The breeze picked up, making her skirt swing like a bell and sending a chill over her skin. Her gaze went automatically to the roiling clouds, down to the low hills. Pools of water crawled across the land, mysterious wells that reminded her of childhood tales of fairies and trolls.
She should have insisted they stay home. She hadn’t felt right since her night in the gaol and she knew the weather here better than he. But the desire for fresh air and freedom overrode any good sense. And the desire to be near Grayson…
She slid a glance toward the man. Wrinkle free clothing, shiny boots. He wasn’t exactly dressed for a jaunt. Still, there was an aura of danger about him. A very power that shimmered in the air. And she was alone…with Grayson. A man whose eyes glowed like the very men she’d seen in New York. A man who was one of them. But what were they?
“You’ll completely destroy your appearance, you know. Your boots will be ruined.”
He jumped from the carriage, not a lock of hair falling out of place as if every strand obeyed his command. “I’ve been covered in mud, in blood and other things I won’t mention.” He snapped his boots together and gave her a mock salute. “Do your worst.”
Although he made a jest of it, her stomach clenched all the same. She could imagine what these other things were. He held out his hand, his fingers radiating strength. Grayson had the disposition to kill. Those hands murdered. She swallowed hard and reached out, her hand hovering over his. They didn’t touch but she could feel him all the same. And they were here…alone.
“We should go.” As if annoyed with her hesitation, his fingers clamped around hers and he jerked her forward.
Why had she agreed to this jaunt? Meg stumbled after him, his grasp too tight, his pace too quick, as if he was trying to outrun her. How many of them were there? More importantly, how did she know the good from the bad?
“Mr. Bellamont,” she gasped. “Please, do slow down.”
He looked perplexed for a moment, as if he had never walked with a woman, as if he couldn’t possibly understand how she could be so slow. Fortunately, he stopped, his hold loosening on her tingling fingers.
“I apologize.” He removed his hand, and slipped her arm through his. He was so intent on portraying the perfect gentleman, but she knew the truth. She’d seen a side of him that would frighten others into a dead faint. And if that beast was released here…there’d be no one to come to her rescue.
Her side brushed his and an uncomfortable heat shot through Meg’s body. She tugged at the collar of her bodice. Though the weather was cooler than it had been in days, inside she felt like a bread oven when Grayson was near. What was wrong with her? The moment she’d seen the man she’d gone mad; lost her senses.
“Were you at war?” she blurted out, then mentally cursed herself for the insensitive question.
“Yes.” He hadn’t looked at her when he answered.
She wanted to ask him about the medal, but then she’d have to admit she’d searched his beside table. An unease settled around them like an itchy, wool blanket. So many questions, but too afraid to ask.
“Where are we?” he asked as the small lodge came into view.
“You don’t know? Tis your hunting lodge. There’s a boat we can borrow.”
“My land?” Grayson asked, lifting the branch of a birch tree so she could duck underneath.
“Yes, actually.” She frowned. “Do you not know your own land? What buildings you’ve purchased?”
“No, but you obviously do.” He took her hand and helped her over a fallen log, a chivalrous gesture that made her heart flip. She, just like everyone else, was easily seduced by his charm. It was worse, for she knew the truth. She knew what he was capable of and still he fascinated her.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her face flushing.
No doubt he’d been the gentleman to many, many woman. Before he could respond she rushed forward, putting distance between the man and the feelings he stirred within. Ridiculous. Since when could she not control her emotions? Even around Mathew she’d been able to contain herself. But then Mathew’s chaste kisses had never made her feel all warm and achy inside. His touch had never made her burn for more.
Purple thyme grew along the perimeter of the stone lodge. She knew the building well, had slipped inside a time or two to hide from the rain. As a child, she’d pretended it was her home. A place of quietness and comfort.
“How long has it been empty?” Grayson rubbed his knuckles along his chin, an act that drew her attention to his mouth and made her think of their kiss all over again. He glanced at the sky, then back at her.
She shrugged. “Years. Come, I know where the boat is.”
“Isn’t that stealing?”
Flustered, Meg shook her head. “What shall you do? Arrest me?”
He slid her an annoyed glance.
She swept past him, her head tilted high. It drove her near mad the way he always questioned her, never trusting, always looking to find her guilty. “Just because you are from London, where people must keep an ever watchful eye, doesn’t mean you must here.”
“Yes,” he drawled out. “It’s oh so safe in your little town.”
She made no comment about his sarcastic remark, but knew he was right. Perhaps it had been pure silliness on her part to think that dragging Hanna here would somehow be safer than keeping her in London. She pulled the doors wide, the hinges squeaking high and irritating in the soft quiet. The blue rowboat lay on the dirt floor, splashing the darkness with light. Grayson shrugged off his jacket and handed it to Meg.
She took it without thinking, tucking the garment around her arm, pressing it close to her chest. His scent clung to the material and unwillingly, she breathed deep. What was it about his scent, a lightness of spice and outdoors that warmed her insides?
She tried not to notice the way his shirt stretched across his back, the way he rolled up his sleeves, showing off sinewy forearms, but she couldn’t seem to focus on anything else. There was no doubt about it, handsome as sin and underneath his arrogance, honorable. Grayson was like no other man she’d ever met. He leaned back and pulled the boat forward, the bottom scraping against the dirt.
