Enchanted in Regency Society: Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress / The Gamekeeper's Lady

‘No. You—’

‘Good.’ She straightened ‘This is our cottage, my lord.’ She pointed at the last dwelling in the row of five. Beyond it, fields of hay and ripening corn spread as far as the eye could see. ‘Thank you so much for your help.’ She took the basket from his grasp. ‘Come, Sissy.’

Uncomfortably aware of his gaze on her back, Eleanor kept her shoulders straight and her eyes firmly focused on her front door. She would not look back. Next time they met, she would be ready for him and his winsome smile.

Like a connoisseur of fine wine, Garrick savoured the gentle sway of Miss Brown’s hips and her proud carriage as she negotiated the wooden plank across the sluggish stream running alongside the road. As if she’d forgotten him completely, she opened the gate and walked up the short path through the unkempt patch of garden.

With guinea-gold hair pulled back beneath her plain straw bonnet and her serious expression, she presented a delicious picture of demure English womanhood. Somehow she put the sophisticated ladies of London in the shade. Prim and proper as she seemed, the confused blushes on the creamy skin of her face indicated an interest. None of his former loves had ever coloured so divinely. Although her wide-set, dove-grey eyes set in an oval face observed him coolly enough, they warmed to burnished pewter when she smiled with a heartstopping curve of two eminently kissable lips.

How extraordinary to find such a beauty in sleepy Boxted.

The feeling that he knew her remained. He combed his memory without success. Eventually he would remember. Miss Ellie Brown was not a female a man would easily forget. Not when the mere sight of her had pulled him away from his purpose at the inn. An instant attraction that was not plain old-fashioned lust, so swift to rouse when he’d kissed Lady Moonlight. Rather, the purity shining in her face had evoked a different kind of admiration. Not one he’d had much experience with. And yet the spark of innocent passion he’d sensed running beneath the modest appearance offered an irresistible challenge, even if it could result in no more than harmless dalliance for a day or two.

He returned Miss Sissy’s cheery wave as she followed her sister inside.

He frowned. The cottage, like the others in the row, sagged like an ancient crone. Mortar crumbled around the windows and patches of stone showed through the rendering. Nesting birds had pitted the moss-covered thatch, while the stench of stagnant water hung thick in the air. He narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t noticed any problems with the estate’s finances during his session with his uncle this morning, but in his father’s day, these cottages had been well-kept abodes. Perhaps he needed to look a little closer.

He turned his steps for the Wheat Sheaf where he’d abandoned his horse and his tankard of ale for a pretty face and a well-turned ankle. The local men must know something about the highway robbers. A glass of heavy wet should loosen their tongues.

Her heart having settled into its normal rhythm after her encounter with the Marquess, Eleanor set a batch of cakes to cool in the pantry. The sweet smell of baking reminded her of helping her mother in the medieval kitchen at Castlefield. The servants had grown accustomed to the sight of their Countess, the daughter of an impoverished gentleman parson, in a starched white apron over her gown and flour up to her elbows. As soon as Eleanor had been old enough to stand on a stool, she had loved helping Mother, breaking the eggs into a little cream-and-brown china bowl, learning the art of baking the lightest of confections, creating something from nothing. It was the only thing she and William had not done together, though he wolfed down the results of her efforts cheerfully enough.

Sweet memories. Best not to let them intrude. She shivered and rubbed her arms briskly against the chill. The fire, the bane of her existence, had gone out again. It seemed to have a mind of its own. A mean mind. Every time she turned her back, it died. Or it smoked.

She opened the outside door. Cuddling Miss Boots, a tabby cat of questionable heritage, Sissy sat reading in the shade of a straggly rosebush.

‘Fetch some wood, please, Sissy,’ Eleanor called out.

The child glanced up with a pout. ‘Why do I always have to fetch the wood?’

‘Please, don’t whine. I need your help. It’s not too much to ask.’

Sissy grumbled her way to her feet. Eleanor returned to her nemesis. This time she would make it behave.

For once, the paper spills caught with the first spark of the flint and the slivers of kindling flared to light with a puff of eye-stinging smoke. Where was Sissy?

Eleanor ran to the front door. Her jaw dropped. Sissy had her head beneath the bush apparently trying to rescue Miss Boots.

‘How could you?’ Eleanor cried. ‘You know I need firewood.’

Sissy jumped guiltily and dashed for the pathetic pile of logs against the wall. ‘Coming.’

