An Inheritance for the Birds

by Linda Banche

  He had the grace to blush. “Touché. And I agree. When they look at me, they see money.”

  “They also see a magnificent man.” Oh, gracious, how had those words popped out? “I mean, that is—”

  One side of his mouth arced into a wicked grin. “So, you consider me magnificent?” He sat up. “I knew you liked me wet and half-naked.”

  She gave an unladylike sniff. “Of course, I did.” Why did the shade under the tree now blaze like a furnace? “Although your behavior was most ungentlemanly.”

  His russet-colored eyes glinted with humor. “I apologized.”

  “I doubt you meant it.”

  An exultant laugh exploded from him. “You have found me out.” He waggled his eyebrows. “We men like to preen a bit for an appreciative audience.”

  “Only a bit?” She gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. “You—you—man, you. You enjoyed flaunting yourself.”

  “Just so.” He tapped her on the nose. “Nothing puffs up a man’s importance more than a beautiful woman’s admiration.”

  Her breath caught. “You think me beautiful?”

  “Since the first time I saw you.” His flirtatious smile drained away. “But, after I almost kissed you, I forced myself to concentrate on the contest.” He reached out and ran a finger down the side of her face.

  She shivered.

  “Staying away from you almost killed me.” Desire darkened his eyes. “But now the competition is over.” He caught her shoulders and pushed her to her back. He tossed both their hats away. “And since we are alone, I intend to finish that kiss.”

  “But, Mr. Winnington—”

  “Call me Kit. And I have longed for this ever since I fell into the stream.” His mouth descended onto hers, his lips teasing hers until she opened. And then the world contracted to the feel of Kit—his lips a gentle brush against hers, his strong arms holding her tight, his heat warming her as even the hottest summer day could not.

  Much later, they shifted apart, both of them breathing hard. He lay back and she snuggled against his chest. She released a contented breath. Had the sky ever been so blue? The birdsong so sweet? “Oh, I have never been this happy.”

  His laugh of pleasure rumbled through his chest. “Are the ducks happy, too?”

  “The ducks are happy when we are happy.” She pushed up on one elbow to look down at his smiling face. “So, yes, the ducks are happy.”

  He chuckled. “I must tell Mr. Holt he was right. He said the way to make the ducks happy was to make you happy.”

  She gasped, his words a pin puncturing her bubble of joy. “What! Is that why you kissed me? As one last measure to ensure you win?”

  Shock widened his eyes. “No—”

  She jumped to her feet. “Oh, but you are a clever one. I almost thought—” Tears blurred her vision as she bolted away down the path.

  ****

  Angela turned onto her left side in bed. Something poked her in the ribs and she flopped over onto her right. Gracious, how had her featherbed become stuffed with pebbles? With her fist, she pummeled the lumpy-feeling mattress into a semblance of softness and rolled over onto the smoothed area.

  Visions of Kit—no, she corrected herself, Mr. Winnington—swirled in her head. The scoundrel! He had all but admitted his attentions were designed only to win the contest. And what gall to condemn her other suitors fortune hunters. She shifted onto her left side again.

  But why couldn’t she dismiss him as she had them?

  Are you sure he is at fault? He has never acted like a man who would trifle with a lady’s affections.

  She sat up and stared into the shadows. Had she done Mr. Winnington—Kit—an injustice? His astonishment at her accusation appeared genuine. Could he really care for her?

  She chewed her lip. Perhaps she had been too quick this afternoon. After all, he had never led her on before. Even when he was wet and half-naked, with those soaked breeches outlining his manly attributes. The least she could do was afford him a chance to explain.

  Her decision made, she punched her pillow into a high mound of feathers, lay down and pulled the counterpane up to her waist. She laced her hands on her stomach and closed her eyes. Now she would sleep.

  After the tall case clock downstairs had struck the quarter hour for the third time, she sat up. Her mind was still a whirl of distress. She must calm her thoughts or she would never fall asleep. She rolled out of the covers and reached for the dressing gown lying at the foot of the bed.

  A lighter patch of darkness between the edges of the drapes led her to the window. After tying the wrapper’s belt, she brushed the curtains aside and leaned on the sill.

