My Favorite Bride (10 page)

He said, “I flatter myself that I can read a man's character—or a woman's—and you're not the kind of woman to choose such an easy, sordid way of earning a living.”

“A wonderful compliment indeed, Colonel.”
She'd heard such blathering before, from men who had never faced starvation, who had never known a moment's want, who never faced an upraised fist or an unwanted baby. After today, she had imagined, hoped that Colonel Gregory would be different . . . but Adorna had warned her, and really, why would he be? He was a landowner. A
man
. She knew better than to expect anything different from him, just because he was from the country. Just because he had blue eyes and hair the color of midnight.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

Whatever else could be said about him, he was astute. Probably the result of leading English troops through the lost lands of the East. She said flatly, “You probably misplaced the skin. That's the usual situation in these cases.”

“Probably you're right.” Pulling out the chair to her right, he seated himself.

This strong, law-abiding, tradition-following officer seated himself at the end of the table beside a servant. Why?

She pushed her chair back a little.

What did he mean by his familiarity? Should she be apprehensive about her past . . . or her virtue?

He stared with a little too much discernment for her comfort. She didn't want him making inquiries about her past. She didn't want him asking her questions she would find too difficult to answer. She had sentenced herself to a year in this place. She had to fulfill her promise.

So she asked, “Why do you let the children get away with such mischief as mud baths and snakes in the desk? You'd have better luck keeping a governess if you put a stop to them.”

Still he considered her.

She tried to stare him in the eyes. But she couldn't quite; her past, her disillusionment with him, and most of all this continuing, discomfiting attraction she felt, made her glance down at the table, up at his right shoulder, sideways at the gold-framed mirrors that decorated the dining room, and back at his chin. She fixed her gaze there, and watched his lips move as he answered her. “I'm frequently away, and if the governess can't handle any situation that arises, she's of no use to me.”

“I suppose.” She considered the stains on the white tablecloth, stains put there by his children. “Who is the countess of Marchant?”

“Teresa is a lovely lady, a friend of my wife's.” He twirled his glass and smiled fondly into the port as if he were looking into the countess's eyes. “She's been a great help to me since my return to England. She's been urging me to get back into society, so I know she'll be glad to assist with this party.”

“Oh.” A chill slithered through Samantha, and she straightened in her chair. She had known there had to be an ulterior motive to giving this party. He'd given her one she could understand—he had decided to court Lady Marchant and was going about it the best way he knew how, with the gift of his home as an enticement. This certainly
explained why the children were unhappy. They would welcome no one to take their beloved mother's place.

That didn't explain why Samantha was unhappy, but she wouldn't think about that. “Will the children eat dinner with you when the countess is here?” Taking another sip of port, she savored the aromatic flavor.

“Not during the party, but otherwise . . . of course.” He managed to look blank. “Why wouldn't they?”

She didn't know exactly how to explain the obvious. “They . . . spill milk.”

“Of course they spill milk. My daughters spill milk all the time. The house is awash in milk. I'm surprised we haven't floated away.”

Samantha gurgled with surprised laughter. “Which is why most gentry don't dine with their younger children.”

“So why do I?” He placed his palms flat on the table and leaned toward her. “Is that your question, Miss Prendregast?”

No wonder he'd managed to hold her so firmly that night on the road. He had the most masculine hands she'd ever had the pleasure of observing, long-fingered and broad-palmed, and the nails were clean and shaped. The back of his hand was large and heavy, sprinkled lightly with dark hair and invested with authority and power. She could see the might of him in the veins and sinews, and she suffered that annoying curl of sensation in the depths of her abdomen. A blush climbed her
cheeks to her forehead. She, who had never before blushed. What did it mean?

An inner voice mocked her.
You know what it means.
But fiercely she turned her mind away. She was far from home, among strangers, and she saw in one man security and strength. That was all. “Most gentry don't allow their children to learn their manners with them.”

“I'm a busy man. I don't get to see my children as often as I wish. I can almost always eat dinner with them, and there is no one better equipped to train them than their father.”

“Unique,” she whispered.

He did as he wished, not as everyone else did, and that made him dangerous to her, for whom family union was a shining beacon that beckoned like a chimera. She'd spent her early life peeking into candlelit windows at families like this one, gathered around a table, eating and laughing and talking. It was a vision she'd decided was not for her. Many times she had decided that, but always the desire to be part of a family had returned to haunt the periphery of her mind.

