For Your Arms Only

by Linden, Caroline

  With heavy feet she climbed the stairs, catching Callie just as her sister emerged from Granny’s room with a tray. Callie put one finger to her lips and closed the door.

  “She didn’t eat much.” Cressida noted the nearly full bowl of stew with dismay. Granny was wasting away.

  Callie bit her lip. “I tried, but she says she’s just not hungry. Tea is all she’ll take.”

  Another worry. Cressida sighed. “Later I’ll make some scones. Perhaps that will tempt her appetite.”

  “Perhaps.” But there was no conviction in the word.

  “We have another problem.” Callie’s face grew even graver, and she set down her tray to follow Cressida into her bedchamber across the hall. “The horses aren’t ours.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Papa hired them. He didn’t buy them.”

  Callie’s lips parted in understanding. “But that means…Oh dear.”

  “Oh dear,” Cressida echoed grimly. “I told Tom to take them back—we’ll save on feed at least—but what are we to do now?”

  Callie sank into the chair, her forehead creased in worry. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “There’s nothing left?”

  “Not much.” Cressida sat on the end of the bed. The two sisters looked at each other in silent comprehension. “We can’t stay here,” she said at last.

  “Where will we go?” Callie gave a sharp, wild laugh as she jumped back to her feet. “This was supposed to be home—better than Portsmouth, Papa said. Secure and comfortable. When is the lease up?”

  “A fortnight.”

  “I can draw on my funds,” Callie began. Mr. Phillips had left her almost a thousand pounds, all currently invested in the four percents. It was a small income, but they needed it.

  Cressida flipped one hand. “We’d have nothing when it was gone. At least with that income and Granny’s annuity we have something.”

  Her sister sighed. “Perhaps Major Hayes will locate Papa soon.”

  Cressida said nothing. She rolled a bit of her skirt between her fingers and studied it.

  “You aren’t still considering refusing him, are you?”

  Cressida shrugged.

  “Give me one reason why,” exclaimed Callie, hands on hips. “Who else has offered to help us?”

  “I don’t know about him,” she muttered. “He makes me…uneasy.”

  “He makes me uneasy, too, but we are not in a position to be particular.”

  “I know,” Cressida admitted. It did make her feel better to hear that Callie was uneasy about him, but her sister had clearly gotten over it enough to accept his help. Cressida wished she could shake off her own wariness; she wished even more that her unease weren’t so tied to the way her nerves jangled like a shopkeeper’s bell when he looked at her.

  “Granny’s tonic is gone,” said Callie in a subdued voice. “I’ll walk into town and get more.”

  “No, I’ll go.” Cressida leaped to her feet. Heaven knew she could use the exercise. Perhaps something would come to her on the way, some grand scheme to extricate them from this difficulty. A modest proposal to shore up their finances. Even a small plan would be nice. But nothing came to her as she put on her bonnet and counted out some of their few remaining coins before starting off for town.

  Chapter 6

  Alec’s next encounter with Miss Turner happened purely by chance.

  He was driving down the road from Penford toward Marston when he came upon her walking the same direction, a basket swinging from her arm. Even without glimpsing her face, Alec recognized her. There was no mistaking her brisk stride, or her height, or the slender slope of her neck beneath the plain straw bonnet. She stepped to the side to let his gig pass, and before he could reconsider, Alec brought the horse to a stop.

  “Good day, Miss Turner.”

  She whirled to face him, her golden eyes opening wide in surprise. “Oh,” she said, obviously flustered. “Good day, sir.”

  Alec smiled. “Do you go into Marston?” She stared at him, and nodded. “May I offer you a ride?”

  “Er…” She hesitated, tugging on one of her bonnet ribbons. The ribbons were bright cherry red, a striking contrast to her plain gray dress. Somehow that bright bit of color charmed him.

  “I am sent to fetch my sister, Julia, home, and would be very glad for some company,” he said. He had planned to call on her later anyway; he told himself it would save a trip to Brighampton to offer her a ride, even if she did stand there biting her lower lip in a way that caught his interest unlike anything John Stafford had ever charged him with.

