As if sensing her mirth, his gaze narrowed. “Your name?”
“My name?” She blinked rapidly, attempting to pull herself from the odd sensual fog she currently waded in. She didn’t wish to tell him her name, yet surely he’d uncover the truth from the villagers if she didn’t offer a response.
He snatched the leather riding gloves from his fingers, one by one, drawing her attention to his hands; pale, large and clean, the nails clear and smooth. He cleared his throat. She jerked her attention back to his face.
“Are you dimwitted? Do you not know your own name?”
“Meg,” she blurted out, annoyed and exasperated that she’d answered him so easily. Obviously she’d lost control of her wits.
Slowly, he rubbed his jaw with his knuckles. What was he waiting for? More importantly, what could he possibly be planning to do with her?
She wasn’t going to wait and find out. Meg took a step back, tightening the hold on her dress. She dropped into a quick curtsy and without another word, dashed through the trees, leaving her slippers and stockings behind.
Chapter 2
In the many, many years he’d lived on his earth, it could be agreed upon by the general population that Grayson Bellamont had seen horrible things, terrible things. Things that would make a human cry, or the very least, lose his lunch.
In war, he’d seen limbs blown from bodies, men bleeding to death while screaming for their mothers, soldiers turning against their own for a crumb of bread. And when not at war…he’d seen worse. So much worse.
Yes, he’d seen terrible things in the midst of war and life, yet never had he been more shocked than he was now. And although his favorite Wellington’s were stuck ankle deep in mud and he was slowly…slowly sinking, he couldn’t seem to bloody move.
“Meg,” she’d blurted out in a husky voice, as if the name was an accusation. But it wasn’t her odd attitude that froze him in midstep, although her attitude certainly had been odd. No, it was her state of undress that had him stunned.
Creamy shoulders covered by the thin straps of her chemise.
Long, dark curls clinging to a damp slender neck just made for kissing.
“Meg.” With trembling fingers, he raked back his hair. “Merde.”
His body had flared with hunger, while his cock had flared with need the moment he heard her sweetly seductive melody. He hadn’t been this attracted to a human female in years. He’d gone too long without a good feed. Or war had made him mad. Perhaps both. His hand went to the back of his neck, where he rubbed the steely muscles. He’d almost lost his control. How odd that it would be at this moment, in this cursed shire that he would suddenly remember that he hadn’t fed in two weeks.
He released a sharp chuckle as he scanned the tall reeds, or Wildflowers, as she had corrected. For one brief, wonderful moment he thought he’d stumbled upon something mythical. A dream. A reward for the hell he’d been through. Even now he wasn’t quite sure if he’d imagined her. She was no reward. She was a sinful temptation.
Those slippers, frayed at the edges, still lay upon the grass as a reminder. Next to them, in an ivory puddle, were her stockings. Grayson stepped closer toward the bank, mud slurping with the movement. His lips curled in disgust, knowing the leather would certainly be ruined. Then again, he’d stepped in worse.
He pulled his feet free from the mud and climbed that small hill. Unable to stop himself, he knelt and lifted a stocking. The fine material slid over his palm, caressing the skin and stirring his already heated lust. Her innocent face flashed to mind. That pulse in the side of her neck, beating…beating… calling to him.
Then he saw the hole in the toe of her stocking. An insignificant detail to most, but he’d learned to notice even the smallest of clues. The woman, Meg, was poor. A few trinkets, a compliment here and there…it would be so easy to seduce her. He shook his head, scattering the ridiculous thought. No, he would not draw attention to himself. He couldn’t afford to.
Besides, he didn’t need a woman, not now when he was so close to uncovering the truth. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing deeply the rich scent of decaying earth, sweet flowers and crisp water, searching for the woman’s scent. But it was lost to him.
He must stay true to the course. He’d traveled here for a reason and he would not sway from his mission until he found the answers he sought. A shiver of unease caressed his skin. Grayson snapped to attention. He sensed the man’s arrival minutes before he appeared.
“Hello there,” someone called out.
