He shivered at the thought. He actually shivered. Gad, who had time for families when England might fall apart at any moment?
No, his mother could plead until she was blue in the face, but Drake would never marry. He hadn’t the time nor the heart for it. He rather fancied he hadn’t the capacity for it, either. He had gone thirty-one years and had not met a single woman that tempted him. Nor had he met a single woman who would not demand his attentions, taking him from his work.
He had made record time preparing for the short stay at the cabin, and now he sat firmly atop his steed with surprising grace considering how rarely he had ridden all these years.
With the expanse of the Yorkshire moorland spread out before him, he was relaxed in a way he hadn’t been in a long time. The icy wind in his face and the sounds of the moor were like a balm to his taut nerves, frayed by years of living amidst the hectic rush of London.
As he left the pile of ancient stones behind him, long-ago called Barrington Park by the long-dead first Earl of Saint Brides, he descended into the wood past the small ornamental pond.
The path was still cleverly manicured to look almost overgrown. As a child, he had imagined it as being the long-forgotten path to an enchanted forest. Even now, after so many years, he felt the same. Perhaps it was the memories of his childhood combined with the ever-present souls of those occupying the small cemetery a mere thirty yards in.
When he reached the small plot of land outlined by a short wrought-iron fence, he dismounted. He pulled out the flowers he had taken from the conservatory and removed his hat before passing through the gate. Deliberately, he separated the fragile blooms between four of the graves. One bore the name of Edward Thomas Ramsey; another of Edward’s son, Richard Graham Ramsey. Each passed within a measly two years of each other. The other two were Richard’s wife and young daughter, who died with him.
He still remembered the sound of their feminine laughter floating through the halls of Barrington Park so many Christmases ago, Richard’s deeper timbre mingling in. Father and Mother’s also. Hell, even he had laughed that year, blissfully unaware it would be the last Christmas they would all spend together.
He absently thumbed the cufflink at his wrist. The matching one was scratched, but he still wore it. It was all he had left of Richard, after all. He supposed it mismatched as much as his father’s gold watch fob Drake kept in his waistcoat on a platinum chain. While still fashionable for a gentleman, everything he wore was uniform, simple. All except his mismatched baubles.
“The beloved lord and his heir, the adventurer. I hope you are happy with yourselves. Leaving Mother all alone as you did,” Drake muttered, a fog blurring his vision. “Especially you, Richard. Bengal, of all the places you had to give up your soul.” He shook his head. “Anywhere, but home. At least Father was here when he succumbed to illness.”
Not that Drake had been with him when he passed. He had been up to his eyeballs in scandal and assassination attempts, and couldn’t possibly have left the Office unsupervised amidst such disaster. Surely his father could hold on a little longer to ensure the well-being of England. Drake had only asked for three weeks—three weeks to save an empire—but death rarely waited for convenience.
Was a man allowed to regret saving an empire?
His throat ached, and his eyes burned. He missed them. It was an awful feeling, a deep pain in his gut, a sour taste in his mouth. At times, it would send him to his knees. Simply because of the loss of someone he loved. A pain as devastating as it was unavoidable.
He ran a hand through his hair, clearing that train of thought. He would avoid it going forward. He would never allow himself to feel this wretched, excruciating ache ever again, as though something were tearing a jagged edge through his chest, straight to his heart and ravaging it. Only worse because, in that scenario, he would die. There would be relief.
He leaned forward, brushing off several small twigs that had fallen from the trees canopying the handful of graves. Only the last hundred years’ worth of Ramseys had been put to eternal rest in this refuge. The rest were in the ancestral burial ground, a far more gothic and depressing place atop a hill farther from the main castle.
He preferred them here. They could enjoy his special hideaway from long ago. Its peace. Its enchantment.
He cleared his throat and turned to pass back through the gate toward his mount, not allowing himself a single backward glance. There was no need. He had those stones etched into his memory where they would stay until the day he gave up on this world and joined them in theirs.
He returned to the mouth of the pathway, guiding his horse along the tree line where the thick forest met the open hills of grass, heather, and rock.
When he had decided to travel home for holiday, he knew he was chasing a memory of a time past, and he expected to feel as he did then, if only a little. Instead, as he looked out at the land he so loved as a boy, he felt… lost. So very far from the boy he had been, from the world as he had seen it. The world had been his to take, an adventure. He had been optimistic about… gad, about everything.
But that was a long time ago, even if it was as he remembered. Everything was different now. His father and brother were gone, and he lived in a world full of evil, greed, and pain.
And yet… And yet, he still wanted to see the hunting cabin, the place where his father had taught him how to be a man, what that meant. The place where he had pulled him aside and told him to follow his dreams, to never give up on them. To never allow anyone or anything to destroy his integrity in the process.
And so, he kept on until he could see the pond. Then he turned onto the pathway leading into the trees. Minutes later, the cottage came into view. The structure’s neglect through the years was apparent, and he felt shamefully responsible. He ought to have specifically seen that it was taken care of. Obviously, his overseeing of the estate was not as thorough as he had thought.
