by Amy Corwin
“No, though she positively revels in it when it does occur,” he replied sourly. He slumped back in his wooden chair, one arm propped up on her bedside table and the other dangling at his side. “So what did you think of our vicar?” he asked, changing the subject abruptly.
He reminds me of a skunk. She hid another burst of laughter behind her hand and forced a more serious, or at least calm, expression on her face. “He seemed very… meticulous.”
He snorted and flung his head back to clear the lock of hair out of his eyes. “A great comfort to our villagers in time of need,” he commented in a dry voice. “Just the sort you’d want to find next to your bed as you lay dying.”
“Yes. Well…” She glanced away awkwardly, her hands picking at the edge of the quilt.
“Miserly old dog,” he added in a soft voice. “Though I understand he recently hired a curate. Makes you wonder how he could afford the man. No doubt but that he’ll work him to death, saving all the poor souls of the parish, while rewarding him with a generous income of slightly less than fifty pounds per annum. Or less, if he can manage it. A fine religious man, our uncle Carter. His love of God is only surpassed by his venality.”
There seemed little she could say to contradict his cynical observation, particularly since she secretly believed it to be true. Though to be fair, she had no idea if the vicar was a miser or not. After all, he had given her back her trunk and even seemed reluctant to accept a monetary gift from her, although he apparently needed the funds for the repair of the church.
Perhaps there was some family incident in the past that had soured the relations between the two men. Whatever it was, Hannah had no right to interfere.
“He seemed kind,” she murmured. She glanced up, smiling. “Did you hear that my trunk was found? Now there can be no question as to my identity.”
“Indeed.” His brown eyes glinted in the candlelight, but the shadows hid the nuances of his expression, making him appear only mildly interested. “And who made this momentous discovery?”
“Your cousin, I believe. Mr. Henry Hodges.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.” But a frown creased her brows as she reconsidered his question. The trunk had been at the vicar’s house, and she couldn’t precisely remember if anyone had actually claimed the responsibility for the discovery. “Or rather, I believe someone from the village may have actually found it and brought it to the vicar’s home. They are apparently preparing for an auction, or something similar, to obtain the funds to repair the church roof.”
“So the trunk was at the vicarage?”
“Well, yes. They planned to auction off the contents.” She flushed and glanced away, feeling awkward and slightly embarrassed, though she had no reason for such sensations. “I offered a small token. Of thanks.” Her cheeks felt as if they were on fire.
“And did Uncle Carter accept your small token?”
“No—not precisely. That is, I must present my letter of introduction and so on to the Bank of England, where my lawyer arranged to transfer a sum for my use. I’m sure it can all be arranged once we go to London.”
“I’m sure it can,” he replied dryly.
“What do you mean by that?” She straightened, her hands gripping the edges of the quilt.
He slumped back further in his chair, his legs stretching out so far that they went under the edge of her bed. “Nothing. I’m sure my uncle will be suitably grateful for whatever token amount you wish to grant him.”
Did he think she was a miser, as well? Or did he still believe she was an adventuress, out to cheat his grandmother? “That’s a despicable thing to say! Get out! I’m exhausted and extremely tired of this conversation, as well.”
He studied her, a half-smile twisting his mouth. “You don’t enjoy our little tête-à-têtes?”
“How could anyone enjoy being awakened in the middle of the night to be interrogated and insulted?”
“I’ve insulted you?” His brows rose, disappearing under his shaggy hair. “I do apologize.”
“You do not— I’ve never seen anyone less apologetic in my life.”
His grin widened. “If you consider it, you’ll realize it wasn’t you I was insulting.”
“No—it was your uncle—and me by implication. Why don’t you like your uncle?”
“He’s on the wrong side of the family.”
“Wrong side?”
“Surely, our Georgina has explained.” He chuckled. “I’m on the mad side, while dear Cousin Henry and Uncle Carter are… not.”