Blood pulsed through his veins, his nostrils flared, his body preparing to attack. An elderly man stood across the creek as if he’d magically sprouted like the red-capped mushrooms at his feet. With quick and ruthless assessment, Grayson took in the man’s white beard, weathered face and long, black robe. A man of God? Grayson’s lips lifted as he resisted the urge to hiss.
“You’re new here,” the man stated the obvious.
Merde, he’d been so caught in the fantasy of a woman with brilliant blue eyes, he hadn’t even heard the old man approach. He’d gone weak…pathetic since returning home from the Continent.
Grayson glanced at the stocking in his hand, and not knowing what to do with it, stuffed the fine material in his jacket pocket. “Yes. I’ve only arrived last eve.”
The old man squinted as if Grayson were an oddity he’d only just discovered. Not bothering to fill the awkward silence, he stuffed his hand into a pocket, pulling forth a fist full of brown biscuits.
Grayson stepped back. “Well, I should—”
“You must be the man who purchased Pease Manor?”
The scent of ginger snaps hovered in the air. “Yes. I am.”
The old man merely continued to stare at him. Exasperated, Grayson glanced up at the sky. Still dark and gloomy, just as he liked it, yet the day was ruined now. How desperately he wanted to return to the seclusion of his home. Yet, he needed answers, perhaps this man could provide him with a few.
“Ah, wonderful, wonderful.” The old man stuffed a biscuit into his mouth. What crumbs didn’t stick to his beard, sprinkled harmlessly to the grass below.
Grayson rubbed the back of his neck. He never had been good at conversation. It was half the reason why he’d joined the military…to escape annoying society where one was forced to socialize. It was also the perfect place to hide. In war, a person could get lost, forgotten. “Name is Grayson Bell—”
“Have three daughters, I do,” the man interrupted, as if the comment were worthy enough. “And a grandchild.” He brushed the crumbs from his beard. “No doubt you’ll be seeing them about. Like to help the neighbors, kind souls, my girls.”
Grayson’s insides froze. Daughters. Was this Meg creature one of his daughters? The thought hit him like a punch to the gut. Hell, he certainly couldn’t seduce a Vicar’s daughter. Even he had limits. No, seducing a whore was easy enough. No one batted an eye. But a Vicar’s daughter would surely be noticed. He narrowed his gaze, studying the old man. Were they related? He supposed her blue eyes did match his. Merde, they were related.
“Your name?” he demanded, a little too harshly, although the old man didn’t seem to notice. The urge to force the man to speak overwhelmed him. He shifted, his hands clenching at his sides as he dampened down the animal inside.
“I’m the Vicar,” the old man said, as if that explained everything and perhaps it did. “Well,” he paused, rubbing his bearded chin in confusion. “The former Vicar, I suppose.”
Grayson resisted the urge to sigh in frustration. He almost felt sorry for the man. He wasn’t sure if he was a Vicar or not? Was he losing his mind? He’d obviously get nothing from this mad grandfather. He glanced once again through the trees.
“Name’s James.”
Grayson snapped his head toward the man.
James.
He couldn’t be…no…it wasn’t possible…
James.
The family he’d been searching for. The family he would see destroyed if need be. He surge
d forward, water splashing angrily around his boots. How many times had he imagined this moment? The need for revenge flared through his veins, a heated passion that urged him forward. He could kill them all…so easily.
“My Heavens.” Vicar James was focused on the reeds. “My heavens, is that a foot?”
Startled, Grayson momentarily forgot his anger and paused. “What?”
“A foot, I believe,” the man whispered.
Shite, he thought he’d smelled death, but was so used to the scent, he’d believed it of no importance.
But yes…there, in the reeds, poking upward was a black boot. A fine black boot. Grayson dampened down his ire and stepped into the water, moving with the rushing current…closer. With hands steely and determined, he parted the white and blue wildflowers. Two eyes clouded with death, stared up at him.
************************************************
The James family was known for one thing and one thing only…scandal.
Yes, they’d been involved in more than a few incredibly compromising situations; situations that had unequivocally ruined any chance they might have at being considered a decent family. They really didn’t need another scandal to add to the long list. And Meg, dashing across the field half-dressed, would most certainly be considered a scandal.
