THE last hour of their journey was accompanied by a thousand stars. A million. But there was no moon and almost complete darkness. Lights here and there guided them, however: a cottage in a little dale, a public house at a crossing.
Lord Hawke had returned to horseback, as this was familiar territory for him, and John Coachman was happy to follow his lead.
Beyond her window the river Tweed glinted but faintly in the absence of light. Olivia heard the play of water along the near shore, the cry of night birds. She breathed deeply of the cool night air, redolent of spruce and damp and other scents she did not recognize. Her home, place of her birth. Despite her weariness she felt a mounting excitement. When Neville called out to John to halt, she leaned out the window, squinting to see.
“Bart will continue up this road to Woodford Court with the horses. I’ll guide you across the river here. It’s a shorter passage to Byrde Manor.”
“That’s really not necessary,” Olivia began. “If you’ll just give us directions.”
“It’s no trouble. We cross at the ford just ahead,” he said to John. “I’ll lead the way.”
Olivia sat back. High-handed wretch!
Sarah immediately took her place at the window. “I wish I could ride,” she complained. “I’m tired of being cooped up in this old coach.”
“Patience, child,” said Mrs. McCaffery. “We’re very nearly there as I recall. A mile at most.”
Down the shallow riverbank they went, holding on to their seats, rocking with the carriage as the weary team picked its way across the gravel ford. “Don’t worry,” Olivia said. “You will have ample opportunity to apply all that pent-up energy starting first thing in the morning.”
“Shall we go riding then?” Sarah asked. “Or exploring? Oh, I know. We can ride up to Woodford Court to visit—”
“We shall be sweeping and scrubbing. Airing out linens and closed-off chambers,” Olivia corrected her.
“Cleanin’ the stove,” Mrs. McCaffery added. “Trimmin’ the garden.”
“If there is a garden,” Olivia said.
“O‘course there’s a garden. Don’t you remember the old knot garden with the herb beds? Your mother used to sit there of a fine afternoon. An’ you would tuck fragrant sprigs of mint and lavender and rosemary in your hair and hers.”
Olivia smiled into the darkness, assailed by the sudden remembered scent of rosemary. She did recall that garden. Her mother would laugh. Her father would tickle her and James, and tickle Augusta too. In her mind’s eye she could see that long-ago scene. Her beautiful mother with her fine blond hair and her athletic father with his flashing brown eyes and russet-colored mane. How handsome they’d appeared. How perfect in a little girl’s eyes.
“Careful now.” Neville Hawke’s warning to John broke into her reverie. “This bit of road needs some work. You’re on your own lands now,” he added to Olivia from somewhere up ahead.
Her own lands. That meant the maintenance of this road was her responsibility, Olivia realized as they jounced over an uneven spot. “Welcome to Byrde Manor,” she said to no one in particular.
“‘Tis glad I am to be here,” Mrs. McCaffery said. “My bottom could’na take another day of this.”
“Are you glad to be here, Livvie?” Sarah asked. She scooted across the narrow space between the facing seats and sat close to Olivia. “Are you glad to be home?”
Olivia wrapped an arm around her sister. “Yes,” she said,
with more confidence than she felt. “I’m glad to be home.”
Down a narrow road they wended, past a stand of sober trees that rustled in the wind. The river to her right, and open land to her left. It all felt so familiar. An owl hooted; in the distance a fox yipped and another answered. Then suddenly the yellow glow of a lantern pierced the darkness up ahead, a little pool of pale light in the vastness of the ebony countryside, and they had their first glimpse of Byrde Manor. They turned into a gravel drive and on into a sort of courtyard, and Olivia was home.
Sarah tumbled out one of the carriage doors; in her wake Mrs. McCaffery stepped painfully down. But Olivia only sat there, peering out at the house she hardly remembered and beset alternately by anxiety and joy. She was here as she’d often professed the desire to be. But she had the oddest compulsion to flee.