‘Really, Sissy. I had it lit. Now the spills and the kindling are burned and I have to start over.’ Eleanor wanted to cry. She snatched the logs from her sister’s hands and hurried back inside while Sissy ran back for more.

Jaw gritted, she laid the fire once more. The tinderbox shook in her hand. She struck and it failed to spark. Calm down. She took a deep breath and struck it again. A tiny glow dropped on to the tight twist of paper.

‘Please light,’ she begged. The fire flared. ‘Hah.’ She nodded in triumph and balanced the logs on top. Now for tea. She marched to the pantry. Hearing Sissy’s steps behind her, she called out, ‘Put the rest of the wood on the hearth and then set the table.’ She tucked a loaf of bread under her arm and grabbed a pat of butter and a jar of jam.

Sissy screeched. Eleanor whirled around. A lump of soot lay on the floor, a black monster writhing with red glow-worm sparks. The rug at Sissy’s feet smouldered. At any moment it might burst into flame.

‘Sissy, move.’ Panic sent her voice up an octave.

The child remained glued to the spot, coughing as choking black smoke rose around her.

Heart pounding, Eleanor dropped everything and ran. She caught Sissy by the arm and thrust her out of the front door. She flew back inside.

Rubbing her eyes, Sissy poked her head in. ‘The rug is on fire.’

‘Stay there.’ Flames played among the ragged ends of the rug. Glowing soot took flight in the draught from the door and landed on the tablecloth. It flared up. Oh God, soon the whole place would be alight. She glanced wildly around. Her father’s calm voice echoed in her ears. Smother a fire.

She ran to the bedroom, pulled a blanket off the bed and ran back to toss it over the flames. Smoke billowed up. Vaguely, she heard Sissy screaming, ‘Fire!’

The door burst open. A tall figure loomed through the rolling smoke like a warrior wreathed in mist. He wrenched the blanket from the floor and beat the flames into submission. The burning tablecloth went out of the window. Water from the bucket by the sink sluiced over the rug.

Eleanor peered at her rescuer through streaming eyes.

The Marquess of Beauworth flapped the singed blanket, chasing the last of the smoke out through the open window. ‘Good thing I was riding by. It looks like the day King Alfred burned the cakes.’

She stiffened. ‘It was the chimney, not my baking.’

He grinned. He was teasing. She tried to smile back, but as her gaze roved around the disaster, her shoulders sagged. The rug was naught but a charred ruin. A few minutes more and the house might well have burned to the ground. Sissy might have been hurt. Her legs turned to water. Heart racing, she dropped down on the sooty sofa. ‘Thank you, my lord. I dread to think what might have happened had you not been on hand.’

He shrugged. ‘You seemed to have things under control.’

She hadn’t, but she was grateful for his kind words. Her heart slowly returned to normal and she looked around at the mess.

Sissy’s head appeared around the door. ‘Is it out?’

‘Yes,’ Eleanor said. ‘But don’t come in. There’s soot and water all over the place.’

‘Your horse is loose on the other side of the stream,’ Sissy said. ‘Won’t she run away?’

‘She won’t go anywhere without me,’ the Marquess replied with a smile.

Sissy’s head disappeared.

Eleanor pulled herself to her feet, her knees shaking and her hands trembling. She began to roll up the remains of the evil-smelling carpet.

‘Let me.’ The Marquess took the rug from her hands. It followed the tablecloth into the front garden, as did the blanket.

He glanced curiously around the room. How he must scorn their poverty, whitewashed plaster bellying from the damp stone walls, sticks of furniture acquired by Martin from who knew where. Lit by a lattice window, the room looked positively dreary. She hoped the shame did not show on her face.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t save the rug.’ He sounded sorry. She hadn’t expected that and she smiled.

He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his teeth flashing white against his soot-grimed face. He looked nothing like the elegant Marquess she’d met earlier. She giggled. ‘You look like a sweep.’

He dragged a sleeve across his brow. ‘No doubt.’

Taking the bucket to the door, she called out, ‘Sissy, fetch water from the well. Bring it back and then come inside.’

She turned back to her rescuer. ‘Will you take tea with us?’

He hesitated. What was she thinking, inviting someone like him to take tea? In her present circumstances, she was far beneath his touch. She tried to hide her chagrin with a diffident shrug.

He smiled and her heart did a back flip. ‘Yes, thank you.’

