Sally shook her head. “Are you certain? Rufus told me Corporal Thorne’s been wanting a coursing hound. He’s had one on special order from a breeder. The pups come quite dear, I understand.”
Kate stared at the dog in her arms. Valuable? Badger? Such a funny-looking thing, all long, thin limbs and patched fur that was not quite straight, not quite curly. He was like an animated heap of cowlicks.
And if Thorne prized him, surely he would have told her so.
“Sally, I think you must have your puppies confused.”
“For the love of St. Ursula!” Mrs. Highwood cried. She’d moved to the window. “This, I’ll have you know, is why this place is called ‘Spinster Cove.’ While you featherbrained girls carry on about mongrel dogs, there is a gentleman walking down the lane. A tall, marvelous-looking one, carrying an expensive walking stick. I detect no hint of marriage in his demeanor.”
Diana laughed. “Mama, you cannot determine a man is single just by viewing him from across the lane.”
“But I can. My intuition has never failed me.”
“His name is Lord Drewe,” Kate said. “He’s here on holiday with his two sisters and an aunt.” She prolonged the suspense another moment. “And he’s a marquess.”
“A marq—” Mrs. Highwood swayed on her feet. “An unmarried marquess. Oh, my nerves. I will faint.”
The men of the Spindle Cove militia were not particularly interested in a visiting marquess. And the addition of a few more female oddities to the Queen’s Ruby coterie was simply the normal course.
But it wasn’t every day they had a chance to needle their commander.
“Engaged to Miss Taylor?” Aaron Dawes exclaimed, once drill was finished for the morning.
Thorne ignored the question. He stretched his neck to one side until it cracked.
“Thought you went to Hastings for a hunting dog,” Dawes said, “not a wife.” The blacksmith shook his head. “I must say, never saw that coming.”
“None of us saw this coming,” said Fosbury. “Exactly how did you woo her, Corporal?”
“This is Thorne we’re discussing,” Dawes said. “He doesn’t woo. He commands.”
“But that wouldn’t work on Miss Taylor. She’s got spirit.”
“And humor,” said the vicar. “And good sense.”
Yes, Thorne silently agreed. All that, plus distracting beauty and a mouth so lush and sweet, he’d spent the whole night dreaming about it and woken with a rod of forged steel between his legs.
“Yes, Miss Taylor’s a very sweet girl,” Fosbury said. He eyed Thorne with good-humored curiosity. “Makes a man wonder . . . What’s she see in you?”
Nothing. Nor should she.
“Enough,” he said. “We have a great deal to make ready before the ladies have their fair. My personal affairs are none of your concern.”
“Don’t think we’re concerned for you,” Dawes said. “We’re concerned for her. Miss Taylor has a great many friends in Spindle Cove. None of us want to see her hurt. That’s all.”
Thorne cursed silently. If all Miss Taylor’s friends knew the truth, they’d thank him. He was only trying to protect her from a far more dangerous threat.
The Gramercys.
It made no sense that the family would so eagerly take up residence in Spindle Cove, and even less sense that Lord Drewe himself would remain. Thorne could only conclude the marquess was reluctant to let Miss Taylor out of his sight. Why would he feel so protective of an illegitimate second cousin?
Higher mathematics might not be his strength, but he knew when something didn’t add up.
“Corporal Thorne!” Rufus Bright called down from the turret. “Miss Taylor’s climbing up the path.”
Thorne dismissed the men with a curt nod. “That will be all. Go assist Sir Lewis with the trebuchet.”
The men groaned. But they obeyed, crossing through an arch and wandering out to the bluffs where Sir Lewis Finch had his monstrosity erected.
Spindle Cove denizens whispered a prayer whenever the aging, eccentric Sir Lewis approached a trigger, a fuse, a powder charge—or in this case, a medieval catapult designed to lay whole cities to waste. However, instead of launching flaming balls of pitch over fortified walls, this trebuchet’s sole purpose was lobbing melons out to sea. Just a bit of show for the midsummer fair.
The mechanics of the ancient weapon were apparently more sensitive and twitchy than a virgin’s inner thigh. A great many test runs were needed before it would be ready.
Sir Lewis’s sonorous baritone carried over the castle ruins. “Ready, men! Three . . . two . . .”
A great whomping and whooshing noise coincided with the count of one, as the men released the trebuchet’s counterweight. The sling made its groaning orbit upward, then lurched to a halt and sent its missile soaring in the direction of the sea.
In the direction of the sea. Not all the way there.
From the loud squelch that followed, the thing couldn’t have flown more than fifty feet before smashing to pulp on the rocks.
“Corporal Thorne?”
“Miss Taylor.” She’d appeared out of nowhere while he was distracted, Badger nosing at her heels.