  Starlight painted a faintly glowing sheen on the clearing and the outbuildings behind the house. A sleepy quack rose from the duck coop. Crickets chirped, and a light air current ruffled the surface of the pool behind the dam. The woods brooded blacker than the sky.

  At the forest edge, a darker patch of ebony shivered. Her vision uncertain in the dimness, she slitted her eyes at the unmoving shrubs and tree trunks in the distance. Had she imagined the motion?

  A chill entered her bones. Did an intruder lurk nearby? For a few pounding heartbeats more, she scanned the woods, but only the restless ripple of leaves whispering in the breeze disturbed the scene.

  She shrugged the uneasy sensation away. Most likely a nocturnal animal had visited the pond for a drink. After searching out her slippers, she exited her bedchamber for the library downstairs. A volume of those deadly dull sermons Lady Bridges had loved was just the thing to induce slumber.

  Silent starlight flooding through the uncurtained windows lit her path to the library, where a bar of amber light seeped from under the closed door. Someone else wakeful tonight? She pushed open the panel.

  Kit—Mr. Winnington, she corrected herself—his candle held high, examined the books in the case beside the fireplace. At the door’s creak, he glanced over his shoulder. An uncertain smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Angela—Miss Stratton—I wanted to speak to you.” After setting his candle on the nearest bookcase shelf, he approached with a hesitant step.

  His banyan gaped at the front to reveal a triangle of dusky chest hair.

  She swallowed.

  He halted before her. “I apologize for my words at the outing, but I need to explain.” He raked his fingers through his bed-mussed chestnut hair. “Mr. Holt hinted I would make the ducks happy if I made you happy. I could not believe he had directed me to charm you so I could win. But—”

  Her heart knocking against her ribs, she bunched her dressing gown in her fists. “I must also apologize. I was too hasty this afternoon. Especially since Mr. Holt gave me the same suggestion.”

  A surprised eyebrow winged upward. “Did he? Now, why would Mr. Holt desire us to form an attachment? Is he running some rig of his own?” His brandy-colored eyes darkened. “I confess, when I first arrived, I wanted nothing more than to win. But now…” He raised a hand and, after a second’s hesitation, stroked her hair.

  Time slid to a halt. He drew closer and she sucked in a breath. Would he kiss her again?

  A crack exploded through the air.

  Kit shoved her to the floor and threw his body over hers. “What the deuce?”

  Night birds squawked and screamed. The horses in the stable neighed and kicked against their stalls. Startled quacks erupted from the duck coop. Water gurgled as the stream’s current surged.

  Kit crawled to the window, leaning up on one elbow as he passed the bookcase to blow out his candle. Angela followed and they crouched on either side of the opening and peered out.

  Despite the continuing racket, bright starlight illumined a scene almost devoid of motion. The smallest of the tree branches swayed in a light breeze. With gentle murmurs, the pool above the dam swirled in a slow spiral.

  But only instants later, the little eddy whirled faster and then faster. Strengthening into a maelstrom, the vortex shot a raging torrent over the dam. The current’
s previously soft babble increased to a thunderous gush. On top of the dam, one rock, and then another and another, plummeted into the foaming water with sharp splashes.

  Angela hissed in a breath. “The dam! Your dam has burst!”

  Behind her, Kit cursed. “That crack must have been the foundation collapsing.” He leaped up and dashed out the door.

  Angela caught up her skirt and pursued Kit to the stream bank. More rocks tumbled from the dam and crashed into the seething water. With a sharp snap, the turbulent water peeled away one of the logs forming the base and swept it downstream.

  Pressing against the stitch in her side, Angela halted beside Kit. The cold spray kicked up by the falling rocks soaked them and she shivered. A duck—Obadiah—fluttered down from the duck coop roof and landed at their feet.

  The loss of the log freed the pent-up water’s fury and the angry vortex lost its power. Within seconds, the whirlpool sputtered and slowed. A few moments later, the spiral dissipated, leaving behind jumbled rocks scattered around a small, muddy pool in the center of the stream bed. The harsh roar of the water diminished to a soft gurgle.