She knew she was beaming at him, but she couldn’t help it. She dashed for her pitcher of water in the bedroom. She filled a small bowl, setting a cloth, soap and towel alongside it.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Use this to wash. There is a mirror above the sink.’

The Marquess stared at his blackened hands. ‘Good idea.’ He took off his jacket, something no gentleman would do in the presence of a lady, but she couldn’t hold it against him. Not when he’d saved them. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and she saw that his forearms were strong, corded with sinew that shifted beneath his tanned skin as he scrubbed. A shimmer of heat rose up her neck. A little squeeze in her chest made her gasp.

She shouldn’t be looking. She shifted her gaze to his back. It didn’t help. The way his broad shoulders moved beneath the fine cambric of his shirt created more little thrills. Her heart gave a jolt at the weird sensation. What on earth was wrong with her? This man was her enemy.

Do something else. Tea. She’d offered him tea. Set the table. That was it. Gaze averted, she hurried for the dresser. Where was Sissy with the water?

‘Miss Brown?’

‘Yes, my lord?’ She turned.

As he wiped his jaw with the damp cloth, his gaze travelled over her face in a long, slow, appraising glance. Heat rushed to her cheeks.

‘You look quite smutty yourself,’ he said with a smile. He reached out with the cloth and dabbed at her nose. She couldn’t breathe. She snatched at the cloth.

Laughing, he caught her hands in his large warm one and wiped them clean. Such strong hands. She seemed bereft of the will to move.

He stepped back, his head cocked to one side. ‘You know, you have a streak on your chin. If you will allow me?’

Her heart thundered in her chest. Her body clenched with another delicious thrill as the tips of his fingers, feather light on her jaw, tilted her chin towards the light. She held perfectly still, afraid she might do something rash like place her hands on his shoulders for support. Her pulse raced unmercifully as gently, softly, he dabbed her chin, her cheek, her nose, the water delightfully cold on her heated skin.

Long dark lashes hid his eyes as he lowered his gaze to his task. The scent of sandalwood cologne and smoke filled her nostrils. His expression softened, then his glance flicked up and caught her watching.

Amber glowed like sunbeams in the depths of his warm brown eyes. He bent his head and his parted lips hovered above hers. Heat radiated from his body and her heart skipped and thudded.

She struggled to catch a breath, as if something tight restricted her ribs, and feared he would hear the soft pants for air she couldn’t control.

His cheekbone filled her vision, clearly defined above a lean suntanned cheek. A whisper away from her skin, his dark brown hair curled at his temple. She held her breath, while her heart raced wildly. For the life of her she couldn’t move. Didn’t want to.

He brushed his lips across her mouth, warm and dry and soft. A mere whisper of the kiss he’d given her in the dark on a moonlit road.

A lightning bolt seemed to shoot through her body, hot yet pleasurable. She stiffened in shock.

‘I’ve been wanting to do that since the moment I saw you,’ he said, his voice carrying on a warm puff of breath against her chin.

She shivered, her mind a blank to everything except trembling anticipation.

A smile dawned slowly, lazy and sensuous. She could not tear her gaze from his mouth. He slid one hand behind her neck. ‘You are very pretty, Ellie.’

His husky voice seduced her ears. He was the sun and she the moon, pulled inexorably into his orbit. She leaned closer. He dropped the cloth and enfolded her in his arms, his hand spanning the arch of her back, his breath warming her lips.

What was she doing? It felt so right, but was very, very wrong.

The door crashed back on its hinges.

Eleanor jumped back. The Marquess turned away, but not before she saw a glimmer of rueful amusement in those warm brown eyes.

‘Here you are,’ Sissy announced. Water from the bucket slopped over her shoes. She glanced around. ‘Gracious, and after you spent all day yesterday cleaning.’

Eleanor busied herself clearing the table and wiping away the soot, praying that Sissy would not notice her heated face or agitated breathing. ‘Put some water in the kettle and the rest in the sink.’ Her voice sounded different, throaty, rough.

The Marquess grabbed the bucket. ‘Let me. That is far too heavy a load for such a small person.’ He poured water in the kettle and hung it over the traitorously merry fire.

Eleanor laid the table and, while the water boiled, she covered the old wooden table with another threadbare cloth, dusted off the bread and pot of jam she’d dropped unceremoniously on the floor and brought cakes from the pantry. The Marquess helped Sissy move the chair and two stools to the table. Somehow he didn’t fit with Eleanor’s idea of a rake. He seemed no different than her brothers. Well, not quite like a brother, but nice, friendly and fun.