Hannah laughed again. Her smile degenerated into another yawn, however, and she hastily hid that behind her hand. “How trying for you. I suppose your cousin and uncle must be great friends, then.”
“Not particularly. Like repels like, or so I’ve been told.”
“But Henry was at the vicarage.”
“Yes, he was, wasn’t he?”
Hannah studied his face. Once again, he seemed almost expressionless in the flickering light. “What was he doing there?” she asked.
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“I thought it was something to do with my trunk, but truly, I don’t honestly know.”
He sighed and placed a hand flat on the bedside table to push himself up. “No. More’s the pity.”
For a moment, he stood there at the side of her bed, towering over her. She held her breath, looking up at him, wanting him to lean over, wanting to feel the warmth of his chest and strength of his arms around her. Pools of darkness hid his eyes, but he seemed to be staring at her.
Slowly, he bent, one hand clasping the bedpost. A shiver of excitement went through her. Her eyelids fluttered, and her toes curled as she lifted her chin. There was one hushed moment when he paused, his mouth mere inches from hers. The heady fragrance of his skin, combined with a spicy bay and soap scent, made her take a deep breath.
His lips brushed hers gently before he moved to press another kiss against her forehead. “Sleep well, Hannah. And if you do remember anything, I hope you will share it with me.”
“At three in the morning?”
His low chuckle whispered over his shoulder as he moved toward the door. “It is the best time for honesty, after all.”
“Only if you’re an owl.” She watched as he slipped through the door.
A soft click, a few footsteps, and the quiet returned to the house, though not to Hannah. She couldn’t forget the scent of him or the warm softness of his lips. Her body tingled with excitement, and when she tried to close her eyes and fall asleep, she couldn’t.
Her thoughts kept whirling back to Blackwold and how right it had felt when he’d pressed that light kiss on her mouth.
It wasn’t until dawn that her eyes snapped open with the thought that she’d met all the men who wore the griffin ring except one: Georgina’s father.
One of them was the man who had ordered the death of Officer Trent, and for some reason, she wanted it to be the one person she hadn’t yet met. She rolled over in bed and turned her pillow to the cool side. It would be awful if it turned out to be Georgina’s father. Too awful to contemplate.
However, something even worse kept hovering around her like a suffocating fog. She wasn’t sure, but she felt like she was on the verge—in fact, her toes were already sticking out over that line—of falling in love with a man who might be that murderer. And to make that horror even more tragic, he might even be engaged to someone else.
Chapter Thirteen
“She has told you nothing?” Officer Farley asked again, his hands clasped behind his rigid back and his nearly invisible brows rising toward the brim of his hat.
“She apparently saw very little, being occupied by the difficulties presented by the waves and wind,” Blackwold repeated, staring past the Customs Officer’s shoulder to the winding road leading back to Blackrock Manor. He contemplated pointing out that they wouldn’t have needed to question Hannah if Farley hadn’t sent him on a wild goose chase the very
night that the wreckers had lured the Orion to her doom, virtually on Blackrock Manor’s doorstep.
But there was no point in arguing about the past.
Farley frowned. “You said she saw the leader.”
“His back. Backs are notoriously difficult to identify.”
The officer had the grace to look abashed. He glanced down at the rutted dirt road and shifted his booted feet. “There is nothing else, my lord?”
“No. I have repeatedly questioned Miss Cowles. Her story has remained consistent. As I may have mentioned, if there is any additional information, I will send word to you. There is no need to meet otherwise.”
“Yes, my lord.” Farley pressed his hat more firmly on his head. “Much obliged, my lord.” A cascade of polite thanks, mingled with obsequious apologies, erupted as Blackwold turned and walked away.
“Idiot,” Blackwold muttered under his breath as he rounded the curve in the road before the drive straightened to lead directly to Blackrock’s massive stone portico, sheltering the front door.
The sight of the manor, ungainly though it might be with various additions jutting out at odd angles, chimneys dotting the jumble of roofs, and the seemingly random placement of windows, never failed to make him smile. It seemed as rumpled and comfortable as an old jacket.