How could he take her from disillusionment to a grudging admiration in so short a time?

“You have developed a tan, Miss Prendregast, and”—his fingers brushed the tip of her nose—“a bit of a sunburn.”

She seized the chance to get away from the table. From him. From the questions and the unwanted intimacy. Leaping to her feet, she went to a mirror. He was right. She did have color in her face, and red tipped her nose. “Lady Bucknell tells
me I must never go without my bonnet, but I couldn't resist today.”

“It's charming.” Then he spoiled everything with autocratic impertinence. “Why aren't you married?”

Samantha swung around. “What kind of question is that?”

“You're attractive, you're young. Probably you're on the lookout for a husband, and you'll be here only as long as it takes you to find one.”

Now she understood. Colonel Gregory was worried that, no sooner than she settled the children, she would leave and he'd be without a governess again. Pure self-interest prompted his inquiry, and she understood self-interest. “If I were on the lookout for a husband, I assure you, there are a bounty of men in London.” She seated herself again. “I have no interest in marriage.”

“You would rather care for someone else's children than have the security of husband and a home of your own?” His tone made his disbelief clear.

How much to tell him? Enough. Not everything, by any means. “I didn't come from a settled home. My father had me supporting him in his dissipations by the time I was twelve.” She tasted the port again, but the flavor had gone flat.

“To guide your life by one man's influence—profound, to be sure, but only one man—is irrational.”

She didn't know why she answered him. Maybe it was the way he cocked an eyebrow, as if insinuating she, a woman, could be nothing but
irrational. Maybe, as she grew older, she grew less patient with men and their everlasting superiority. “When I was fourteen, my best friend was madly in love with a young lord, and he madly in love with her. But when the babe grew in her belly, he—and his affection—disappeared, never to be seen again. I helped deliver that baby, and bury it, too.” As she stared at Colonel Gregory, she wondered why she had ever thought him appealing. “Tell me, Colonel Gregory, what is the advantage marriage gives to a woman?”

Like the pompous jackass he was, he said, “A good man does not stray, treats others with honor, and supports his wife.”

“Find me a good man, and I will wed him.” She indicated her profound distrust of men—and him—with a patently artificial smile. “Perhaps.”

Colonel Gregory did not smile back, or scowl at her for her bluntness, or tell her she was a woman who should be guided by him and every other male creature, regardless how pitiable their brain. “Your father is dead?”

“Yes.” And that was all she would say about that.

“And your mother?”

“Gone.” So many years before, and on a cold night she would never forget.

They might have stared at each other, neither giving ground, forever, but Mitten entered with a sealed envelope on a silver platter and presented it to Colonel Gregory. “Sir, this was delivered from London.”

Colonel Gregory opened it, skimmed the message, then stood and bowed to Samantha. “I have
to go out. Please tell the girls I won't be in to wish them goodnight.”

“I will.” She hesitated. “Is it the bandits?”

His eyes turned chilly. “What I do, Miss Prendregast, is never your concern.”

Chapter Ten

Duncan raced his stallion along the twilit road. He'd served with William in India, and now for two years here in England, and he'd seldom received such a summons from William. Terse. Unrevealing.
Send for the men. Come at once.

William was the consummate warrior. He took command easily, and once assuming command, expected to be obeyed. Yet he respected Duncan's army experience and paid him his due in explanations and consideration. But not now. Not tonight.

There was only one explanation. Matters were at last coming to a head.

Slowing Tristam, Duncan turned him onto the side path through the trees until he reached the clearing. William sat astride his ridiculously staid gelding, and Duncan moved to William's side. “What is it?”

“I've had a letter from Throckmorton.” The half moon shone on William's grim face. “Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh have left society and are fleeing north.”

“Will we be ready for them?”

“The invitations have been sent out. The important people have accepted. Have been told to accept. General Wilson. Secretary Grey.”

Impressed with the guests, Duncan whistled. “Wives, too?”

“Of course.” William continued, “There's a ship which leaves the local harbor for Ireland every fortnight. It's that ship which Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh plan to catch. But whenever they arrive at their estate, I've arranged that they receive word the ship will have just left—”

Duncan gave a bark of laughter.

“—and they'll be stranded in their home, waiting to escape, while only a few miles away, I'll be having a party loaded with my friends who know every secret England possesses.” William's smile swept over his face like the north wind across a wintry moor. “Oh, yes. They'll want to bank more secrets for the future. They'll come.”

