The Many Sins Of Cris De Feaux. Louise Allen

thought of hunting for buried treasure seemed to appeal to Cris.

      All men are such boys, even the most impressive specimens. ‘Unfortunately, whatever fantasies Franklin might have, I do not believe there is any treasure to be found. The idea that he would think it exists is a good one, but I suspect Jory would have done something truly infuriating with his profits, like putting it in a bank in Exeter under a false name and then forgetting to tell me.’

      ‘Are you certain there is not?’ Cris’s question had a hopeful note to it.

      Yes, he is definitely disappointed. ‘There are no secret caves or tunnels. Or, rather, none that I or the villagers don’t know about. And Jory had more sense than to bury money in the churchyard in a nice fresh grave or any of the other tricks. He would want it earning interest and to be safe, not where someone might stumble across it.’

      ‘A nice fresh grave?’ Cris sounded incredulous. ‘You shock me.’

      ‘It is the best way to hide newly turned earth, of course. You wait for someone in the village to be buried, come along that night and do the reverse of grave robbing.’ The question was in his eyes and she thought of teasing him some more, but relented. ‘And, no, I have never taken part in such a thing. I have more respect for my fellow parishioners, although I suspect none of them would be very surprised or distressed if it happened.’ He still looked unconvinced. ‘It is difficult for city dwellers to shake off their preconceptions about us rustics who live on the very edge of the country. We are not neatly divided into dyed-in-the-wool rogues and happy pastoral innocents.’

      ‘No, I suspect you are all rather more complex than that.’ He watched her from beneath lowered lids, an unsettling appraisal that made her feel anything but complicated.

      ‘I must go.’ It was far too comfortable sitting here in the sunshine exchanging ideas, teasing and being teased. Tamsyn stood up and Cris followed her. ‘I must see Willie Tremayne and make certain the remainder of the flock are safe.’

      ‘Of course.’ He made no move to detain her. But why should he? That moment when he had held her so close as she slid from the saddle and she had thought he was about to kiss her had been nothing more than her imagination. Just because he had kissed her once was no reason to suppose he had any desire to do it again.

      ‘Let me give you a leg up.’

      ‘No need.’ She was on the log, and from there to the saddle, as she spoke, chiding herself as she did it.

      You have no idea how to flirt, do you? You should have let him help you mount, let his hands linger on your foot or perhaps your ankle. You should have thanked him prettily, as a lady should, not gone scrambling on to Foxy like a tomboy.

      ‘I will see you at luncheon, perhaps.’ She waved her free hand as she urged the horse into a canter along the path that led to the clifftop pastures and did not look back.

      When she knew she was out of sight she slowed, reined Foxy back to a walk, which was quite fast enough on the rabbit-burrowed turf, and turned her face into the breeze to cool the colour that she guessed was staining her cheeks. Cris Defoe had done nothing at all, other than look at her with warmth in his eyes and hold her a little too close when she dismounted, and yet she was all aflutter and expecting more. A great deal more.

      She had no excuse, she told herself as she reached the stone and turf bank and turned along it towards the gate. Nor was there any reason not to be honest with herself. For the first time since Jory had died she had been jolted out of her hard-working, pleasant routine by a man. A handsome—oh, very well, beautiful—man. A man of sophistication and education. Someone who could discuss more than the price of herring and the demand for beef cattle in Barnstaple.