road. The gelding liked to play games if the driver wasn’t paying attention. He thought about her words. Thomas? Why would Thomas—

A sound like steam escaping from a lidded pot came from her lips. “You needn’t blame me for his condescension, you know. I’ve already told you I don’t believe you killed the sheep.”

She was scowling at him. What had he done now? “I’m sorry, my lady. I was thinking.”

“Well, try to think out loud. I don’t handle charged silences well. They make me nervous.”

His lips twitched. “I’ll remember that.”

“Do.”

They rode another quarter mile in silence before she spoke again. “What else did you do when you were a boy?”

He glanced at her.

She caught the look. “Surely you can tell me that? All of your childhood can’t be a secret.”

“No, but it isn’t very interesting. I mostly helped my da.”

She leaned toward him. “And…?”

“We walked the land, checked traps, watched for poachers. That’s what a gamekeeper does.” A memory of his father’s strong, leathery hands delicately setting a trap came to him. Strange how he could remember the hands but not the face.

“And did you find any poachers?”

“Aye, of course.” He was pleased that his voice was steady. “There are always poachers, and Granville had more’n his fair share because he was so mean to his tenants. Many poached for food.”

“What did your father do?” Her hand, which had been lying on her lap, slipped, resting now alongside his thigh.

Harry kept his gaze ahead and shrugged. “Mostly he’d turn a blind eye. If they took too much, he’d tell them to do their hunting elsewhere.”

“But that would’ve put him in conflict with his employer, wouldn’t it? If Lord Granville found out he wasn’t arresting every poacher.”

“It might’ve. If Granville found out. Turned out he didn’t.” He’d been more interested in other things, hadn’t he?

“I would’ve liked to have known your father,” she mused. He could’ve sworn he felt her fingers press against his leg.

He looked at her curiously. “Would you? A gamekeeper?”

“Yes. What else did you do when you were a boy?”

What did she want from him? Why all these questions, and why the hand against his leg? Her fingers felt as if they burned straight through his breeches to his skin beneath. “That’s about it, my lady. Roaming the land, checking traps, looking for birds’ eggs—”

“Birds’ eggs?”

“Aye.” He glanced at her, then down at her hand. “Used to collect them as a boy.”

She was frowning and didn’t seem to notice his gaze. “But where would you find them?”

“In the nest.” She still looked puzzled, so he explained. “You watch the birds in spring. See where they go. Sooner or later, they all go back to their nests. Jackdaws in chimneys, plovers on the heath, pigeons in the crook of trees, and thrushes in a nest like a cup in the branches of hedges. You wait and you watch, and if you’re patient, you see where the eggs are. Then you can take one.”

“Just one?”

He nodded. “Never more than one, for my da said ’twas a sin to steal all the eggs from a nest. I’d watch the bird and slowly, slowly creep close until I could take an egg. Most of the time I’d have to wait until the bird left the nest. But sometimes if I was careful, I could reach right under the bird—”