43
wrinkled leather work gloves, and black Wellington boots splashed with unspeakable horsey filth. It didn’t matter that she was wheeling a barrowful of disgusting muck out of the stables. Nell made old clothes and horse manure seem . . . ethereal.
I was about to call out to her when Annelise seized my arm and dragged me behind the stable-yard wall.
“There’s an interesting tableau going on in there,” she said softly. “Take a peek.”
I leaned forward cautiously and saw a tall, broad-shouldered youth with flaxen hair sweeping the cobbles near a water butt on the far side of the yard. His sky-blue eyes were so firmly fixed on Nell that he seemed unaware of the fact that he, too, was being watched—by Kit Smith.
Kit stood half hidden in the barrel-vaulted passageway that connected the manor’s rear courtyard to the stable yard. As I looked on, his gaze moved slowly from the flaxen-haired boy to Nell. Then he ducked his head abruptly and turned back toward the courtyard, as if he didn’t want to intrude upon the scene.
Beside me, Annelise was shaking her head.
“If Kit’s jealous of Friedrich,” she whispered, “then he’s as big a fool as Lucca. Doesn’t he know Nell’s his for the asking?”
“He knows,” I whispered back, “but he doesn’t want her to be.
I imagine he wants her to fall for Friedrich, or for any of the young stable hands. He thinks he’s too old for her.”
“He’s mad,” Annelise declared.
I nodded. “I couldn’t agree with you more.”
We peered into the stable yard again, but the interesting tableau had dissolved. Nell was wheeling her barrow around the corner of the stables, on her way to the manure pit, and Friedrich was trailing after her as faithfully as Ham, her ancient black Labrador retriever.
Annelise rolled her eyes, as if to say, “All men are mad,” and went into the stables to find the twins.
I headed for the courtyard, to fi nd Kit.
44 Nancy Atherton
When I’d first met Kit Smith, he’d been unshaven, unshorn, homeless, half starved, and dressed in rags, but none of it had mattered. Kit’s breathtaking physical beauty, like Nell’s, transcended circumstance, but there was more to it than that. When I’d first looked into his violet eyes, I’d seen the soul of a saint.
Kit had changed a lot since then. He was gainfully employed, for one thing, and Anscombe Manor was his home as well as his workplace. He’d gotten rid of his scraggly beard, clipped his prematurely gray hair short, and added flesh and muscle to his lean frame. His face—his heart-stoppingly beautiful face—which had once been so gaunt and pale, was now radiant with good health.
The only things that hadn’t changed about him were his eyes. When I looked into them, I still saw the soul of a saint.
He was a tortured saint, to be sure, but his suffering was entirely self-imposed. I knew in my bones that it would come to an end once he allowed himself to acknowledge his love for Nell. All he needed was a nudge—or a good hard kick—in the right direction.
“I don’t care what Emma says,” I muttered as I crossed the stable yard. “Friends don’t let friends suffer.”
By the time I entered the barrel-vaulted passage, I’d made a small but important addition to my original plan. I’d use the vampire hunt to find Rendor, of course, but I’d also use it as an opportunity to talk some sense into Kit. The more I thought about it, the better I liked my revised mission statement. No one could resist me when my heart was set on something, and my heart was set on helping Kit live happily ever after. If I could spread the hunt out over several days, I had no doubt whatsoever that I would be able to cure him of his agegap phobia, convince him that he was making a dreadful mistake by rejecting Nell, and persuade him to ask for her hand in marriage.
Emma might be willing to stand by and do nothing while Kit ruined his life, but my boots were made for kicking—and I intended to use them. I was sure that Aunt Dimity would approve.
Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter
45
There was a bounce in my step and a determined gleam in my eye when I strode into the courtyard, but when I caught sight of Kit, I stopped short.
Why was Anscombe Manor’s stellar stable master sitting idly on a damp wooden bench? I asked myself. Why was he wearing hiking boots instead of riding boots, wool trousers instead of breeches, and a rain jacket instead of his customary barn coat? Had he relinquished his role to one of Nell’s many suitors? Had the new herd of young studs driven him from the stables?
“Hey, Kit,” I called, hurrying over to sit beside him on the bench. “Why aren’t you dressed for work? Are you ill?”
“No, I’m not ill.” He heaved a mournful sigh. “I’m on holiday.”
My eyebrows rose. To my knowledge Kit had never taken a single day off of work, much less a whole vacation.