‘Goody,’ Sissy said, ‘cakes. We never have cakes unless Martin comes, and not always then.’

‘Martin?’ The Marquess looked enquiringly at Eleanor, but it was Sissy who replied.

‘Mr Martin Brown, he’s—’ began Sissy.

‘A relative of ours,’ Eleanor put in swiftly. Sissy knew the story they’d woven, but sometimes she forgot. ‘He works nearby on his cousin’s farm.’

‘Please sit down, my lord.’ Eleanor bobbed a curtsy and gestured to the chair. She and Sissy took the stools. Eleanor poured tea and Sissy passed him the plate of cakes.

‘Special cakes,’ Sissy said.

He popped one in his mouth. ‘They are delicious.’ He took another and Eleanor smiled. It was nice to have a compliment from someone like the Marquess.

‘How long have you lived here, Miss Brown?’ he asked in formal conversational tones.

‘Almost one month.’

‘I see.’ He glowered at the hearth. ‘That chimney should be cleaned.’ His gaze roamed the room. ‘The walls are damp.’

‘The roof leaks a little,’ Eleanor admitted.

‘And the stream outside overflows,’ Sissy said, placing her cup in its saucer with a decisive clink. ‘We had water running right through the kitchen. And frogs.’

‘Please don’t think I am complaining,’ Eleanor hurried to say. ‘We were lucky to find a place we could afford so close to the village.’

He looked at her curiously. ‘Miss Brown, you are not from around here. Your accent is not from Sussex. Indeed, you both sound almost…’

What had he been about to say. Educated? Noble? She’d made no attempt to change her or Sissy’s speech. Not in this particular role. Once more he’d surprised her, this time with his perception. She tried to keep the guilt from her voice and face while the lies she and Martin had concocted tripped glibly from her tongue. ‘We were brought up on a great estate, similar to your own. Our mistress was fond of my mother and allowed Sissy and me to be taught with her children. I plan to become a governess, but have as yet to find a suitable position.’

‘I like it here,’ Sissy said. ‘I found Miss Boots in the garden.’

‘Miss Boots?’ the Marquess asked with a raised eyebrow.

‘My cat,’ Sissy said. She ducked under the table and pulled out the kitten. ‘See, she has little white boots.’ She pointed to the cat’s tiny white feet and legs.

‘So she does,’ he said. He pulled out his watch, a plain silver thing. Nothing like the glittering piece she’d stolen. ‘You will forgive me,’ he said. ‘I have another engagement this afternoon.’

And here he was listening to a child’s artless chatter. Eleanor tried not to let the chagrin show on her face. ‘Please, do not let us keep you. Thank you for allowing me to pay my debt in some small measure.’

He shook his head. ‘The pleasure is mine, I assure you.’

And she believed him. Despite their apparently different stations, he showed not a smidgen of condescension. Why could she not have met him in her old life?

Oh, Lord, what was she thinking? This man had ruined her life. But somehow she no longer felt any hatred. After all, he’d saved them from a fiery fate. Her change of heart had absolutely nothing to do with all those other hot sensations. Or his kisses.

He shrugged himself into his jacket and picked up the hat and cane he had dropped on his way in. ‘I will certainly tell Mrs Briddle that Boxted village boasts one of the finest bakers in all of Sussex. I am sure you will hear from her very soon. Good day, Miss Brown, Miss Sissy.’ He bowed and, with a touch of the head of his cane to his forehead, departed.

Eleanor, with Sissy at her side, watched him stroll down the path from the doorway. He paused briefly on the wormy plank across the stream, looking down into the water for a moment, before mounting his horse.

‘Eleanor, that’s it,’ Sissy said. ‘You can bake cakes for Beauworth Court and we will be rich again.’

The hope in Sissy’s voice brought Eleanor down to earth with a painful jolt. If she didn’t find a way out of this morass soon, things were going to get a great deal worse. ‘He’s a dangerous man.’

‘I liked him,’ Sissy said. ‘He has nice brown eyes.’

‘You only like brown eyes because you have them, too.’

Sissy laughed. ‘Well, he likes you. He looked like he wanted to eat you instead of the cakes.’

Eleanor put a hand to her lips as she recalled the way she had melted at the brush of his mouth. The man was a practised seducer. How many other young women had he brought to ruin?

