by Anne Herries
would need to be there, of course, to lend authority to the investigation. However, he was more
interested now in sorting out this business of his engagement to Olivia. Things could not go on as
they were...for everyone's sake. He had taken his time for reasons of his own, but he must do
something soon.
Opening the door of his bedchamber, he checked as he saw the candles burning and there, asleep
on the bed, Beatrice. How lovely she looked, her hair tumbling about her shoulders, face flushed
in sleep. For a moment he wondered if he had come to the wrong room, but there was no mistake.
She was fully clothed, lying on the covers. Beatrice must have come here to wait for him.
He set his brandy glass down besides the chamberstick she had brought with her, then walked
softly to the bed. Why was she here? He could guess. She must have found it impossible to sleep,
knowing what was going on, longing to be with them, yet knowing she would only be in their way.
She had risen from her bed so as not to disturb her sister and come here...but why here? Why had
she not waited for him in the kitchen?
He sat carefully on the edge of the bed, temptation overcoming his sense of right and wrong as he
bent to gently kiss her lips. In seconds she was awake, gazing up at him, still caught in sleep, half
dreaming.
'Harry, my love,' she whispered. 'You are safe...you have come back to me...thank God.' And then
she put her arms up about his neck, and pulled his head down to hers, kissing him with such
fervent passion that his desire for her overcame all scruples.
His mouth devoured hers hungrily. His arms were about her, crushing her against him. He could
feel the thrust of her nipples through the fine material of his shirt and knew that she was aroused.
She wanted him as he wanted her.
Harry's tongue invaded her mouth, tasting its sweetness, drawing it into his own. He kissed her
throat as her head arched back and she moaned with pleasure, then he pushed back her night-robe
and found her breasts, his tongue flicking at the nipples, which were peaked and thrusting for his
attention. He laid her back against the pillows, his breathing harsh as he buried his face into the
softness of her navel, inhaling the warm, sensuous perfume of her skin.
'I want you so badly, Beatrice,' he muttered. 'God, you are so beautiful.'
'I am yours if you want me...'
He was so sorely tempted. Harry had never felt this way about a woman before in his life. He was
burning to make her his own, but even as she lay looking up at him, her eyes drowned in passion,
he knew he could not do this. She was as innocent as she was beautiful, he sensed that
instinctively, and he could not take the gift she was offering him so sweetly. He had taken her by
surprise and she had not thought beyond this moment. He could not take advantage of her.
'No,' he said, his voice made harsh by the wrench of self-denial. 'This is wrong, Beatrice. I will
not shame you. I will not anticipate your wedding night by grabbing greedily for the sweetness you
would offer me. It would not be right...'
Beatrice stared at him in horror. What was he saying? She had misread his feelings. He did not
want her! He spoke of right and wrong, of shame...when all she had thought of was her desperate
longing to be in his arms. She would have given all for one night of love, even if she could have
no more—but he had spurned her offer. He was too honourable a man. He had drawn back,
reminding her of the barriers between them, and she felt the sting of humiliation wash over her.
'Forgive me,' she said in strangled voice. 'I must have been dreaming. I did not know what I said...'
And then, before Harry could move to stop her, she rolled away from him, almost threw herself
from the bed and fled from the room, never stopping until she reached the safety of the room she
shared with Olivia.
He would not pursue her here, she knew. She had forgotten herself in the heat of passion, but
Harry had behaved with all the true decency and honour she might expect from a man of his
lineage. She believed he would do and say nothing to betray her...but how was she ever to face
him again?
Beatrice leaned against the bedroom door and closed her eyes, her face burning. She was
trembling, distressed, ashamed. Oh, why had she been so foolish as to throw herself at him? How
could she have behaved in such a wanton fashion? What must he think of her?
After a moment, she crept back into bed, lying with her knees curled up to her chest as the memory
of his rejection overcame her.
She was such a fool to think that Harry cared for her. Why should he? She was three-and-twenty,
almost an old maid. Olivia was young and fresh and pretty, and she knew how to behave when a
gentleman flirted with her. No man would prefer her to her sister! It was her own foolish heart that
had led her astray.
Beatrice had lost her head as well as her heart. She had believed that Harry meant to offer her
carte blanche. At first she had been upset that he could contemplate making her his mistress, but
her desperation to be in his arms had made her deny her own principles.
Well, she was well served for her recklessness. She had made a fool of herself, and she must get
through the next few days as best she could. To save them both embarrassment, she would try to
keep her distance from Lord Ravensden as much as possible over the next few days.
'Oh, here you are,' Olivia said as she came into the kitchen, where Beatrice had hidden herself the
next morning. 'I am sure I lost my cross in the Abbey gardens. Will you come with me to look for
it? Please, Beatrice. It means so much to me.'
Beatrice glanced towards the window. It was a bright morning with no sign of rain or mist. She
decided a walk would do her good, help to take away the headache that had been with her since
she woke, besides, she had promised to help her sister look for the trinket.