A dog lumbered around the corner of the stone house barking, and Sarah immediately called to it.
“Ach. Be careful,” Mrs. McCaffery cried. “Get back from that ugly beast.”
A horse immediately cut between Sarah and the stiff-legged cur. Neville’s horse. For a moment she’d forgotten he was still here. Jolted to action, Olivia disembarked from the carriage, her emotions still in flux. “Where is everyone?” she demanded of no one in particular. “I sent word ahead.”
Neville dismounted. “Old Hamilton is growing deaf.”
“That shouldn’t affect his ability to read my note. He knew we were arriving tonight.”
“The lantern on the post would seem to confirm that he expects you. I suspect he dozed off while waiting. But I’ll rouse him.”
Olivia shook her head. “That’s not necessary. If you would show John to the stables, I can manage matters here at the house.”
He dipped his head in assent, stroking Robin’s neck with one hand. “Hamilton may not have remembered to hire a girl to assist you.”
“We can manage—if that dog will cease its infernal barking,”
Olivia added in irritation. She reached into the carriage and rummaged around, then, finding a piece of cheese, she marched over to the dog, guarding its domain just at the edge of the lantern’s meager circle.
“Come along, enough of that,” she cajoled, stooping down to look smaller and less threatening. She threw half the cheese at the mangy-looking creature. The animal jumped back in alarm, but within seconds it sniffed out the treat and gobbled it up. Another piece coaxed it nearer still, and the last portion the dog took from her outstretched palm.
“There,” Olivia crooned. “You’re noisy enough to keep the job, I suppose. But it’s plain your loyalties are not to be trusted for very long.” When she stood the animal wagged its tail and looked up to her for more.
“He’s awfully skinny,” Sarah said, sidling up to Olivia. “I think we should name him Bones.”
“He probably has a name already.” Olivia turned back to Mrs. McCaffery who supervised the removal of their several trunks and bags from the coach. “Well, shall we go in?”
“Aye. And just wait till I get my hands on that good-for-nothin’ old man,” the stout housekeeper vowed. “I remember him well enough. An old grouch in his prime. No doubt he’s an ancient stick by now.”
She started toward the house with John and the guard behind her, loaded down with luggage. Sarah squatted down in the gravel and began to pet the now docile mutt. Olivia lingered in the open courtyard, however, and peered curiously around her. She felt a little better already. She’d brought the dog to heel; she could do the same with the house and servants—if there were any servants: Last autumn’s leaves still rotted in a corner near the door, she noticed, and a vine grew out of control across three of the downstairs windows and up the corner onto the slate roof. All tasks she could see to in time.
“Do you linger outside for a reason?” Neville Hawke’s voice brought her back to the moment.
“Yes. But not the one you were thinking,” she added, hoping her tart tone hid her sudden nervousness.
“And which reason is that?” He shifted to stand in front of her. With the lantern behind him he became a tall dark shadow, the silhouette of a man made more dangerous to her by the night, the solitude, and their proximity. The fact that he seemed different here, wilder and in his element, started her already overwrought nerves thrumming with alarm—and anticipation.
Not at all the reaction she wanted to have toward this particular man.
“I linger here because … because I am overcome by a surprising mix of memories,” she said, deciding to be honest, or at least relatively so. “This was my home long ago, and now that I am here, I find myself beset by recollections I suppose have long been buried.”
His eyes seemed to burn into hers. Then he blinked and looked around the barely lit forecourt. “Memories of your father? You know, I remember him too.” He went on without waiting for her response. “I met him several times.”
“You did?”
He raked a hand through his hair. “In Kelso once, and a time or two out tramping and shooting in the woods.”
When he went silent, she pressed him further. “What was your impression of him?”
He shrugged. “A man’s man. A hale and hearty fellow.”
Olivia lifted her chin. “I suppose that means he was drunk.”
Again he shrugged. “That was my impression.”