  Finally she smiled politely. “Thank you, that would be lovely.”

  He jumped down from the gig and held out one hand, helping her up into the gig. She tucked her skirts around her as he circled the carriage and climbed up beside her. The seat was wide enough for both, but just barely. His arm brushed hers as he lifted the reins, and her skirts spilled over his boots despite her best efforts to contain them. She sat very still and primly upright, eyes straight ahead and her hands wrapped tightly around the handle of her basket. Every time the gig hit the tiniest rut in the road, her figure seemed to strain away from him.

  Alec began to regret his impulse; he was far too aware of her every movement to persuade himself it was mere courtesy or part of his job to take her up. He just had an irrational fascination with the curve of her neck, and the color of her eyes, and the swell of her—

  “I do hope the rain doesn’t come and ruin your trip into town,” he said, quelling his wayward thoughts.

  She glanced at him warily. “I have my cloak. It was very kind of you to take me up.”

  “It is my pleasure. It’s quite a long walk into town from Brighampton.”

  Her mouth compressed. “It’s not so very long. I’m very fond of walking, in any event.”

  She must be; it was at least four miles, and she would have to walk home with a heavy basket while clouds multiplied in the sky. The air was thick and humid, and rain would be welcome after the heat. Alec remembered the two sturdy horses in her stable, and wondered again about the Turner finances. “As am I,” he replied. “Although not in the rain.”

  She said nothing, and they drove in silence for some time. Silence, Alec knew, could work wonders. More often than not, saying nothing was a good way to prompt someone to say something, especially women, especially when they had something on their minds. The glances he stole at her from time to time indicated that she did have something on her mind, from the way she kept rolling her lower lip between her teeth. The action left her lips deep pink and glistening, and far too intriguing. His eyes seemed drawn to her mouth every time he looked at her. He silently cursed himself as a sad, lonely wretch, sneaking peeks at a woman’s mouth and fantasizing about the curve of her neck.

  “Major Hayes,” she blurted out at last, “I must apologize for the other day, when you first called at Brighampton. I reacted in haste and very much regret my actions.”

  “Which actions, Miss Turner?”

  She might be grinding her teeth, from the set of her jaw. “All of them,” she muttered.

  The road made a sweeping turn to the west, following the River Lea. Alec didn’t slow the horse at all, and she almost leaned over the side of the gig to keep from touching him. He wondered if it was intense dislike, or something else, that made her do that, and then he wondered why he cared. “I took no offense.”

  “I had a fear of horse thieves,” she said. “But I would not have shot you.”

  “Don’t raise a gun unless you are prepared to fire it.”

  “I only meant to frighten you—or rather, a horse thief—away.”

  “You didn’t cock the pistol and you stood close enough that I could have taken the pistol from you if I wanted to. A real thief wouldn’t have been frightened.”

  She was watching him from the corner of her eyes, looking slightly amazed. “You weren’t alarmed at all?”

  “No.” Her interest, even mixed with caution and
suspicion, was tantalizing. Alec kept his eyes fixed on the road, although he could feel the warmth of her body near his.

  “Do you have pistols pointed at you often?”

  “I was in the cavalry, Miss Turner. Pistols, rifles, heavy artillery—and most of them firing at the time.”

  “Yes, of course,” she murmured. “I forgot.”

  “Why should you have known?” He couldn’t resist turning to look at her. She had cocked her head at an angle to see him without having to turn and face him. A fine line divided her brows, and wisps of golden brown hair drifted around the brim of her bonnet. Alec knew he was being sized up. If she told him they didn’t want his help, he would really have no more excuse to stare at her. Not that it would change his mission from Stafford to find the sergeant, but he would have to do it without the intriguing Miss Turner’s cooperation. The job would be more difficult, and far, far less entertaining. That ought to be reason enough for him to stop provoking her, but instead he was behaving like a man gorging himself in anticipation of a coming famine.