Nudging his horse to the small shack that served as a stable, he dismounted and led the gelding inside. When he was done caring for the comfort of the animal, removing the saddle and giving him a quick rub down and some hay, he turned back toward the cottage.
Vivid memories of those moments he had spent with his father came crashing in on him. He could see himself sitting by the fire so many years ago, enjoying the last hunting trip with his father before he went off to explore what excitement and opportunity the city had to offer him, before he had understood the fleeting nature of life and the tendency it had for laying to waste anything and everything good in this world.
He breathed in deeply, letting the air fill his lungs before slowly exhaling and forcing his feet forward. The sound of twigs crunching under his boots, the occasional bird, and the wind rustling through the trees were the only sounds as he moved to open the door.
He stepped inside, the shaft of light from the open door behind him brightening the space. To his right he could see into the small kitchen, and to his left was a small sitting area with a fireplace. Straight back would be the bedroom.
Every inch of the cabin brought back a memory, sucking him into his past. He stood unmoving, half expecting his father to burst in behind him with an armful of firewood, and his brother to raise his voice in a bawdy tune.
Ghosts lingered everywhere.
“If you want to live,” came a feminine voice, breaking the silence, “I suggest you leave.”
Speaking of ghosts… But no, Drake didn’t believe in ghosts. Not in the literal sense, at any rate. And if there were ghosts here, they would not be of the female variety. To his knowledge, no woman had ever stepped foot in this cottage before. This was a private refuge, where only he, his brother, and his father had ventured, not even Mother was allowed. Certainly, no Americans, which she was if he identified the accent correctly.
Where the devil had that voice come from, then?
“I beg your pardon?” he asked, his eyes narrowing on the hall leading to the bedroom, the only hiding place.
; “I said go, or I shall put a hole straight through your middle.”
“I would greatly prefer you didn’t,” he said. “I would die a very slow and painful death right here in the entry, bleeding all over everything. It would take hours.”
“Would you prefer I shoot you in the head?”
“If you were capable of that, you would have mentioned it to begin with,” he said, spying the movement of torn fabric as it peeked out from the bedroom doorway.
He took a silent step forward.
“You underestimate my skill, sir.”
“Not at all,” he said, taking another step. “I imagine you find plenty of time to practice your aim while sneaking about and invading cabins. By now, you might actually be able to hit something. How many of my poor rabbits have fallen victim to you? Careful how you answer; poaching is a crime.”
Two steely eyes peeked out of the doorway to glare at him from under a pile of thick, dark curls ready to tumble out of their pins at any moment. “You are mocking me.”
“Of course I am mocking you, madam.” Drake’s eyes narrowed on the intruder as he took yet another step forward. “You are threatening me with death, demanding I leave my own property.”
“Don’t come any closer, or I swear I’ll shoot.”
“That is a promise I strongly suggest you do not keep. Murder is punishable by hanging.” He stopped halfway to where she stood. “Now come out from there.”
She pulled back out of sight. “No one has to get hurt. Just let me go. I have done nothing wrong.”
Drake raised a brow, once again closing the space between them. “In the very least, you have trespassed with intent to kill. It is also possible, though highly improbable, that you have poached rabbits. I ought to send for the authorities.”
“But I…” She stopped herself short, but not soon enough. He had heard the desperation in her voice, and desperate people were dangerous people. “I haven’t done anything wrong!” she burst out.
In that moment, he reached her, moving through the doorway to grab her wrists and push her against the wall in one swift action, using the weight of his body to keep her immobile.
For a split second, his gaze locked with surprisingly large, hazel eyes. Then she was struggling against him, and he became all too aware of her lush curves.
Hairpins fell to the floor and tendrils tumbled over her face in waves as she struggled against him.
For a moment, he was too shocked to move.
The woman was breathtaking. More so than any woman he had ever known. And she was wriggling that very feminine form against his decidedly masculine one, wreaking havoc on his senses.
He regained his mental functions and clenched his jaw.
“Stop moving,” he ground out, pressing himself more firmly against her to keep her still, realizing too late what that might do to him as her soft warmth seemed to permeate into his body, tightening every muscle.
This was no time to suddenly be susceptible to the opposite sex.
He lifted her hands above her head, clasping them both in one of his. With his free hand, he captured her face to look at him, pinning her with a stern glare. “You are hysterical. Stop moving, or I shall strike you.”
She jerked her face free. “How do I know you won’t do it, anyway?”
“I do not enjoy violence, and you have no reason to believe I would. I’m not the one trespassing and threatening to shoot people. I shall have you remember, I am the civil one.”
“Civil, are you?” She glared up at him, her focus moving back and forth between his eyes, as if one could tell her something the other could not. He was quickly losing patience by the time she lowered her lashes and glanced around the room. “I thought this place was abandoned.”
His brows winged high. “Oh, indeed? I was not aware that gave you the right to invade it and make yourself at home.”
“Does it not?” She affected a look of blatantly false surprise. “In that case, I shall just be on my way.”