The heel of her left foot smashed down upon a sharp pebble. “Blast it!” she snapped, hobbling the rest of the way.
Their reputation, what little reputation they’d retained, would be crushed and all because of a man with green eyes….lovely, moss-colored eyes. Her footsteps slowed as their crumbling rock wall came into view. Panting, she barely paused as she glanced over her shoulder. The wavering field lay empty. He hadn’t followed. Perhaps she had imagined him after all. Yet, why did her head still feel muddied? As if the time with him had been some fantastical dream?
Because men like him… men so refined, so beautiful, so obviously wealthy… didn’t arrive in their small town…well, ever. She shook aside that ridiculous thought and shifted the bundle of clothing under her left arm. She’d barely reached for the gate latch when the bottom hinge gave out and the gate tottered to the side, the corner digging into the dirt with a thud. Another thing to repair. There wasn’t enough time in the day for the work their crumbling cottage needed.
“Damnation!” Meg jerked at the gate, frantic to make it inside before someone noticed her state of undress.
“Meg? Are you well?”
Embarrassed heat flushed her cheeks. She dared to peek over the stone fence, hoping Hanna hadn’t heard her outburst. The child knelt on the ground, attempting to coax Tom from out behind the crates, but the cat remained stubbornly hidden, hissing his displeasure. Two years ago the child and animal had been inseparable. Now even Tom was acting bizarre, hissing and screeching whenever Hanna was near.
The gate finally wobbled open and she darted through. “What? Oh, yes, fine. You don’t...you don’t see a man down there, do you, Poppet?”
Hanna’s brows drew together as she stood and scanned the fields. “No, I don’t think so.”
Thank Heavens. At least she should be relieved. She was relieved, wasn’t she?
“Why doesn’t Tom like me anymore?” Hanna asked, her lower lip trembling.
Meg’s heart ached for the child. “Darling—”
The kitchen door squeaked open and Mary Ellen peeked her freckled face outside, her red locks tied in a haphazard bun atop her head. “Meg, sister dear, have you seen my blue bonnet? You borrowed it the other day, did you not?”
“No, sorry.” She pushed Mary Ellen aside and tugged Hanna into the house. The child had been outside much too long. It wasn’t good for her skin. Meg cupped Hanna’s chin, frowning when she noticed the child’s flushed cheeks. How would she ever have a normal life when she had to hide away from the light of day? With a sigh, she gently nudged Hanna toward the table.
The warm scent of boiling beef settled around her like a comforting hug. Home. An abundance of chattering sisters and a shortage of coin. Safely ensconced, she peered through the tattered hole in the lace curtains. The field still lay empty. Had the irritatingly handsome man been a product of her imagination?
“Don’t overcook the stew this time, Meg,” Hanna warned, always the little chef. Lately she’d been downright bossy about how to cook the meat.
“Don’t worry, I set aside a pot for you, just the way you like it.”
Mary Ellen rolled her eyes. She knew her sister thought she spoiled Hanna, but Meg just couldn’t help it. After what Hanna had been through, she needed to be spoiled. Meg focused on the curtains once more. Mary Ellen pressed close to Meg. “What are you looking for?”
“A man.” Hanna settled atop a chair and bit into an apple. With the back of her hand, she swiped the trail of juice from her chin.
Mary Ellen sighed and looked dreamily up at the ceiling where dried herbs hung from beams. “Aren’t we all?”
Leave it to her sister to thrust her back into the world of ridiculousness. Meg jerked her dress over her head. “Tis nothing, really.” Her voice came out muffled through the material, but Mary Ellen managed to make out the words.
“Nothing? You saw a man? Tell me he didn’t also see you,” Mary Ellen added, looking pointedly at her disheveled attire.
Glaring at her sister, Meg worked the buttons up the front of her bodice.
“Come, Meg, you must tell me what happened.”
Meg tied an apron around her waist and heaved a basket of potatoes from the floor, intent on ignoring her sister’s questions. She was trembling, her breath uneven. God forbid Mary Ellen notice. A potato rolled out of the hole in the bottom of the basket and bounced across the wooden slats. “I told you, nothing.”