'Yes, of course I will,' she said, taking off her apron. 'Let me get my cloak, dearest, and we shall
go this minute.'
'Have you seen Harry this morning?' Olivia said as they both went into the hall. She waited as
Beatrice put on a warm cloak and bonnet. 'Nan said he was up early and went out riding, but he
must surely have returned by now. It is almost time for nuncheon.'
'No, I have not seen him,' Beatrice said. She had not ventured near the parlour all morning, and she
did not intend to. She would find a task to keep her busy somewhere. But it was not her sister's
fault that she was so unhappy. She linked her arm in Olivia's and smiled at her. 'Now, dearest, tell
me how you are feeling. Have you settled now? You are not still angry with Lord Ravensden?'
'No, I am not angry,' Olivia replied. 'It was clearly a misunderstanding—and made worse by the
abominable Peregrine. I like Harry. He is kind and considerate, and that careless humour is just a
game with him.'
'Yes, I know,' Beatrice said. 'I believe he would make...a comfortable husband. You should think
very carefully before you refuse his offer, Olivia.'
'Oh, I shall,' her sister said in a rather odd tone. 'I shall consider any offer Lord Ravensden makes
me very carefully...'
Beatrice nodded, but did not reply. They had entered the Abbey grounds now, and were walking
down the narrow lane they had taken before.
'You walk on one side,
' Beatrice said, 'and I shall take the other. If we both look carefully, we
may find it.'
'I believe it may be in the herb garden, for I was touching it when Lord Dawlish and I stood there
talking,' Olivia said, but she followed her sister's action, walking with her eyes downcast in case
she should catch sight of a flash of gold. 'I should so hate to lose it, Beatrice.'
There was no sign of the heavy golden cross and chain in the lane that either of the sisters could
find, but they continued to trace the path Olivia and Lord Dawlish had followed on that earlier
occasion, both walking with their heads bent, eyes searching intently for the necklace Olivia had
lost.
The herb garden was neglected, its once neat beds overgrown and forlorn, the walls almost
completely gone in some places, but it still retained an air of the peace that the long dead monks
must have sought here. The beds had been set out neatly between little hedges, separating the
medicinal herbs from those used in cooking, but now it was impossible to tell where one began
and another ended.
'We stood by the stone bench talking for a moment or two and I touched the cross...' Olivia gave a
sudden cry and ran forward. She stooped down and picked something up, turning to wave at
Beatrice who was still lagging some way behind her. 'I've found it...'
Olivia gave a little scream as she turned and saw why her sister had not followed her. She was
being confronted by a man dressed in what must once have been a well-cut coat, but was now
stained and hanging loose about him, the buttons torn from the cloth. His hair was wild about his
face, and looked as if it had not been washed or cut in many months, and he was swaying on his
feet, cursing in a loud harsh voice.
She had no doubt that this must be the wicked Marquis himself! Olivia was transfixed with terror
as she realised that he was very drunk, and threatening her sister. He had some kind of gun in his
hand, a heavy thing with a wide barrel that looked dangerous.
'Damned trespassers,' Sywell muttered drunkenly. 'I'll teach you to come poaching on my land...
Hang the lot of you. Make an example to the rest...'
'We are not poachers,' Beatrice said. Her face was pale, but she held her head high. 'Be sensible,
sir. We are two women out for a walk. We mean no harm...'
'Damned trespassers,' Sywell said, leering at her. He blinked, obviously too drunk to know what
was going on. 'Had enough of this...teach you a lesson...'
He aimed his gun at Beatrice, clearly intending to fire. Olivia screamed loudly, and then suddenly
both sisters heard a shout and the sound of thudding hooves.
Turning, Beatrice saw a horseman riding straight towards them. It was Harry! His horse jumped
between the tumbled walls with ease, trampling on herb beds and whatever lay in its path as horse
and rider charged straight at the Marquis. Harry clearly intended to ride Sywell down rather than
let him fire at Beatrice.
She cried out in alarm as Sywell seemed to realise what was happening and swung round to face
in the horseman's direction. He took aim once again, but as he did so, Olivia gave a great leap
forward and threw herself at Sywell's back. The gun's heavy barrel turned skyward and the shots
fired harmlessly into the air, but the noise had terrified Harry's horse and it reared up wildly, in an
attempt to unseat its rider. Harry held on desperately for a few minutes, but was thrown violently
to the ground, almost at the same moment as Sywell pitched forward in a drunken faint.
'Harry!' Beatrice screamed. She rushed to where he was lying, still and unmoving on his back, his
eyes closed, colour white as death. She knelt on the ground by his side, running her hands over his
face, forgetting all her feelings of shame and embarrassment in her concern for the man she loved.
'Harry, my darling,' she wept, the tears beginning to run down her cheeks. 'Oh, Harry. Please don't
die...I love you so. Please don't die...don't leave me. I cannot bear it if you die...'
Olivia came to kneel down at her side. She looked down at Harry's still form. 'He must have been
knocked unconscious by the fall,' she said. 'Stay here with him, Beatrice, and I will run and fetch
help.'