“You're diabolical,” Duncan said with admiration.

“Determined,” William said. “They're moving slowly toward Hawksmouth.”

Startled, Duncan said, “Slowly? Why?”

“They're visiting people who might have information, staying overnight, and taking care to leave the impression of casual travel. They're zigzagging across the country, probably in the hopes of throwing any pursuers off the scent.”

Tristam moved restlessly, responding to Duncan's dissatisfaction. “But if they think there are pursuers, aren't they afraid those pursuers will arrive at their home before they do?”

“They have many homes. Perhaps they hope Throckmorton won't realize where they're going.” Before Duncan could object, William held up his hand. “From discussions overheard, Throckmorton believes Lord Featherstonebaugh is balking.”

Duncan had met Featherstonebaugh. He was a silly, arrogant man, given to gossip and lechery, and Duncan still couldn't imagine how the fellow managed to fool the best of England's spies. “Balking? About what?”

“He doesn't believe they're in danger.”

Now that Duncan could believe. “He's been selling secrets to the enemy for thirty years and he doesn't believe he's in danger?”

“He's an aristocrat of the old school. He considers himself to be above the law.”

By the time Duncan had recovered his breath, William continued, “The manner of their leaving has caused gossip. Gossip encouraged by Throckmorton and his network in hopes of flushing out the Featherstonebaugh allies.” William grasped Duncan's arm. “Count Gayeff Fiers Pashenka has left London.”

Duncan very well understood the import of that information. “Pashenka, eh?” Pashenka was an elegant man, a man popular in the ton, especially with the ladies, and a foreigner who had moved among English society for years, dining out on his sorry
story of being unjustly stripped of his lands in Russia. Apparently the account had been nothing but a Russian fairy tale. “Is he on his way here? Do we hunt him tonight?”

“It's Throckmorton's opinion that Pashenka is escaping to the Featherstonebaugh estate, and from there to the sea.” They heard the sound of hooves on the road. The men were arriving, and William lowered his voice. “Soon we will capture not only the traitors to England, but if we manage things correctly, we will also have Pashenka, the ringleader to whom they report.”

“That's clever.” Duncan smiled as he made the suggestion that he knew would delight William. “But wouldn't it be better to give him false information and send him on his way?”

William took a hard breath. “By damn, Duncan! Now I remember why I keep you close. You're too brilliant to lose.”

For the third night in a row, the clear deep call of the owl floated across the cloudless midnight sky. William's men were returning to the clearing, and William waited, his horse calm and steady beneath him, to hear their reports.

Hawksmouth's mayor, Dwight Greville, arrived first, his horse picking its way along the moonlit path. “ ‘Tis quiet to the north, sir, all the way to George's Cross.” His nose quivered with rabbitlike caution as he sniffed the breeze. “But I don't like it. My wife's left eye is twitching, and that's a premonition of trouble if I've ever heard of one. Yes, Colonel, a dreadful premonition
indeed. I tell you, there's something in the air.”

“Until there's something on the ground, we've nothing to worry about,” William answered. Greville constantly foretold danger, afraid that somehow the tranquility of Hawksmouth would be tarnished during his jurisdiction. William spent most of his evenings reassuring him that all would be well.

Duncan rode in on that damned stallion of his, a thoroughbred beast more enamored of rearing and pawing the air than of getting Duncan from place to place in a reasonable manner. “ ‘Tis a quiet night,” Duncan announced. “No traffic to the south.”

The other horses moved restively, responding to Tristam's wildness. Even Osbern, William's own stolid gelding, tossed its head and danced sideways.

But it was more than Tristam's presence that worked on Osbern. It was the moonlight and the hint of a breeze, the sprinkling of stars and the scent of the grass crushed beneath his hooves. It had to be, because William felt just as restless. Just as moody. For the first time in years, he could almost hear his blood surging through his veins. Feel his heart beating, taste the excitement in the air. He told himself it was because his goal was in sight. The beasts responsible for his wife's death were almost within his grasp. Soon, he would have justice for her.

But it was more than that. Ever since he'd met Samantha walking down the road, he'd wanted . . . something. Something different.

Duncan, that knave, had seen the difference at once, and correctly attributed it to Samantha. William told himself he suffered from a basic need, one he'd denied too long. But if that were the case, why didn't he think of Teresa with desire? She was an excessively attractive woman, a widow from his class, a model of elegance and grace who knew her place and never corrected him, or chided him, or insinuated that he did anything other than what was right. That was what he wanted.

