by Liz Tyner
‘Forget her,’ the duke said. ‘She’s just an ordinary woman who likes to traipse the trails. I can’t fault her for that.’
He couldn’t. He’d travelled over those same trails countless times, trying to keep up with his brother, Geoff.
Looking for the woman had been the first time he’d been in the woods since Geoff’s death. The gnashing ache grinded inside him again, but the woman’s face reminded him of unspoiled times.
But she was…a poacher of sorts. Nothing like her sister—a true countess if tales were to be believed. He wouldn’t put it past Warrington to keep this bow-carrying family member in the shadows, afraid what would happen if the woman met with members of the ton.
‘You didn’t feel she could near strangle a man with one look from her eyes?’ Wicks asked. ‘I could feel that devil in her just trying to take my vicar’s words right from mind. She still be trespassin’ ever’ day. Taunting me, like. She tears up my traps and she lurks out in the wood, waiting until I check them and then she tries to kill me.’
‘I’m sure she’s not trying to kill you.’
‘This arrow weren’t whipping by your head.’ He pulled every muscle of his body into an indignant shudder. ‘And since I caught her last time, she stays too far back for me to snatch her again.’
‘You will not touch her.’ Rhys met Wicks’s stare. Rhys stood.
Wicks’s lips pressed together.
‘You will not touch her,’ Rhys said again and waited.
‘I don’t want no part of that evil witch,’ Wicks said finally. ‘I looked at her and I saw the Jezebel spirit in her. I be sleepin’ on the floor and not in my bed so she can’t visit me in my night hours and have her way with me.’
Rhys put both palms flat on the desk and leaned forward. ‘That is a good plan. However, if you sleep with your nightcap over your ears it will do the same.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’ Rhys nodded.
Wicks’s lips moved almost for a full minute before he spoke and his shoulders were pulled tight and he watched the arrow in his hand. ‘Well, I’ll be considerin’ it. Floor’s cold.’
‘Do you think perhaps she is a normal kind-hearted woman, Wicks, and merely doesn’t want little creatures harmed?’
‘I wondered. But that seems odd to me. When I gave her my smile—’ He bared perfect teeth except for one missing at the bottom. ‘She didn’t even note. Just raised her bow right towards me and let this arrow loose.’
Rhys rose, walked around the desk and held out his hand. Wicks slowly placed the arrow across Rhys’s palm.
‘If you see her again,’ Rhys commanded, ‘at any time at any place, you are not to give her one moment of anything but respect. You are not to smile at her or approach her, or you will answer to me in a way you will not like.’
‘Not right,’ Wicks said, his nose going up. ‘Being shot at while doin’ my work.’
‘I will handle this. Do not forget my words. Leave her be.’
‘I will,’ Wicks said. ‘I pity her. Has too many airs to settle into things right for a woman’s place.’
Rhys glared.
‘But I be keepin’ it a secret.’ He nodded. ‘I ain’t givin’ her another one of my smiles. She missed her chance. And if she tries to have her way with me, I be turnin’ my head and keepin’ my nightcap tight.’
He used both hands to clamp his hat on his head as he shuffled out, grumbling.
Rhys studied the arrow and thought of his mother’s melancholia. How she hardly left her room, even for meals. How she talked more of people who’d passed than of her own friends, and how she claimed illness rather than go to Sunday Services. His brother’s death had taken the life from her as well. The one moment the duchess’s thoughts had wavered into the present had been when she asked Rhys if he’d heard of the earl’s guest, but by the time he’d answered, his mother’s thoughts had wavered back into the shadows of the past.
He brushed his hand over the arrow fletching. Window light bounced over the feathers, almost startling him. Raising his eyes, he saw the sun’s rays warming the room. He stood, walking to the sunlight, pausing to feel the heat on his face. He lifted the feathery end of the weapon, twirling it in the brightness.
Winter’s chill had left the air, but he’d not noticed the green outside the window until now. The woman had also worn the colours of the forest, he remembered. She’d not looked like a warrior goddess, but a woodland nymph, bringing life into morning.
He snorted, amazed at the folly of his imagination. He’d not had such foolish thoughts in a long time. Nor had he longed for a woman’s comfort overmuch in the past year. Now, he imagined the huntress and his body responded, sending reminders of pleasure throughout his being.