Home.
Instead of going in the front door, he walked around to the stables. A ride would clear his head and perhaps allow him to develop another strategy for identifying the man responsible for so many tragic deaths. While he enjoyed his three a.m. talks with Hannah, they were proving to be less helpful than he had hoped.
Nonetheless, he had the niggling thought that she’d seen more than she was willing to admit. If only she trusted him…
The frantic activities of two grooms, running thither and yon in the stable yard caught his attention. Increasing his pace, he strode through the gate and caught the youngest man, Jim, by the arm.
The groom turned a pale face to him. Sweat beaded his brow as he gulped for air. He blinked, recognized Blackwold, and grew so white that the freckles on his face stood out starkly.
“My lord!” he yelped.
“What has happened?”
“It be that mare—Hera.”
“Hera?” A knot clenched his gut. While generally docile, the horse was easily spooked. “Was anyone injured?” He grabbed the young man’s flapping waistcoat. “One of the women?”
Jim’s eyes rolled up in his head, flashing white in the sunlight.
For a moment, Blackwold thought he was going to faint, and he gave the groom a shake before repeating, “Is anyone injured?”
“Don’t know, my lord,” he moaned. “Gone—she be gone—clean as the wind.”
“Gone?” He glanced around. The gate leading to the garden path hung open. He pushed the lad away. “Get a rope and bridle. Now!”
“Yes, my lord.” The groom stumbled away.
Blackwold strode to the garden gate and waited. New green growth had appeared—vegetation a horse might want to investigate. Less than a minute later, Jim came running back, a rope and bridle hanging from his hands.
“Come with me,” Blackwold said, grabbing the items from the groom and striding through the gate.
Halfway down through the garden he paused. The horse wasn’t far away—he could hear the heavy thudding of hooves.
“The cliffs, my lord!” the groom exclaimed, pointing. “She be heading for the cliffs!”
Blackwold nodded and raced in that direction. The horse had too much sense to gallop over the edge, but he’d noticed that Hannah liked to walk along the path that followed the edge. She showed absolutely no fear of heights, which normally would be cause for admiration, but at the moment, only tightened the fist of anxiety strangling his gut.
Sure enough, when they cleared the last of the hedges bordering the garden proper, he saw the gray horse, Hera, neighing and cantering over the rough turf. Miss Cowles stood on the cliff path facing them and the horse.
Stay still! He prayed the horse hadn’t seen her, hadn’t noticed the white gown draping her solitary figure.
A gust of wind whispered around them, lifting the hair off his forehead. The hem of her gown rippled.
The horse, seeing the movement, jerked back a step. Snorting and rolling her eyes, Hera stamped the ground and then reared on her hind legs.
When he’d purchased the horse, she was described as very docile and well-behaved. And she was—as long as she encountered only men. There was something about women—and the flapping of women’s skirts—that drove the animal mad with fear. He’d warned his family, and the ladies gave the horse a wide berth, but Hannah didn’t know.
“Hera!” Blackwold called in a strong, calm voice, striding toward the animal. “Don’t move, Miss Cowles. And keep your skirts under control.”
He was too far away to see the expression on her face, but Hannah, apparently sensing danger, pulled and twisted her skirts into a tight corkscrew around her limbs.
Jim edged around Blackwold and began a flanking movement.
Dancing nervously, Hera pawed the earth and flung her head up. Once again, she eyed Hannah, for all the world as if trying to judge how best to force her over the cliff. The horse cantered a few more steps toward the woman and jerked violently again in response to another, stronger gust of wind.
The ribbons on Hannah’s bonnet fluttered, and the hem of her shawl flapped.
Blackwold was almost to the horse. He could feel the heat pouring off the animal’s flanks. Under her sweaty coat, her muscles rippled as she prepared to leap forward.
“I’ve got her by the mane, my lord!” Jim’s voice called.