Mary Ellen stopped the potato with the toe of her black boot.
“Was he the new man?” Hanna asked around a mouthful of apple. “The man from the manor?”
Mary Ellen’s mouth dropped open and her eyes grew as wide as saucers. Meg almost groaned. Her sister would never allow the subject to rest now.
“Heard he’s got thirty thousand a year. Thirty thousand. Can you imagine? And not even a titled gentleman.”
“Certainly wasn’t a gentleman,” Meg mumbled, setting the basket on the table.
Mary Ellen scooped up the potato and tossed it into the basket. Apparently feeling she’d done her part in making the meal, she plopped down in a seat at the table and focused on Hanna, the only one in the room who had any interest in her silly gossip.
“No one knows about his past. Some say he came from London and made his fortune in shipping. No family, no wife or children. Nothing. And,” she leaned forward her eyes sparkling with excitement. “He only comes out at night.”
“Well, that’s not true as he was just now by the stream.” No wife. Why did the words catch Meg’s attention? She paused, knife held high, head quirked unwillingly toward her sister.
Hanna swallowed, her eyes sparkling with interest. “Came from nowhere?”
“Of course he comes from somewhere. He’s not a ghost,” Meg said, snapping from her reverie.
The door burst open and Sally stumbled inside. “You won’t believe it. You won’t believe what I’ve heard.” She brushed a brown lock from her round, flushed face and settled on a chair next to Mary Ellen. At thirteen years of age, she was a miniature version of Meg. “Pease Manor is occupied.”
Mary Ellen rolled her eyes. “We are quite aware.”
Sally’s mouth fell open. “Well...well did you know he’s here searching for a wife?”
“What? No!” Mary Ellen gasped. “It’s not true, I hadn’t heard.”
“It is true,” Sally cried, tilting her chin high. “At least, that’s what they’re saying in town.”
Meg gritted her teeth. “Mary Ellen, dear, mind setting the table?”
Really, she’d taught them better than to gossip. She took her lower lip between her teeth and glanced out the small window above the cutting table. Was he truly looking
for a wife? If he was here in search of a spouse, he’d most certainly befriend the town hoping to find eligible women. Wonderful. Just bleedin wonderful. He’d tell the entire countryside about her lack of clothing and how inappropriate she’d been. They’d be utterly ruined! And for good this time. No talking her way out of this situation.
“Mrs. Pierceson said so,” Sally added.
Mary Ellen pulled the plates from the cabinet. “Ooh la, and if Mrs. Pierceson said so, it must be true.”
Sally settled her elbows on the table, resting her face in her hands. “Well, why else would he be here?”
“Peace and quiet?” Meg responded, stretching her fingers and willing them to cease their trembling. Blast, how long before the entire town discovered her utter humiliation?
Mary Ellen paused near the table, the plates tinkling together in her arms. “You really think he’s here to marry?”
“Don’t even contemplate it,” Meg said, pointing the knife at her sister. “You are too young to marry.”
She set the plates on the table with a clatter. “Seventeen isn’t too young, especially if he has thirty thousand pounds. Julia married at sixteen.”
“Aye, and look what happened to her,” Sally muttered.
“Sally!” Meg snapped, not wanting to think of her elder sister now, not when she’d finally started going an entire day without picturing her smiling face.
Sally flushed.
Exasperated, Meg shoved a kettle into the girl’s hands. “Go to the well and get more water.” When they started arguing, it was best to separate the girls.
Her younger sister scampered from her chair and left the house.
“Thirty thousand pounds a year.” Mary Ellen sighed and rearranged the daisies in the clay vase on the table.
“You’re too young.”
“You’re not,” Hanna piped in, those wide eyes on Meg.
Meg’s face heated.
“Yes, Meg, you’re not,” Mary Ellen said with a grin. “And as he’s seen you in your shift, it shouldn’t be too difficult to get him to agree.”
Meg shot her sister a glare. “After our meeting by the creek, I highly doubt the man would be interested in me.” And after hearing the town gossip about our family. Not that she was looking to marry. Of course not. She’d given up on marriage long ago.