Not to mention that if he hadn’t called in the mortgage, they would not be in such desperate straits. Perhaps Martin’s ransom idea had merit after all.

Chapter Three

Arriving back at the stables, Garrick found Johnson in the barn mending tack. ‘Where’s Dan? I want him to come with me on a small errand.’

‘I sent him to the kitchen for summat to eat. Got hollow legs, that lad ’as. Needs feeding up.’

Garrick nodded. ‘Saddle the quietest thing we’ve got for him, would you? I’ll look after Bess.’

They worked in the side-by-side stalls in silence for a few minutes.

‘Bright that lad ’e is,’ Johnson said to the jingle of a bit.

Garrick knew he meant Dan. He grunted agreement as he lifted his saddle on to the mare.

‘Good with the horses,’ Johnson continued. ‘You don’t have to tell him a thing more than once. ’Ad some rough treatment somewhere, I reckon.’

No point in keeping it a secret. ‘Apprenticed to a bad master. I convinced him to let him go.’

‘With your fists, I hear, my lord. Served the bastard right.’

A sick feeling roiled through Garrick’s gut. When he’d caught the bully laying a stick across the boy’s back, he’d seen red. The blood red of terrible rage. If Harry hadn’t separated them, the man might have cocked up his toes.

When it was over, he’d paid handsomely, both for Dan and for the damage he’d wrought, yet his gut still churned when he recalled his desire to spill blood. After years without incident, he’d lost control, let the inner beast slip off its chain. He’d been a fool to think he could beat the Le Clere curse. He wasn’t fit for civilised society.

If it wasn’t for his lost signet ring, he’d have left for Lisbon today.

‘Dan should not have said anything,’ Garrick muttered.

‘I winkled it out of him, my lord. I couldn’t understand why he flinched every time I raised me arm. Won’t do him any good around your uncle.’

Garrick patted Bess’s neck. ‘Keep the boy busy and he’ll do well enough. I’m surprised you don’t have more help.’

Johnson shrugged. ‘Mr Le Clere don’t like to spend a shilling when a groat will do.’

At that moment, Dan entered the stable whistling. Garrick leaned out of the stall. ‘Give Mr Johnson a hand, lad. You are riding out with me.’

Dan’s angelic face lit up. ‘Yes, my lord.’

From his side of the stable wall, Garrick listened to Johnson giving instructions. He’d been right to bring the lad here to Beauworth. He’d learn a useful trade as well as grow strong away from the foul London air. Today, he’d explain his plan for the boy’s future.

He finished saddling Bess and led her out into the sunshine. Dan followed a moment later, the old nag Johnson had found for him chewing on its bit.

‘Ready, boy?’ he asked.

‘Aye, my lord.’

They mounted and rode out of the stable yard towards the place where they’d been held up the previous night. If luck was with him, he’d find some trace of his attacker. Attackers, he amended. Damn it. He should have expected an accomplice. Her husband, perhaps? Or was she his doxy? A repulsive thought. Just thinking about the man with his hands on the saucy wench made him go cold.

What the hell was the matter with him? To be attracted to two women in one week seemed overly debauched even for him. Two very different females, too. One sweet, innocent, barely aware of her feminine appeal. The other, coarse and brash, a lure to the brute every civilised man held at bay.

What a base cur he was, to look forward to meeting the lady highwayman again.

Leaving the lane, they entered the woods. Ancient oaks and elms rose above their heads, the cool air smelling of leaf mould. A breeze stirred the branches and gold-dappled shadows shifted on the track. Here and there the damp soil revealed the passage of two horses travelling fast, one large and one smaller.

When they emerged into open country again, Garrick lost the tracks. Forced to dismount, he cast around.

Dan slid warily from his horse a short distance off. ‘There are hoof prints in the dried mud over here, my lord, leading that way.’

Garrick inspected the prints. They were the same as those he’d seen in the woods. ‘Well done, Dan. Let’s see where they lead.’

Walking their horses, they continued on. In the distance, hedgerows seemed to stitch the patchwork of green-and-gold fields together, and the dipping sun gilded the tops of emerald trees. Once in a while, a patch of soft earth, or dried mud, revealed evidence of their quarry.

Tucked in a valley near a copse of trees they came across an ancient-looking barn hunkered beside a stream-fed pond. ‘This looks promising,’ Garrick said.