Hera reared again, flinging off the groom. Her front legs pawed the air before she dropped with a thud.
At that instant, Blackwold flung the rope around her neck and flung his arm over her neck. His arm swept around her head to hide her eyes. If she couldn’t see Hannah, she wouldn’t be afraid.
“Hera—easy, girl,” he murmured into the horse’s twitching ear.
The groom grabbed the bridle out of his hand and quickly shoved the bit into the horse’s mouth. Blackwold moved the horse’s head so that he could stand between the horse and Hannah, blocking the animal’s view, all the while stroking her neck and murmuring soothing words.
“Get her back to the stable,” he said when Jim finished adjusting the bridle.
“Yes, my lord.” Jim turned to lead the horse back, careful to keep her facing away from the cliff.
“Wait—Jim. How did Hera get out of her stall?”
The groom looked at him, his dark eyes as white-rimmed and panicked looking as Hera’s had been. “Sorry, my lord. I never seen—Tom and I just seen the door open—right before you came.”
“Who else was in the stable? Or stable yard?”
“I—I doesn’t know, my lord. Honest. Mr. Henry and the vicar arrived, and we was busy with their gig—we never saw what happened.”
Once again, he was left wondering which of his male relatives might wish to arrange an accident for Hannah to prevent her from remembering anything useful. They all knew about Hera and her fear of women. Releasing the horse was sure to result in a tragic accident. There was always a stiff breeze sweeping in from the ocean, and they all knew Hannah’s custom of walking along the cliff path. Her skirts were certain to flutter in the wind, and Hera could be depended upon to fly into a fit of terror at the sight, either killing Hannah outright with her hooves or sending her over the edge.
“Very good, Jim. Walk her around the yard before you rub her down. And lock the bloody stall door.”
“Yes, my lord.” Jim led the horse away.
Head hanging docilely, Hera followed Jim, the entire incident forgotten by the animal.
Blackwold turned to find Hannah hurrying toward him.
“What happened?” she asked. Her pale skirts fluttered in the brisk wind.
“Hera—that horse—got out of her stall. Like many of us, she has a ho
rror of women.” His mouth twisted wryly as he held out his arm and waited for Hannah to slip her gloved hand through.
“Horror, indeed.” In an attempt not to laugh, she snorted, and her blue eyes twinkled as brightly as the clear sky beyond her. “It is a wonder to me that the British race can manage to survive at all if half the population maintains a horror of the other half.”
“It is a miracle, is it not?” he asked with a bland expression fixed on his face.
“Miracle, indeed.” She snorted and shook her head as he drew her toward the house.
He smiled and pressed her fingers against his arm. “Thank you for listening.” Relief swelled in him when he considered what might have happened to the lovely woman walking next to him.
“You can thank my father—he taught us well when we were in the wilderness of North America. You learn very quickly when to obey and when to argue, or you are likely to find yourself in the embrace of a Grizzly Bear. Or worse.”
“Is there worse?”
She shivered, and the corners of her mouth drooped. “Oh, yes. Rattlesnakes. I cannot abide poisonous snakes.” Her voice grew low and somber. “My youngest sister, Eleanor, was struck by one. She perished—it was terrible.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.” Her words quavered with grief, and her grip on his arm tightened. Taking a deep breath, she glanced at him. “Why do you keep that horse if she is so dangerous?”
“I have no wish to see her put down. I believe, in time, I might be able to convince her to forget her fear.” He shrugged.
“You are very kind. I wish you luck—I truly do.”
They climbed the steps to the terrace in silence, and they were within a yard of the French doors when Georgina burst outside.
“Hannah! I have been waiting for you for ages! Grandmother has received the latest copy of La Belle Assemblée!” She grabbed Miss Cowles’s hand and dragged her away from Blackwold. “Come—you must see—there is the most elegant mourning dress you can imagine!”
Bereft of Hannah’s warmly generous company, Blackwold strolled into the library, only to be met by his secretary.
