Caught in a Cornish Scandal by Eleanor Webster (top novels of all time .txt) 📗

had to interrupt their journey, the need to continue pulsing through her. Still it was not practical to collapse from either exposure or fatigue, she thought, stepping ahead with a firm step.

The grey stone cottage was discernible against the yellowed grass. From its exterior, the hut appeared average, of the type often used on the moors.

‘Distance is odd here,’ Sam said.

‘Yes, people say that. The moor is a trickster with mystery and secrets.’

‘You speak almost with fondness. You like the moors?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘You do not find it solitary?’

‘I find...’ She paused, gazing about the desolate landscape. How could she explain that she had always felt a greater comfort outside than within the confines of a salon where she had two left feet and a propensity for tripping?

‘Comfortable in her own skin.’ She’d coined the phrase after Arabella Raskin’s birthday party when she’d turned thirteen. Outside, Millie felt that comfort whereas in the parlour it seemed she had more elbows and knees than the requisite number.

‘There is a freedom in the isolation,’ she said finally.

He looked again towards the cottage. ‘Then its inhabitant must live with considerable abandon.’

‘It is likely empty. The peat-cutters leave during the winter months.’

‘I suppose we’d best be off before the rain gets really heavy and the light fades further.’ He glanced towards the dark clouds rolling in from the sea and hugging the land, the grey mist tangling in the bare branches of the hawthorn trees.

They started forward, stepping beside the silver brook and up towards the cottage. The thick marsh grasses rustled as they bent under their feet. Millie would never underestimate the value of shoes again. The thought of escaping from the wind and rain was alluring. The thought of taking the weight off her feet and letting her body rest even more so.

Yet apprehension slithered down her spine. Goose pimples prickled her skin. She shivered. Her imagination was not being sensible. It seemed to her warped fancy that she felt hostility from the hut’s stony walls and malevolence squinting through the one shuttered window.

Crossing her arms, she hugged herself, in part to keep out the chill, but also for comfort. The memory of the drowned men and Jem, his blood puddling in the rock pool, flickered before her mind’s eye.

In common accord, they paused in front of the remnants of a stone wall which encircled the property. It was crumbling. Grasses, moss and weeds grew through every space and aperture. There was no sign of occupation, no chickens or cow.

‘I’ll go in first, in case,’ Mr Garrett said.

Millie nodded. ‘It is sensible to seek shelter.’

‘Who are you trying to convince?’ He glanced at her, with that quick fleeting grin. Instinctively, Millie held her breath as Sam stepped forward.

Chapter Four

Aside from the odd cobweb, the cottage was no house of horrors. It consisted of one central room with a hearth on one wall and a small alcove at the back. The air was stuffy, but not unpleasantly so. It had a peaty scent that seemed an integral part of country living. Low beams criss-crossed the ceiling with yellowed straw close to the hearth as though to form a pallet.

The only light came from the open door, but it was sufficient to assure him that the central chamber was empty. Sam turned quickly and entered the alcove. It was also unoccupied.

From behind, he heard the whine of hinges. He jumped, but it was only Miss Lansdowne who had failed to listen, which was not entirely surprising.

‘You were supposed to stay outside.’

‘I hear well and listen poorly. That’s what Flora used to say.’ She was kneeling beside the hearth, her fingertips resting on the peat stored beside it. ‘It is dry.’

‘Good. I will make a fire. You look quite chilled.’

She nodded, leaning forward with sudden concentration. ‘There is even a flint.’ She picked it up, rubbing her fingers against it with a tiny rasping sound, as though needing this solid proof of its existence.

‘And a tin cup. Is it unusual for a peat-cutter to leave such items behind?’ he asked.

She met his gaze. ‘It is unusual.’

With every moment, daylight was fading into gloom. He shrugged. They had little choice but to stay. ‘I’ll light a fire. We’ll need it tonight for light and warmth.’

She glanced at him with that slight smile, giving her a slightly elfin appearance. ‘Mr Garrett, may I enquire if have you ever actually made a peat fire?’

‘Well, no,’ he conceded. ‘But it seemed like the right thing to say. Besides, we need heat so I’ll give it a try.’

‘I’ll do it.’

‘You know how?’

‘Thankfully, I am no distressed damsel. You get the water while I make the fire.’

‘You are unusual,’ he said.

‘It has been mentioned.’

Her smile grew and something about that slow, transformative smile and the way it suffused her whole face made him feel...odd. It made him wonder again what those soft, gently curving lips would feel like and remember the way she had clung to him, her fingers on his shoulders. It made him want to watch her, to observe her careful, meticulous movements as she bent over the peat. She was not graceful, but she moved with efficiency and with purpose. He felt pleasure in noting her attention as she immersed herself in a task.

She was not self-conscious. She did not pose with more awareness of how she appeared than of the task at hand. Instead, she seemed oblivious of the dark hair falling forward across her face, the gape of her shirt as she pulled out the peat, arranging each strand with deliberation.

Turning hastily, he picked up the cup and hurried outside, letting the door bang behind him. He needed to escape. Likely it was her very peculiarity which fascinated.

Physical desire was a fleeting thing, stimulated by danger. However, he was a civilised individual with emotional control. The woman was vulnerable and he had no need to further complicate his life or waste time thinking about her eyes, or her lips or the pale creaminess of her skin...

He