Page 39 of The Lyon Rampant

Chapter Eighteen

Piers Darvill’s kiss had awakened a sleeping dragon. At least, that was what it felt like to Belinda as she was lifted up and carried over the threshold and into the cheerful warmth of the Tan’s Cross parsonage. She was barely aware of her surroundings, only of the arms that held her so closely, so jealously as she clung to his neck, reveling in the soft touch of his dark hair against her fingers and the sheer power of the man who held her as if she weighed no more than thistledown.

Just before she was carried into the parlor, Piers whispered, “Please follow my lead, or we’ll find ourselves in deep water with my parents.”

Never mind about that! How would Aylsham react if he found out about this scandalous behavior? What would Roland do? Minty would have her strung from the nearest yardarm! Or banished to India, or Africa, or somewhere equally remote.

The peculiar thing about it was not that she was aware of doing wrong and its consequences. What struck her most was that it had felt as if she was doing right, answering Piers’s skillful kiss with a hungry one of her own and wanting it to last forever . . .

She was laid down gently on a chaise longue, and a cushion quickly found on which to elevate her sore foot. Piers and the parson stood back while a grey-haired lady with her cap perched on top of an elaborate hairstyle took a close look at her ankle, then stared worriedly at her.

“It has certainly swelled a great deal, my dear. It might be wise to call Dr. Franklin so we know what to do for the best. Can you tell me who you are and who your people are so that we can notify them?”

“I think our son and the lady are already well acquainted.” Mr. Carlyle, a short, stout man with a commanding presence, had a hint of amusement in his voice.

Piers removed his hat and tossed it onto a chair. “Papa—this is Miss Belinda Bellamy. This is my father, and this is my mother.”

Belinda held out her hand. The parson shook hands firmly, but his wife’s grip was light.

“You must call me Jennifer. Mrs. Carlyle takes far too long to say. And any friend of Piers is a friend of ours—isn’t that so, Mr. Carlyle?”

Belinda was beginning to come back to reality after the heady distraction of Piers’s kiss. The parson had caught them both in a compromising position and would have questions—a lot of questions—as she did herself. But Piers had requested that she let him do the talking, so she merely inclined her head and said, “I’m delighted to meet you.”

“Pierre—can you go and fetch Dr. Franklin? You know the address.”

How odd it was to hear Piers addressed by his French name! She tried to imagine how he must have felt, arriving in a strange country, orphaned and terrified. It was enchanting to discover that Mrs. Carlyle used that name still—Belinda immediately warmed to her.

“Oh, but I don’t want to be any trouble. Poor Mr. Darvill has had to walk all the way from Wheal Betty. He must be tired, as must his poor horse. Perhaps there’ll be a carrier passing this way who will return me to Buckleigh before they start to worry.”

“Which reminds me—there’s a friendly dog making himself at home in the stable yard who could do with a bone to gnaw on. His name’s Ordulf, and he needs to be returned along with Miss Bellamy.”

Belinda smiled up at Piers—how good of him to think of the dog.

“You won’t go, will you?” She needed him here because she didn’t know what to say to these people, and it had sounded like he had a plan. It was all going to be horribly embarrassing, and she didn’t know if she could manage without suffering an attack of nerves.

Piers glanced from one parent to the other, and they both nodded. “There’s no one else who can go?”

“No one else rides as well as you do, Pierre.” There was a ring of pride in his mother’s voice.

“You can take Boucher if Jacques is weary. I’ll get Jacques rubbed down and fed while you’re gone.”

Belinda shot an appealing look at Piers, but he just shrugged. “I apologize that you now find yourself among strangers, but trust me, my father’s bark is worse than his bite, and my maman is everything that is delightful. Pray content yourself with general chitchat while I’m gone because I don’t like being spoken about behind my back.” He raised a warning eyebrow at his mother, who ignored him. “In the meantime, I suggest you wrap a cold cloth around the ankle to reduce the swelling and add an extra cushion underneath—so long as Miss Bellamy is comfortable.”

Much to Belinda’s surprise, he bent down, kissed her on the cheek, and said, “I’ll be as quick as I can, dearest.”

The atmosphere in the room changed distinctly as soon as he left it. The air thrummed with unanswered questions—Belinda’s as much as everyone else’s.

Piers had planted that kiss upon her cheek quite deliberately, in full view of his parents. Was this something that he regularly did? Were they used to him bringing his ladybirds to the parsonage and fawning over them in their presence?

“Do you think you could manage a cup of tea, Miss Bellamy?”

That would at least get rid of her most curious inquisitor for a moment and give her some thinking time. “Yes, please—that would be lovely.”

The parson settled himself in a chair and leaned forward to poke the fire to an encouraging blaze. “I find it always helps, if one is injured, to be warm. When those low clouds come down and create a fog upon the moor, the damp soaks through to the very skin, a proper mizzle. I’m told the weather is far better in other places, though I don’t have much experience beyond these borders.”

“Oh—I suppose you have come from France.”

He looked taken aback. “Me? Did Pierre give you that idea?”