  She blinked and jerked her eyes away from his. “I didn’t know,” she said, staring straight ahead again. “I only knew your rank. I never thought officers cared much for being under fire.”

  Alec smiled wryly at the subtle insult. That was a regular soldier’s view, and certainly true of some officers, but not true of him. Perhaps it would improve Miss Turner’s opinion of his character if he told her how many times he had led a charge directly into French fire. “May I ask why you were so quick to assume I was a horse thief?”

  “Well…You were in the stable.”

  “Right. Well, I did see a man leaving the stable, in a very suspicious manner. Perhaps he was your horse thief.”

  Her expression grew uneasy. “Was there really another man?” she said, then blushed. She thought he had lied to her.

  He let it go with a nod. “Yes. A big fellow, creeping rather furtively about before running into the woods. I presume he doesn’t work for you.”

  “No,” she murmured. “I—I expect it was a creditor, or someone from Mr. Bickford’s stables.”

  Creditors normally came to the front door and demanded their money. Alec added that mysterious figure to the list of things he must look into.

  “I doubt he was a horse thief. It was broad daylight, after all; an odd time to steal a horse, don’t you think?”

  “Having never stolen a horse,” she said, “I wouldn’t know the best time to do it.”

  “I recommend after dark. Or in a pouring rainstorm, for no one wishes to chase after you then. Of course, you should take care to choose a placid horse in that event, who won’t take fright at the storm.”

  She glanced at him in alarm. “You seem well-versed in the matter.”

  He met her eyes. “Such knowledge comes in handy from time to time.”

  She shifted away from him in her seat. “I wonder why Lord Hastings sent you to help us, then. Since we don’t, in fact, need any horses stolen.”

  “I wonder why you are so reluctant to accept a well-meant offer of help. Perhaps you have reconsidered your desire to locate your father.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “I have not! How could you think that?”

  He pulled up the horse, stopping the carriage with a jerk that made her clutch at the seat cushion, and turned to face her. “According to your account, he left four months ago. You waited more than three months to contact Hastings, and when Hastings sent someone—me—to your aid, you gave every appearance of being unpleasantly surprised instead of delighted.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he draped one arm along the back of the carriage and leaned toward her. Just a bit, but she shrank away from him, clutching the basket protectively against her chest. “A suspicious man might wonder if perhaps it was just for show, that your father’s disappearance suits you very well after all and you’re merely going through the motions of searching to avoid revealing just how satisfied you are without him. Or perhaps you know exactly where he is…buried.” He whispered the last word, tempting her—no, goading her—to lose her temper and tell him something he didn’t know.

  “What—What kind of man would ask that?” she stammered. “It’s dreadful!”

  His gaze wandered over her face until he could almost feel her skin against his fingertips. He had to squeeze the reins in his fist to keep from reaching up to touch her. This had been a very bad idea, inviting her to sit so close beside him. He should have known to keep his distance the moment he saw her. “A very thorough one,” he replied. “All too often the more dreadful a possibility, the truer it is.”

  She wet her lips. “It’s not true in this case, and I am appalled you would think so.”

  He raised one eyebrow and straightened on the seat. “Did I say I thought so? I never assume the answer to questions like that.”

  “Then why did you bring it up?” she demanded furiously. “My family certainly doesn’t need the help of someone who would leap to that sort of conclusion!”

  “No, but you need the help of someone who will ask that sort of question.”

  “I don’t think we do!”

  He could tell she wasn’t so certain of that by the tone of her voice—not softening in doubt, but ringing with outraged defiance. She didn’t trust him, didn’t like him, and Alec had worn through his limited supply of diplomacy anyway. “Miss Turner, clearly you have run out of patience that your father will return on his own. If you still believed that, you wouldn’t have written to Hastings. I was sent to act on his behalf, fulfilling your request. Now, either you don’t wish to find your father after all for some reason, or you simply don’t want me to do it.” He knew it was a gamble to be so blunt with her. Normally he acted in the shadows, listening here and prying a little there. It felt odd to be so open and brazen about his purpose, but there was no way around it. Everyone knew who he was now; no more hiding in the anonymity of a footman’s livery. There was little doubt in his mind that she had heard the stories about him, and his aggressive tactic would be enough to send most ladies into an outraged fit—or into a dead faint.