  “Oh, no.” She grasped Kit’s hand.

  He tugged her to him and crushed her to his chest.

  A few smaller rocks at the undamaged edge of the dam toppled into the calming water with quiet plops. The remaining logs at the dam base tilted far out of alignment.

  Kit’s eyes narrowed. “The water could not have moved the logs such a long way. This destruction was intentional.”

  In the depths of the woods, a darker smear of black flitted against the inky background of tree trunks and bushes. A glimmer of light, immediately doused, flashed from the figure.

  “Kit, see there!” Angela pointed. “Someone is in the forest.”

  His head whipped toward the figure. “Yes! Could someone want me to lose the contest?”

  “What’s going on there?” Tom, barefoot and with his shirt hanging loose over his breeches, ran up from the stable. Behind him, shouting figures converged from the house and stable.

  Kit tilted his chin toward the devastation. “The dam broke. I suppose I did not build it strong enough to withstand the hard rain we had day before yesterday.”

  Tom snorted. “Nothing short of Noah’s Flood could have destroyed your dam without help.” He waded into the remaining water. “Let me take a look.”

  Kit caught him by the shoulder. “Not now. The night is too dark. We can check it in the morning.” He lowered his voice. “If you take my meaning.”

  They exchanged a significant glance, and then Tom backed up. “I understand. I’ll meet you here at dawn.”

  Kit nodded and then turned to the gathered onlookers. Bates and several maids, footmen and grooms in various states of undress milled around the bank, as well as Mr. Holt, Sophia, and a panting Mr. Jones.

  Kit explained what had happened. “The excitement is over for now, especially since we cannot see much. Let us return to the house.”

  Holding his arms wide, he herded the chattering spectators back the way they had come. Several craned their necks over their shoulders for a better view of the wreckage. Obadiah expelled a disgruntled quack and flew back to the duck coop roof.

  Kit caught up to Mr. Holt in the mansion foyer. “We need to speak to you, sir. Can you meet us in the library?”

  The solicitor nodded. He spoke a few words to Sophia while Kit and Angela hurried down the passage.

  In the study, Kit lit several candles while Angela ran to the window to watch in case the figure returned. The door creaked open to admit Mr. Holt. He secured the door behind him and leaned back against the panel.

  Angela spun from the opening. “Mr. Holt, we did not tell the others, but we saw a prowler in the woods. Someone deliberately destroyed the dam. Whatever you have decided, we can push the contest’s end date out long enough to allow Kit—er, Mr. Winnington—time to rebuild—”

  Mr. Holt straightened. “No, we cannot. The terms of the contest state that if one contestant’s project is demolished, that contestant automatically wins.”

  “What?” Kit and Angela cried in unison.

  Mr. Holt sank into the chair before the desk, a weary cast to his face. “The intention of the clause was to prevent foul play.”

  Kit balled his fists. “Then why keep that provision a secret until now?” The raw grate of his voice radiated anger.

  “If you knew, you might find a more devious way to sabotage each other.”

  Angela pointed toward the forest. “But we did not! A stranger—”

  Mr. Holt raised a restraining hand. “I believe you, Miss Stratton. My observations have convinced me you two would never stoop to treachery. But I must follow the rules. As much as I dislike forcing the competition’s termination in this manner, I declare Mr. Winnington the winner.”

  Angela plopped into the desk chair with a thump. “Then I have lost.”

  “No!” Kit surged across the floor to glare down at the other man. “Angela—er, Miss Stratton—did not destroy the dam. Did the rules never consider the possibility of a third party sabotaging our projects? Since my dam was the target, I suspect one of the gentlemen courting Miss Stratton. How could the villain know you would declare me the winner?”

  The solicitor inclined his head. “I see your point, but my decision is final.” He stood, his face rigid. “I need to clear up some business in London before I present you with Lady Bridges’s last papers. I will leave in the morning and return in a se’ennight at the latest.”

  “Wait a moment.” Kit tapped angry fingers on the desk. “What if I refuse to accept the estate?”

  Mr. Holt’s shoulders slumped. “Then you both lose, and everything, estate and annuity, goes to the ducks.”

