The Leopard Prince by Elizabeth Hoyt

shook out the fabric, then handed her the corners on one end.
    “Thomas Granville, of course.” She held her end of the blanket limply as if she didn’t know what to do. Hadn’t she ever folded a sheet before? “You swore when you saw him, you weren’t going to invite him to join us, and when he did, you were barely civil to him.”
    “No, I don’t like Thomas Granville.” He backed up to draw the fabric taut, then brought his corners together so that a rectangle hung between them. She caught on. They folded the blanket once more, and then he walked toward her to take her corners from her. He met her eyes.
    They were narrowed. “Why? What’s wrong with Mr. Granville?”
    He’s his father’s son. “I don’t trust him.”
    “He knew you.” Her head was cocked to the side, as if she were a curious thrush. “You knew each other.”
    “Aye.”
    She opened her mouth, and he expected more questions, but she simply pressed her lips together again. Silently they packed away the rest of the picnic. He took the basket from her, and they climbed down to the waiting gig. He stowed the basket under the seat, and then turned to her, steeling his features. It was harder to keep his emotions in check around her these days.
    She watched him with thoughtful blue eyes. “Who do you think is poisoning the sheep?”
    He put his hands around her waist. “I don’t know.” He felt the stiffness of her stays, and beneath that, warmth. He lifted her into the gig and let go before she could see the longing in his eyes. He jumped into the seat beside her and untied the reins.
    “Maybe it’s Thomas Granville,” she said.
    “Why?”
    “To make it seem as if you were doing the crime? To enrage his father? Because he hates the smell of wet wool? I don’t know.”
    He could feel her gaze on him, but he kept his eyes straight ahead as he guided the horse back to the road. The gelding liked to play games if the driver wasn’t paying attention. He thought about her words. Thomas? Why would Thomas—
    A sound like steam escaping from a lidded pot came from her lips. “You needn’t blame me for his condescension, you know. I’ve already told you I don’t believe you killed the sheep.”
    She was scowling at him. What had he done now? “I’m sorry, my lady. I was thinking.”
    “Well, try to think out loud. I don’t handle charged silences well. They make me nervous.”
    His lips twitched. “I’ll remember that.”
    “Do.”
    They rode another quarter mile in silence before she spoke again. “What else did you do when you were a boy?”
    He glanced at her.
    She caught the look. “Surely you can tell me that? All of your childhood can’t be a secret.”
    “No, but it isn’t very interesting. I mostly helped my da.”
    She leaned toward him. “And . . .?”
    “We walked the land, checked traps, watched for poachers. That’s what a gamekeeper does.” A memory of his father’s strong, leathery hands delicately setting a trap came to him. Strange how he could remember the hands but not the face.
    “And did you find any poachers?”
    “Aye, of course.” He was pleased that his voice was steady. “There are always poachers, and Granville had more’n his fair share because he was so mean to his tenants. Many poached for food.”
    “What did your father do?” Her hand, which had been lying on her lap, slipped, resting now alongside his thigh.
    Harry kept his gaze ahead and shrugged. “Mostly he’d turn a blind eye. If they took too much, he’d tell them to do their hunting elsewhere.”
    “But that would’ve put him in conflict with his employer, wouldn’t it? If Lord Granville found out he wasn’t arresting every poacher.”
    “It might’ve. If Granville found out. Turned out he didn’t.” He’d been more interested in other things, hadn’t he?
    “I would’ve liked to have known your father,” she mused. He could’ve sworn he felt her fingers press against his leg.
    He looked at her curiously.