“Where, exactly, does the pond began?” He straightened, resting his hands on his slim hips.
“That’s the genius of a marsh, Mr. Bellamont, it never begins or ends. Just when you think it’s over, you take a step and are surprised to find yourself knee deep in water.”
“Genius and dangerous.” He gazed out across the glimmering water. “Beautiful on the surface, but who knows what lies beneath.”
He continued to look at the water, so why did she feel as if he’d directed his statement toward her? “Yes, well, not dangerous as long as you show it respect.”
He didn’t respond, merely attached the oars to the sides of the boat. Mud slurped and gurgled as he pushed the vessel toward the pond. Shin deep in bog, he looked back at her. “Shall we?”
Meg hesitated, studying the murk. She’d ruin her only pair of boots. Of course, she’d wanted to come, so she couldn’t very well complain. She pulled up the hem of her gown, and tiptoed toward the boat.
The corners of Grayson’s mouth quivered right before he started toward her.
“W—what are you doing?”
He wrapped his arm around her waist and jerked her forward. Meg gasped, her hands flattening against his hard chest. Before she could protest, he scooped her up into his arms and started toward the boat. She could feel his heart beat against the side of her breast and with each pulse, an aching need shot to her lower belly. Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t look at him, could barely hear the birds chirping over the rush of blood to her ears.
“Here we are.” He loosened his hold. She inched her way down, until her feet hit the bottom of the boat. With her arm still hooked around his neck, she dared to look into his eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Had his gaze softened? Or had she imagined it? He didn’t respond, mere
ly stepped back so quickly she nearly lost her balance. She found her seat, the lap of the water against the side of the boat mirroring the patter of her pulse.
Grayson pushed the boat into the pond and leapt into the hull, sitting across from her. His boots were covered in mud and a lock of hair had finally broken rank and fallen over his forehead. The mussed look fit him as well as his tidy appearance. He looked at ease either way, and she wasn’t sure which she preferred.
Who was the true Grayson Bellamont? Truth was, he’d never tell her. She knew that no matter how much she pleaded, his secrets would remain his. He could keep his past hidden, as long as she was sure he wasn’t here for Hanna.
“Do you have family?”
“No.”
He didn’t elaborate. She wasn’t surprised. “Have you never been married? Engaged?”
“No.”
She took her lower lip between her teeth. Did he tell her the truth?
“So, where is this elusive bloom?” He pulled at the oars, his muscles rippling under his shirt sleeves.
“Mr. Weatherly said across the pond.”
“And will this complete your collection?” A swan burst from the brush, his large wings flapping slow and wide across the lake. Meg jumped, startled, but Grayson didn’t even flinch. It was almost as if, without even having seen the bird, he’d known it was there all along.
“Almost.” She watched the bird until he disappeared over a hill. “You must think me silly.”
“Why do you say that?”
She shrugged and picked at the lace on her sleeve. It was tattered beyond repair. With a frown, she tucked the frivolity under her cuff, wondering if he’d noticed her poor state and then wondering why she cared.
“I suppose most people think it’s silly,” she said. Mathew had thought it silly when she’d mentioned the book idea to him. She could still hear his words even years later.
“Meg, don’t be daft, once we’re married you’ll need to take care of the children.”
“I think,” Grayson said, snapping her back into the present. “If you enjoy your book and if it will help support your family, then it is far from silly.”
Warmth entered her body and she fought the smile that pulled at her lips. “Thank you.”
He nodded.
She dared to relax somewhat. “I never understood the elite and their ways. To lull about all day, have nothing to occupy my mind, seems a waste of time. Searching for flowers gives me a purpose.”
He smiled, but didn’t respond. Had she offended him in some way? Blast, but she never could keep her thoughts quiet. Frustrated with herself, she instead focused on her surroundings. Dear Hanna would be ecstatic to know she’d found her last bloom. And how annoyed she’d be to know she hadn’t been able to come along. Meg’s gaze slid to Grayson. He hadn’t asked about Hanna in some time. Had she misjudged his interest? She’d found nothing in his room to incriminate the man. Then again, she’d had little time to look thoroughly.
“Where did you say you were from, Mr. Bellamont?”
“Meg,” he sighed. “I believe at this point, it would not be improper for you to call me Grayson.”
Her face heated at the thought. It would be completely improper. Dare she? “All right, Grayson.” She liked the way the word rolled off her tongue, the way it tasted and wished she had the nerve to call him Gray, as Millie did. “Where are you from?”
“London. My father was a lowly merchant in France before moving here.”
“I see.” A lowly merchant. For some reason she doubted that. She doubted there was anything lowly about the parents who’d produced Grayson Bellamont.
She tore her gaze away from the man, closing her eyes and focusing on the cool breeze that swept across the lake. When she did have time to search for her flowers, it was with a nagging sister or two at her side. But here, now, it was almost as if she was being courted.
Why, dear God, why was she so fascinated with Grayson? The man was arrogant, frightening, demanding... gorgeous, heroic.