  “What! Surely Aunt Augusta could not have been so cork-brained!”

  “Lady Bridges was in full control of her faculties when I wrote up her will and she signed it.” Mr. Holt’s voice was hard as granite. “If you both lose, I administer the estate for the ducks. At their death, all her ladyship’s assets go on the auction block, the proceeds destined to a list of charities she chose.”

  Kit paced to the window and back, his fists clenching and unclenching. “But—”

  Mr. Holt held up his hand for silence. “No, Mr. Winnington. As much as I regret the necessity, the contest is over.” He strode from the room.

  “Curse you, man!” Kit shouted after the departing solicitor. Fists still balled, he stalked back and forth across the study, waves of fury emanating from him.

  Angela propped her elbows on her knees and dropped her head into her palms. “Do not blame Mr. Holt. He is doing his duty, and I can see the act pains him.”

  Kit stopped and relaxed his fingers. “There is a simple solution to this problem.” He took a hesitant step toward her. “You could marry me.”

  Angela raised her head, her heart stuttering. She would like nothing better than to wed him. “Not like this.”

  He sank to his knees beside her and clasped her hand. “Would marrying me be such a hardship?”

  “No. But I do not care to wed in order to secure a prize.”

  Anger tightened his mouth. “Very well.” He released her hand. “But all is not lost. I will accept Apple Tree Manor rather than letting us both lose.” He rose to occupy the seat Mr. Holt had vacated. “First, we must discover the identity of tonight’s mischief-maker. Then, somehow, we will convince Mr. Holt to continue the competition.” His lips curving into a dangerous smile, he leaned forward over the desk. “I have a plan…”

  ****

  Stifling a groan, Kit stretched out his cramped legs. Seated on a barrel inside the duck coop, he narrowed his eyes and once more scanned the starlit scene before him.

  If the culprit intended to return, he had to arrive soon. Today Angela had kept the visitors at bay while Kit spent the entire day alone rebuilding a makeshift dam. The structure wasn’t sturdy, but would serve for tonight’s trap.

  Pretending he couldn�
��t stop for anything, he went inside for supper long after dark, leaving Tom watching from the stable. This morning, after their examination of the damage, he had let Tom in on their scheme and sworn him to secrecy.

  With everyone else abed, Angela met him in the quiet kitchen while he ate a quick meal of bread, cheese, and ale. Up to now, their deception had worked. Everyone accepted their Banbury tale about the contest ending today at midnight instead of yesterday, and their explanation that wandering cattle smashed the dam. Only Mr. Martyn voiced the possibility of sabotage, while Mr. Palk opined that no one could be so wicked.

  To deflect attention in case anyone saw her in the corridors, Angela wore her night rail, the same pink nightgown and robe she had worn the night of his arrival. With her long braid draped over her shoulder and the garments clinging to her curves, Kit wanted only to press her close. Whatever tonight’s outcome, he would again ask her to marry him.

  As the long case clock upstairs struck eleven, he left Angela in the kitchen, the chimes echoing in the sleeping house. Keeping to the shadows, he ran back to his watch post in the duck coop. Before he slipped inside, he had waved to Tom to signal his return.

  Now, all they could do was stand by and see if anyone took the bait.

  He shifted once more. The clock’s single chime striking the half hour drifted to his ears. Almost midnight.

  In the forest across the stream, an owl hooted. The steady buzz of chirping crickets filled the humid air. The stream gurgled as the tamed current spilled over the dam. Beside him, Obadiah, who had insisted on keeping him company, emitted a drowsy quack.

  From his position, the dam and the woods on the far side of the stream were visible. While the intruder, if he came, could approach from the house side, most likely he would emerge from the forest.

  A light breeze picked up, scattering tatters of clouds over the ebony sky. Fluttering leaves rustled. Kit scanned the woods again, but nothing besides the leaves moved. He glanced toward the murky forest behind the stable—and a darker spot flitted between the tree trunks. He squinted, but the movement stopped. Had he imagined the motion?

  He had convinced himself all was quiet when a silent shadow glided from the forest edge toward the waterway. The meager starlight outlined a black-garbed figure, his face obscured by a drooping hat.