“Always laugh when you can. It is cheap medicine.”

Good God! Was the boy finally tiring? No, Kit was exhausted and the boy was indefatigable. And quite good with a wooden sword. Kit had shown the youngster a few basic parries and attacks. He had learned quickly. Too quickly, he thought with chagrin, rubbing the eye he almost lost when Sammy jumped up unexpectedly. To the boy’s credit, he began to cry when he thought he’d blinded Kit. That led to another ten minutes of calming the child. He had also learned that sugared almonds were a good distraction for a wailing five-year-old.

After an hour of full-out play, Kit was thinking of his last real battle with relish. Soldiers didn’t duck and crawl between the enemy’s legs or jump on their shoulders and tickle them under the armpit. It was dirty fighting, and the boy was demmed good at it. He had a new respect for Samuel and bribed him with some marzipan so an old man could catch his breath.

“Lord Sunderland, how goes it?”

Sammy dropped his sword and ran to his father, leaping into his arms without warning. He gave a grunt as he took the force of his son’s weight against his solid chest. “Papa, I’ve been learning to fight like a knight. I’ll need armor next. Sunderland says it will protect me from cuts and bruises.”

Boldon squinted at the earl. “And perhaps a helmet to protect your eyes, eh?”

“Tell me it’s not swelling,” Kit asked with a rueful grin, his fingers gingerly pressing around his socket.

The older man pressed his lips together and shrugged. “My eyesight’s not what it used to be. Perhaps it’s naught but afternoon shadow or the way you are standing.”

“It’s my fault, Papa. Remember how we practiced being frogs that day by the lake?”

“I remember you trying to jump like a frog. And what does that have to do with Sunderland’s swollen eye?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Samuel, no more horseplay! Haven’t we discussed this?”

Kit wanted to disappear over the edge of the battlement. A child was being reprimanded for playing too rough—with his adult host, who had fought ten years to earn his fearless reputation in battle. Hand-to-hand combat. The absurdity of it smacked him in the face.

A chuckle turned into a deep rumble that began in his belly and pushed up and out of his throat. By Christ, it made him feel a stone lighter. Sammy cocked his head in question then joined him, followed by his father. The three were holding their guts, doubled over, loud guffaws echoing over the turret. A tear rolled down Kit’s cheeks, and he collapsed against the stone wall. Sammy fell onto Kit’s lap, and Boldon leaned over the parapet, wiping at his eyes.

The last time he’d laughed that hard had been with Carson, before he entered the army. His stomach hurt, his eyes burned, his throat was dry, and he hadn’t felt this bloody good in years. With a jolt, Kit realized he missed it—the informal camaraderie, these moments of unexpected mirth, and family. The past ten years, his body had been sated with the grimness of war, a somberness of not knowing which of his men would return to their tents, careful not get too attached to anyone under his command. There had been glimpses of forced hilarity—the gaudy humor of soldiers around a campfire, the strained laughter of men knowing this might be their last meal, last joke, last night on this earth. Kit had lost the balance in his life. The careful balance that allowed the mind to accept there was evil in the world but joy still remained: the innocence of a giggling child, the delight of a simple job well done, the tender touch of a beautiful woman…

As the three caught their breath, he had the peculiar feeling they weren’t alone. At the top of the stairs, Lady Eliza stood with her mouth gaping, and Lady Grace’s eyes danced with amusement though her hand mercifully covered her grin. But her trembling shoulders gave her away. She took in her father and brother, shaking her head as if this were a common occurrence. But when her gaze lingered on him, he detected surprised approval. It was his turn to blush. Nothing like losing one’s dignity right from the start, he thought. But blast it, it had been worth every minute.

“Gracie, I’m a knight and I almost blinded Lord Sunderland with my wicked moves. So then I cried but he gave me sweets and then we fought more until he was so tired I thought he might cry. And then Papa came while we were eating marzipan and Papa said something funny… What did you say, Papa?”

Lord Boldon pulled himself away from the wall. “It no longer matters.” He took a deep breath and wiped at his eyes again. “However, I do believe your training is complete for today. I assume you’re collecting this heathen for a good scrubbing and change of clothes?”

“Very intuitive, Uncle. Due to”—Eliza’s face clouded briefly—“the lack of entertaining, Lady Falsbury finds the earlier country schedule to her liking. Dinner is served at four-thirty, my lords.”

That suited Kit fine. He found himself in his old routine of waking at dawn, and riding or hunting every morning to keep fit. If he returned to his old life, his body would suffer from lack of exercise. He wondered when the family rose at Boldon. City hours or country hours? He bet the latter.

Lady Grace had changed into an olive dress with a black satin ribbon just above her waistline, embroidered in deep green flowers that matched her eyes. The material clung to her curves; the color emphasized that glorious mane of hair. Her bonnet was off and ringlets of copper bounced against her flushed cheeks as she moved forward to take Sammy’s hand. She bent over, exposing the tops of her creamy white breasts. His eyes lingered then moved up the slender throat. It begged for a trail of kisses, and he imagined his lips moving along her jawline until he reached her lips.

“Don’t you agree, Lord Sunderland?” Grace asked, still bending slightly to hold her brother’s hand.

He tore his eyes from her mouth and forced himself to meet her gaze. “I beg your pardon?” He definitely needed to see to his needs if he was going to have a decent conversation with this woman over the next month. Why did the chit always throw him off-balance?