Her eyes popped open. Her flower. She shifted, scanning the banks. The flower had floated away from her mind, insignificant in the presence of Bellamont. A splash of purple caught her attention. She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. “There. I think it’s there.”
Grayson steered the boat around a clump of reeds. Like a gift from the marsh, a tall purple bloom rose from the water and reached toward the sky. Only a few stakes were left, as if hanging onto dear life merely for her sake.
“What luck,” she whispered. “If we can pull it out by the root, the plant will last long enough to reach home. We can pack it in dirt and...” She glanced at Grayson to see him watching her curiously, as if not quite sure what to make of her. She shifted, willing the heat to stay from her face, but to no avail.
He didn’t say a word, merely steered the boat toward the bloom. It was no wonder why she hadn’t married. No man wanted a blue stocking. Not that she wanted to marry Grayson. The heat in her cheeks intensified. If only she could keep her mouth shut and speak of trivial things like fashion and weather. The boat ran into a clump of reeds and stopped with a thud.
“Can you reach it?” Grayson asked.
Meg nodded and leaned forward. The boat leaned with her, tipping precariously toward the water. On the surface of the pond, her reflection stared back at her, eyes wide, wondering, no doubt, what in the bloody world she was doing unescorted with a man.
“Hold tight, I’ll get closer.” Grayson used the oars to push them into the reeds, leaves scraping against the sides of the boat like the fingernails of a witch. Suddenly, they were surrounded by vegetation. Orange and red rays from the setting sun managed to pierce the gray clouds and sliced through the reeds, leaving them in a fairy land of color. The soft call of birds and frogs filled the air, a magical chorus provided by nature.
Her anxiety lifted and peace settled around her. This was why she could never live in London. “Everything is so perfect right now, so still.”
He looked out over the lake, as if just realizing where they were. The rays flashed against his face, highlighting the angles and making him glow like a golden Adonis. She wanted to reach out, to touch him and prove to her fanciful mind that he was real. He flinched, as if in pain and turned his head away, hiding his face in shadows.
“What is it?” she asked, but was interrupted when a low rumble of thunder rolled across the lake.
Grayson glanced at the clouds. “We should hurry before we’re caught in the rain.”
The words brought an image of Grayson to mind… water trailing down his chest. He’d tilt his head toward her and ...
She tore her gaze from him.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said, not daring to look up. “Fine.”
She reached out and wrapped her fingers around the stiff weed. It didn’t budge. She gritted her teeth and pulled again. Nothing.
“Blast,” she snapped under her breath.
“Here, allow me.” Grayson moved closer, his breath cold across her face. She jerked back, but not before his arm brushed across her breasts. Her nipples instantly hardened. Horrified, she crossed her arms over her chest. Had he noticed? Please, God, don’t let him notice!
He wrapped both his hands around the stem and jerked upward. The flower pulled free, black, wet earth dripped from the roots.
“Your flower, milady.” He turned and handed her the bloom.
Why did she suddenly feel as if it was the first flower someone had ever given her? Her smile trembled on her lips as she reached for the blossom.
The boat tilted.
Grayson’s smile fell.
Meg dropped the flower and grasped the sides of the vessel. It was too late. With a creaking groan, the boat tipped. Meg’s mouth opened, but her scream was muffled by the splash.
Cold, murky water pulled her into its chilly grip, tugging her down…down. Meg struggled against the weight of her gown but it won in the end. Her bottom hit the murky marsh f
loor. Shocked and confused, Meg opened her eyes. The world had grown muffled and still.
The water above glinted, a prize of golden light on the surface not far out of reach. She struggled to stand, but her clothing wrapped around her legs, tripping her. Panic bubbled inside.
Just when she was about to cry out, a face appeared, floating through the reeds in front of her.
A woman’s gray face, mouth gaping open, long gray hair twisting into the seaweed. The Dowager Lady Brockwell. Dead.
Meg opened her mouth and screamed.
Chapter 13
A strong manacled arm wrapped around her waist and jerked back against a hard chest. Vaguely, Meg was aware of being pulled upward. It wasn’t until her head broke the surface that reality came crashing to the forefront. From her neck down, water lapped against her body, while cool air pierced her exposed face like a thousand tiny needles. Meg gasped, filling her lungs with air and forcing the liquid out with a great cough.
“Meg, are you all right?” Grayson’s voice broke through the fog in her head.
She blinked the water from her eyes and his body came into focus. The first thing she noticed was his white shirt clinging indecently to his broad shoulders. Slowly, her gaze traveled up his neck. Water dripped down his face, but it was his eyes that held her enraptured. He looked truly worried. “Meg, are you well?”
“Oh dear God!” She pushed away from him and dove back under the water. Before she could even blink, she was jerked back upward.
“A body!” She pushed against Grayson, struggling in his steel embrace. “I saw a body!”
For a moment, he merely stared at her.
“Grayson?”
Dropping his hold, he turned and started up the shore. “You were seeing things.”
She surged after him, but her skirt slapped against her legs, wrapping around her ankles and making her stumble onto the shore. Before she hit the dirt, Grayson jerked her up against him. Her hand’s flattened against his chest, her breath harsh.