Beatrice hardly heard her. She bent to press her lips to Harry's, the tears falling onto his face as
she continued to beg him not to die. 'Please don't leave me,' she begged. 'Please live, Harry...live,
my darling, live for me.'
Olivia glanced towards the Marquis, who lay where he had fallen, face down in the herbs that had
gone wild. He had not moved, and it seemed clear that he was too drunk to do any more harm.
'The Marquis has passed out,' she said, and got to her feet. 'Stay with Harry, Beatrice. I shall not
be long...'
Beatrice was vaguely aware of her sister's words, but she did not turn her head as Olivia began to
run. All she could think of was the man who lay so still and pale on the ground before her.
'I love you,' she whispered, stroking his cheek. 'I love you, I love you. Do not leave me, my
dearest heart, for I think I shall die if you do. Speak to me, only speak to me...'
Harry's eyelids flickered. He made a moaning sound, then opened his eyes and looked up at her.
'What happened?' He sat up, then groaned as he felt the dizziness sweep over him. 'Now what
have you done to me, Beatrice? I feel as if a coach and horses has fallen on my head.'
'You were thrown from your horse,' Beatrice said, sitting back on her heels. 'Do you not
remember? The Marquis was threatening me with a blunderbuss and you rode straight at him. He
was going to fire at you instead of me, but Olivia rushed at him and his shots went wide.' Beatrice
drew a sobbing breath. 'She saved your life because of that, Harry. She saved your life...'
'Good grief! Yes, I think she probably did,' Harry said and sat up gingerly. 'What a brave young
woman she is. I must thank her properly.' He glanced round and saw the Marquis lying on the
ground. 'Where is she? And what is wrong with him? I do trust Olivia did not actually kill the
fellow. That would be a trifle awkward, I fear.'
'I imagine he is in a drunken stupor—and Olivia has gone for help,' Beatrice said, biting her lip as
she fought the urge to laugh. 'Will you never be serious, Harry? Do you not realise what might
have happened here? I thought you were dead.'
'Did you indeed?' Harry smiled at her. 'Fortunately, that was not the case.' He held out his hand to
her. 'Will you help me to rise, Beatrice? I am feeling most odd...most odd.'
She gave him her hand and he pulled himself up, but swayed unsteadily for a moment. 'I think I
must put my arm about your waist,' Harry said, a gleam she did not miss in his eyes. 'I may be able
to walk if you will help me.'
'Olivia will bring Bellows,' Beatrice said, belatedly remembering that she had meant to stay well
clear of him. 'Perhaps you should wait, my lord.'
Harry glanced round. His horse was pawing the ground restlessly some feet away.
'Bellows can bring poor Rufus,' Harry said. 'He has never behaved so badly before, and it was
truly not his fault. I think you must assist me, Beatrice.'
'Very well, if you lean on me, we can walk home together.'
'Slowly,' Harry said. 'I cannot walk fast, Beatrice. You must be patient and take your time with
me.'
'Yes, of course,' she said, looking
at him in concern. 'I think you may have cut your head, sir.
There is a little blood trickling down your neck.'
'It feels as if I have split it wide open,' Harry said. 'I shall rely on you to nurse me if I am ill
again.'
She had the oddest sensation that he was teasing her, deliberately reminding her of what had
passed before. She blushed for shame. How could he? Surely he must realise how awkward she
felt after what had happened between them the previous night?'
'I shall naturally bathe your head for you, sir.'
'So we are back to sir again,' Harry said and sighed. 'I quite thought we had gone beyond that,
Beatrice.'
'Pray do not remind me of my foolishness,' she begged, wishing that she could run off as she had
the previous evening but knowing that she could not desert him. 'I had been dreaming. I did not
know what I was saying. You should take pity and not remind me of something best forgotten.'
'You dreamt of me, I hope?'
Beatrice turned her head towards him, but he had paused and his eyes were closed as if he were in
some pain. 'Does your head hurt very much, my lord?'
'I must confess it does,' Harry replied. 'But I truly believe Sywell would have killed you had I not
seen you enter the Abbey grounds. I was some distance away and followed—another moment and
I might have been too late. Why on earth did you and Olivia come here alone? Were you searching
for that wretched grave again?'
'No...' Beatrice blushed. 'It was for a gold cross and chain, which were a present to my sister from
our mother. She lost it here when she was with Lord Dawlish and was so upset that I agreed to
come with her to look for it.'
'Did you not think it might be dangerous? Could you not have told me, allowed me to arrange a
search? Consider, Beatrice—if we had found that grave, you would probably have been
confronted by a murderer, rather than a drunken sot who was too far gone to withstand a push in
the back from a woman.'
Beatrice bit her lip, knowing the rebuke was well deserved.
'From that I gather the grave did not contain the Marchioness's body?'
'It was the burial place of a horse.'
She nodded, relieved it had not been what they feared.
'Yes, I dare say the Marquis has buried more than one mount,' Beatrice said soberly. 'He is what is