He tsked. “I do not think so.”
“What a bother you are.” She winced and shifted slightly to one foot.
He didn’t want to notice the show of pain. He wanted to assume it was affected in order to manipulate him, as women, in his experience, were wont to do. Unfortunately, as a gentleman, he couldn’t very well ignore the possibility she might be injured.
“You look pained,” he said.
She sent him a glacial look that told him in no uncertain terms what he could do with his gentlemanliness, and the strangest thing happened. He smiled quite against his will.
“In your face,” he clarified, doing his damnedest to look serious and failing as one side of his mouth curled up. “You look to be in pain.”
“Your charm is overwhelming,” she said evenly.
“So I am told.”
Her eyes narrowed on him disapprovingly. “Does pain often amuse you?”
“It’s not your pain I find amusing, but your glare. It’s the blackest look anyone has ever given me, as though my very presence is distasteful to you.” He lifted his brows. “Perhaps it is. I would be rather piqued as well were I caught in similar circumstances.”
Her lips pursed as she held his gaze. Then she sighed. “If you must know, I twisted my ankle two days ago.”
“It still pains you?”
When she nodded, he softened his hold on her, realizing with a disconcerting jolt that he had been pressed up against her the entire time, her chest rising and falling against his own, his leg wedged between hers. What was worse, it had felt so natural that he had not even thought to loosen his hold on her the moment she had stopped struggling.
That was enough to wipe the humor from his lips.
He clenched and unclenched his teeth. “If I release you, will you give me your word you will behave yourself?”
When she agreed, he released her hands and eased back two steps, ready to grab her again if she darted for the door.
She watched him as she rubbed her wrists, for which he didn’t feel the least bit guilty as a gentleman ought. He had worked at the Home Office long enough to know anyone was capable of causing harm, most especially those who were desperate. And he would not make the mistake of thinking her defenseless simply because she was a female. The only person to ever press a knife to his throat had been female.
He motioned to a chair, eager for them to be at a proper distance from one another, and waited until she was seated.
“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
She raised a brow. “Does it matter whether or not I mind?”
He smiled humorlessly. “Only to you, I would imagine. I was merely endeavoring to be polite.”
“Quite the gentleman,” she muttered.
“I would have you know that fact has never before been tested quite so thoroughly as it has today.”
“You’re welcome.”
He frowned, not in the least amused with her little quip. Still she held that confident visage, as though she had every cause to say what she did. It surprised him, and it wasn’t often anyone surprised him. This woman had managed it within five minutes of their meeting. She had also made him smile. He didn’t know what that boded, but it couldn’t be anything good.
“What is your name?”
Her gaze drifted briefly toward the ceiling. “Persephone Barnstaple-Tollet.”
His incredulity must have shown, because her lips twitched before they pursed into a thin line while she fought a smile, which proved only to make her more beautiful, and him infinitely more uncomfortable.
He clenched his jaw. “I shall have your real name, if you please.”
“I prefer Persephone.”
“Do you, indeed?” He paused, then shook his head. “Very well. I believe it’s time for the local magistrate to make the acquaintance of Miss Barnstaple-Tollet.” He turned stalked out of the room, certain there would be a rope he could bind her with somewhere in this dilapidated heap. If he was lucky, he might even find someth
ing to gag her with.
He had just spotted a coil of rope hanging on the wall by the door when her strained voice stopped him.
“That will not be necessary,” she called. “My name is Mrs. Tindall.”
He turned and slowly walked back into the bedroom. She held his gaze, her chin slightly raised and her breathing steady. She was either an exceptional liar or she was telling the truth.
He bowed. “A pleasure, Mrs. Tindall. You may call me Saint Brides. Now, will you tell me why you are here, or shall we stumble through this dance with every question?”
“If you must know, and if this is indeed your property, then I suppose the request is perfectly reasonable,” she rambled, focusing on her hands as she smoothed her skirts. “The gist of it is… well, I’m here because I landed myself in a little trouble.”
“Trouble?” He echoed the vague response as though he hadn’t heard it more times than he could count.
She nodded.
“Mrs. Tindall, nearly everyone on this miserable planet is in some sort of trouble. It doesn’t explain why you have invaded my hunting cabin or threatened to shoot me.” He was not prepared for the interrogation of an impertinent beauty in the moors. He was prepared for solitude and quiet, relaxation. Or, in the very least, a moment of self-reflection followed by a week of wallowing in depression.
“With what gun? I am unarmed,” she pointed out.
“I said threatened,” he emphasized. “Had you been armed, would you have shot me?”
Large, hazel eyes focused steadily on him. “Yes.”
Now his head began to throb, and his teeth ached from the pressure of his jaw.
“Where is your husband, Mrs. Tindall?”
“I am a grown woman, plenty old enough to be about on my own.”
She didn’t look a day past twenty, but he was in no mood to dispute anything that wasn’t completely necessary. It was too much damned effort, especially compounded with the effort needed to ignore her—or more accurately, to ignore his body’s response to her.