“Rising early in the morning means a productive day.” Lady Grace’s eyebrows rose; her lips pressed together between her teeth as she tried to maintain a straight face. He’d been caught in his reverie of her…attributes.

“Why, yes. Yes, I’ve always been an early riser. Nothing like the colors of dawn to take your breath away.” Damn, those lips again.

“Hmmph.” Lord Boldon cleared his throat, his glance darting between his daughter and his host. “Come, Samuel, I think we’ll dress for dinner together. Thank Lord Sunderland for the lesson.”

The boy did so with an eloquent bow, and father and son disappeared down the narrow stone steps. Kit stood and brushed himself off, executing his own bow for the ladies. “May I escort you down?”

They both stared at him without a word. Had he not spoken aloud? Then Lady Eliza reached out to touch his eye. “Kit, what happened?”

“Oh, this? It’s nothing.”

Lady Grace gasped. “Sammy did that, didn’t he? When he said he almost blinded you. Oh that naughty boy.”

“It is the consequence of male antics. Believe me, I deserved it for underestimating my opponent.” He bowed again, thinking to start fresh.

“At least let me tend you. Please, let’s go to the kitchen and get a cold compress for the swelling. It’s not too terrible yet and we if we treat it right away, I may be able to reduce the bruising.” She turned to Lady Eliza. “Do you know if there is any arnica in the kitchen garden or hanging in the still room?”

Her cousin looked at her blankly.

“A surgeon gave some of my men that herb for sea sickness on the short journey to France,” Kit said, wondering where this would lead. “My stomach is fine, I assure you.”

“It also helps to reduce bruising in injuries,” Lady Grace said brightly. “Come, we’ll see what we can find.”

And this was how Kit found himself under the command of Captain Grace Beaumont. There was a pleasant authority surrounding her that made others want to do her bidding. With only a few requests, given with efficiency and a kind but firm tone, she had the cook sending staff in four different directions. A young boy returned first with a bucket of cold water from the well. Another young girl returned with witch hazel, which Grace poured into the water.

The smell of rising dough filled the large room. Eliza clasped her stomach, her face pale. “Please excuse me. The pungent scent of the yeast is not agreeing with me for some reason. I think I’ll check on Lady Falsbury and see you both at dinner.”

“Oh, my poor dear. I thought you hadn’t had any sickness?”

“No, but certain odors just turn my insides, upside down. There is no reason to what may affect me. So, if you’ll excuse me,” she said weakly and rushed from the humid room. Lady Grace returned her attentions to Kit.

“I’ll try not to hurt you, but I need to make sure there are no scratches that could become inflamed.” Her fingertips gently pressed at the skin around his eye and pulled his eyelid down. Her breath was warm on his skin and smelled of vanilla and lemon. A wicked thought—tongue stroking hers, and tasting the citrus that filled his nostrils—made him catch his breath.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, obviously thinking she had caused him pain.

“I’m fine,” he assured her. “I’ve had much worse in my career.”

Satisfied, she laid a cold compress against his left eye and instructed him to tip his head back. She stood to his right, leaning against the massive walnut table in the center of the kitchen. With his head back and his good eye down, Kit had a perfect view of those ivory mounds. A smile curled his lips. This day was improving by the hour.

The cook came back in, out of breath and waving some yellow flowers in her hand. She pushed her frizzy gray hair back under her cap. “Here it is, my lady. Will this be enough?”

“Yes, perfect.” The smile of thanks Lady Grace gave Mrs. Whitten had the old woman beaming. Her capable hands diced the arnica with a large knife, only pausing to wipe the sweat off her forehead with a sleeve.

Another servant scurried over from the fireplace with a small pot of boiling water.

“Mrs. Whitten, this needs to be simmered and ground into a paste. Could you do that for me?” Lady Grace asked. “Keep that compress on your eye, my lord. I didn’t tell you to remove it yet.”

“I’d be happy to,” the cook said, scraping the chopped herb into a pile. Her wrinkled skin belied the youthfulness in her bright eyes. She grinned at her master. “He’s not used to taking orders, though, as he’s always given them. Ye’ll have to watch that one.”

“Well, the boot is quite on the other leg today, isn’t it? ” Lady Grace removed the cloth from his grip and dipped it into the cold bucket again. “Tell me you will be cooperative, Lord Sunderland, and assuage my guilt in this matter.”

“That depends on what you ask of me.” Kit enjoyed the look of challenge in her direct gaze. Where had the doe-eyed girl gone from this morning? This woman would be a formidable opponent in anything she set her mind to.

“You will need to apply the salve twice a day, in the evening before you retire and when you rise in the morning.”

“Consider me a willing patient.” His tone was low, meant only for her ears. “Especially if you apply it for me.” The pink creeping up her face made him grin, but her words hid any embarrassment.

“I believe Mrs. Whitten might still box your ears if you act untoward.” A mumble of agreement sounded from behind them. “Do not think because of our close quarters, you may act with any kind of familiarity, sir.”

He flinched as she applied the fresh compress with unnecessary force. She had certainly put him in his place. But her next words had him grinning again.

“No matter how handsome or charming you may be.”

Kit suspected Lady Grace might be the best cure for what ailed him.