Not a fast-talking, forward-thinking young woman of unknown origins. A woman who manipulated situations to suit herself and dared chide him for his treatment of his children. A woman who made clear her disdain—indeed, her fear—of his beloved countryside.

A woman who kept him awake because she slept right down the corridor.

Zephaniah Ewan rode in next. Sober, thoughtful, the young farmer watched the road that ran past his land and had an uncanny knack of knowing who should be left alone and who should be detained. He patted his horse's neck as he gave his report. “The road to the east is empty, sir, but for an encampment of gypsies.”

“Gypsies?” Greville's voice vibrated with excitement. “Everyone knows gypsies are trouble.”

“Not these gypsies,” Ewan said. “They come through every year on their way to the fair. Keep to themselves, they do.”

“We're not hunting gypsies,” William said. “We're hunting strange foreigners and Englishmen,
and -women, who have no business in the district.”

“We could keep the traitors out if we caught a few and strung them up as an example,” Greville said.

“We aren't trying to keep them out. We want them to come and curse the highwaymen, as part of the price they pay to play a dangerous game.”

“Not anymore, though, right?” Greville's eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “Now we're catching them all and holding them because . . .” His voice trailed off. He didn't know why, and William wouldn't tell him any more than necessary.

“That's right,” William said. “We're holding them all.” Searching their belongings, their clothing, their shoes. Anywhere they could be hiding vital correspondence. Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh were on their way home, and William's plan was now in action.

From far away, William heard the gallop of hooves on the lane. Someone was riding hard, and together the four men left the clearing and moved to the shadow of the trees alongside the lane.

It was young Milo, bent over the neck of his horse.

William moved into sight.

Milo pulled up, and gasped, “A carriage! With a crest! On the main road out of Hawksmouth, traveling west.”

“What crest?” William prepared to ride hard.

“I couldn't see, sir, in the dark.”

“Now? Tonight?” Greville stammered.

William, Duncan, and Ewan didn't waste time
with questions, but cut across country toward the main road after Milo. Greville followed at a slower pace.

Was it possible? Had Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh arrived already? As they reached the rise in the road, they drew their hats over their eyes and wrapped scarves around their mouths. They became the dread highwaymen of the Lake District.

The coach rumbled forward. They moved into position across the road. William shot into the air while the other men pointed rifles at the coachman. The coachman pulled up the four matched horses.

William shouted, “Stand and deliver!”

Duncan rode to the door and jerked it open. “Get out!”

And a warm, rich, amused female voice said, “This is the kind of welcome a lady loves to tell her friends about.”

William was glad his scarf covered his mouth, for his jaw dropped. Teresa? Teresa was here already? She must have rushed to answer his invitation.

She stuck her head out of the door, and in the moonlight her handsome features appeared thin and sharp. She smiled, but William thought the smile was more annoyed than pleasant. Descending the steps, she stood on the road, her cape gaping at the top, showing the gleam of a handsome bosom. The sight drew every masculine eye, and William had to admit that, in the moonlight, she looked petite and comely. “A handsome
highwayman stops me to divest me of my jewels. Wait until I tell my host, Colonel Gregory. He'll be most entertained . . . won't he?”

Duncan must have been startled by her appearance, but he smoothly moved into his role as rogue highwayman. Putting his pistol back in its holster, he swung out of the saddle, stepped close and bowed to her with an elegant sweep of his hat. “My lady, whom do I have the privilege of addressing?”

“The countess of Marchant, and you're going to be sorry you did.” Grabbing his hair, she twisted and in a swift move, brought him to his knees. Slipping his pistol from his belt, she held it to his head, and with a smile that chilled William's blood, looked toward him and the other
faux
highwayman. “You will let me pass unharmed or I'll shoot him in the head.”

Greville bleated like a sheep.

Ewan moved his horse back.

Teresa looked small, determined, and ruthless. William signaled, and the men backed their horses into the woods.

She called, “My footmen have their firearms out now. If you come after us, they'll shoot you all.”

William watched through the branches as Duncan tried to rise. Without even glancing at him, she smartly kneed him in the face.

This was a side of Teresa he had never seen before. Always she had been perfectly coiffed, smiling, and fashionable. Not capable of foiling a robbery attempt with her own delicate hands.