Suddenly deflated, Olivia scraped the toe of her leather half-boots in the fine gravel. “Considering your crude behavior last night, it would behoove you to learn the lesson he could not, Lord Hawke. Were it not for his love for spirits, he would be here with us now.” Then knowing she’d said far more than she’d intended, she hurried into the house.
Neville stood in the forecourt, Robin’s reins in his hand, and watched Olivia disappear. He had no ready reply to her low-pitched words. So she’d heard about his vile behavior last night, behavior he did not even remember. He’d had to ask Bart, and he cringed now to think of the damage he’d inflicted
during his drunken dream. Acting out battles fought four years ago.
Wearily he rubbed the back of his neck. That, at least, explained her coolness toward him today. Her father had been a drunk and she rightfully cast Neville in the same mode. Nor could he could blame her. Cameron Byrde had already been part of the barrier kept so high between them. What she’d heard about last night had only raised it higher. He would have to work even harder now to breach that barrier, and the only way to do that was to quit drinking for good. Not just in public, but for good.
As hard as that would be, as painful, it was the only way to prove that he was nothing like her profligate father. And that was the only way to win her.
He paused, staring up at the night sky. Why had it become so important to him to have Olivia? To marry her? This was all Bart’s fault. Bart, with his suggestion that the love of a good woman might be the answer he needed. Bart, who even now was probably being welcomed with open arms by Maisie and their several children.
Neville let loose a heavy sigh. Whatever the reason, his initial fascination with Olivia had grown into a gnawing need. She was the woman he wanted. The only one. And after all, despite what Bart had said, it wasn’t as if he needed her to actually fall in love with him. He didn’t delude himself on that score. He was not worthy of her love, nor that of any other respectable woman. But lust … Lust would suffice, lust enough to compromise her and convince her that they ought to wed. If he kept her happy on that score, perhaps she would not care about the rest.
“Would you know whose dog this is?” Sarah’s voice interrupted his somber thoughts. To his right in the yellow lamplight, the girl knelt beside the animal. It lay on its back now, tongue lolling with happiness as she rubbed its stomach. He squatted down beside the two of them.
“I believe he is the yard dog here. He announces any visitors, keeps other animals away, and cleans up any kitchen scraps.”
“A yard dog.” Her young face puckered in thought. “Since it’s Livvie’s yard, that would make him Livvie’s dog, wouldn’t it?”
He grinned. “It would seem so.”
She grinned back. “Good. I’m going to ask her if I can keep him.” Then her eyes narrowed. “You like her, don’t you?”
Neville arched one brow. There was no doubt as to whom she referred. “Should I assume whatever answer I make will be delivered straightaway to her?”
The girl gave him an indignant look. “I can keep a secret as well as anyone.” Then she brightened with an impudent smile that displayed her dimples. “You do like her, don’t you?”
Neville rubbed the skinny dog belly between them. “The question should more rightly be, does she like me?”
Sarah’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Do you want me to find out?”
He laughed out loud. “No. Don’t do that. She’s suspicious enough of my motives. I don’t need her thinking I’ve corrupted her younger sister.”
The front door of the manor house opened and John and the guard trudged out, then toward the stable. Olivia remained in the doorway. “Sarah. Come inside now.”
“Can I bring Bones?”
“No.”
“But what if he leaves in the night?”
“He won’t,” Neville said.
“He won’t,” Olivia echoed. “Now come along. It’s late and we’re all very tired.”
Sarah stood up and the dog did too, shaking himself vigorously, then circling her and beating his ropelike tail against her skirts. “Well, good night, Bones.” She looked up at Neville. “Good night, Lord Hawke. And don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.” Then she scampered off with old Bones trotting beside her.
The door slammed in the animal’s face, however, and it sat down on the broad flagstone step and stared back at Neville
as if bewildered. Neville picked up the lantern and turned toward the barn with Robin and Olivia’s two hired men trailing him. He felt just like that old dog. There were some doors that would always be closed to him, even if Olivia did agree to marry him.