  But this lady…he thought not. Between the pistol and the fact that she had accepted his offer of a ride into town, Alec sensed that Cressida Turner was made of sterner stuff. In fact, although she was obviously shocked by his suggestions, her reaction appeared to be more anger than anything else. A flush of fine color had come into her face, and her glorious eyes were positively smoldering. He realized his shoulders had tensed in anticipation of being struck, and that the possibility was more intriguing than irritating.

  “What the devil do you want from me?” she said, biting off each word. “What am I supposed to say to that?”

  Alec smiled thinly, gathering the reins. “The truth, Miss Turner. That is all I am after.” He snapped the reins and the gig jolted forward.

  “What if the truth is that I don’t want to speak to you ever again?” she said over the rumble of the wheels. She had clapped one hand to her bonnet, and held tight to her basket with the other. She no longer held herself so stiffly away from him.

  “You don’t have to.”

  That stopped her. “Oh?”

  He looked at her. Her chin was raised, her eyebrows were arched slightly, and her full mouth was soft with astonishment. She was almost pretty with that flush on her cheeks. “Of course not. I should be very glad for your assistance, though.”

  She licked her lips again. Damn, he was like a boy, entranced by the sight of a woman’s mouth. “Then you would still look for my father, even if…?”

  “Yes.” He leaned forward and peered past her, checking that the way was clear. They had reached the main road into Marston, and he turned the horse onto it. “I gave my word.”

  “But Lord Hastings…”

  “He never said I must secure your approval. Perhaps he assumed you would grant it without question, since you asked for help and he sent it.” He wasn’t sure what Hastings presumed, but he was taking too much pleasure in needling
her.

  Cressida clenched her teeth. He was deliberately misunderstanding her. Arguing with Major Hayes was like chasing a cat. Everything she said, he twisted and turned until she wanted to scream. She should have declined his offer, even if it meant walking twice as far into town. “I don’t want to appear ungrateful to Lord Hastings.”

  He flashed a darkly amused glance at her. “No.”

  She decided to be blunt. Heaven knew he hadn’t shied away from it. “Three days,” she said. “I would like three days to consider your offer to try to find my father.”

  “What will happen in three days?”

  “I—I have to talk to my sister,” she said, taken aback by his swift riposte. “And to my grandmother.”

  “What will you tell them?”

  It was almost as if he was daring her to accuse him of all the horrible things the gossips said about him. Cressida set her jaw and made herself smile. “I will ask their opinion of the matter. We might prefer someone more familiar with our family.”

  “Your man Webb, I suppose. Of course, you haven’t sent him on it yet.”

  “We like our privacy,” she snapped. “I don’t have to tell you anything. We are used to doing for ourselves, and if I prefer not to tell you all my father’s private doings and secret habits, I don’t see how you of all people could possibly fault me for it!” She stopped, horrified. Her temper had gotten the better of her in spite of her resolve not to let it.

  It had a better effect on the major than she had expected, though. He turned to her, no longer quizzing and poking, but almost…pleased. “Thank you, Miss Turner, for your honesty. I certainly can respect that reason, and I will. Three days, you say?”

  “Er…yes.” She nodded once. Had he done all that just to get her to lash out at him? It seemed so…but why?

  He looked away, but she still caught the trace of a smile on his mouth. “If we are to cooperate in this, you should know that I prize honesty and truth above all else. The truth may be ugly at times, but it always comes out in the end, and often appears even uglier after being hidden. But I also value discretion. Nothing you tell me about your father shall ever be repeated except in pursuit of the truth, and then only with as much care as possible.”