Leaning into the window frame, holding the arrow like a talisman, he tried to remember every single aspect of her. What she’d said and how she’d looked. Each word and moment that had transpired between them.
He pulled the soft end of the arrow up, looking at the feathers one last time before tapping the nock against the sill, staring at the reflections of sunlight.
This woman at the earl’s estate, who was willing to fight for rabbits, but could keep the servants whispering about her, might be just the woman who could bring his mother back to life. She’d already reminded Rhys that he was still alive.
*
Within the hour, Rhys was in the Earl of Warrington’s sitting room. The duke clasped an arrow at his side and waited as he expected he might. He moved to the window again, wanting to feel the heat from the sun streaming through the panes. Trees budded back to life. A heathen spirit might do the same for his own home.
The mantel sported a painting of three young girls playing while their mother watched. He wagered the painting was of Greece and one of the girls could have been the one on his property. Except for the single painting, the room seemed little different than Rhys’s own library.
Rhys looked out over Warrington’s snipped and clipped and trimmed and polished world, almost able to hear the laughter from years before.
Only, the laughter was not his, but directed at him.
Of course, both he and Warrington had matured now. They had left foolish prattle and childish games behind.
Warrington strode in. Rhys could still taste the medicinal the others had found in the apothecary jar and forced into Rhys’s mouth when they were children. That had to be his earliest memory.
‘Your Grace,’ Warrington greeted. The earl moved to stand at the mantel. He glanced once at the painting above it before he asked, ‘So what is the honour that brings you to Whitegate?’
Rhys held out the arrow. ‘I found this on my property and heard that you have a guest who practises archery. I’d like to return it to her.’
Rhys had never seen Warrington’s face twitch until that moment. He studied Rhys as if they’d just started a boxing match. ‘You are interested in talking with Bellona?’
Warrington’s eyes flickered. ‘I’m sure whatever she did—’ Warrington spoke quickly. ‘She just doesn’t understand our ways.’ He paused and then sighed. ‘What did she do now?’
‘I just wish to meet with her,’ Rhys said, ‘and request that she refrain from shooting arrows on to my property—particularly near others.’
Warrington grimaced and then turned it into a smile. ‘She does… Well…you know…’ He held out a palm. ‘Some women like jewellery. Flowers. Sharp things. She likes them.’
‘Sharp things?’
Warrington shook his head. ‘Never a dull moment around her.’
‘Truly?’
‘Beautiful voice—when she’s not talking. Her sister forced her to attend the soirée at Riverton’s, hoping Bellona would find something about society that suited her. Pottsworth wanted to be introduced. She’d not danced with anyone. I thought it a good idea even though he is—well, you know Potts. She smiled and answered him in Greek. Thankfully none of the ladies near her had our tutors. Riverton overheard and ch
oked on his snuff. We left before he stopped sputtering. He still asks after her every time he sees me. “How is that retiring Miss Cherroll?”’
‘Can’t say as I blame her. You introduced Pottsworth to her?’ Rhys asked drily.
‘I’m sure she might wander too far afield from time to time,’ Warrington murmured it away, ‘but your land has joined mine since before our grandparents’ time and we’ve shared it as one.’ Warrington gave an encompassing gesture, then he toyed with what could have been a speck on the mantel. ‘We’re all like family. We grew up together. I know you and I don’t have the very close bond of our fathers, but still, I count you much the same as a brother of my own.’
‘Much like Cain and Abel?’
Warrington grinned. He waved the remark away. ‘You’ve never taken a jest well.’
‘The bull,’ Rhys said, remembering the very incensed animal charging towards him, bellowing. Rhys was on the wrong side of the fence, his hands on the rails, and the older boys pushed at him, keeping him from climbing to safety. He’d felt the heat from the bull’s nostrils when they’d finally hefted him through to the other side. Laughing.
He couldn’t have been much more than five years old.
Warrington had instigated many of the unpleasant moments of Rhys’s childhood. Actually, almost every disastrous circumstance could be traced back to War. Rhys had been lured into a carriage and then trapped when they wedged the door shut from the outside, and then he’d spent hours in the barn loft when they had removed the ladder. When they’d held him down and stained his cheeks with berries, he’d waited almost two years to return fresh manure to everyone involved. It had taken special planning and the assistance of the stable master’s son to get manure put into Warrington’s boots.
Rhys’s mother and father had not been happy. The one time he had not minded disappointing his father.
War’s face held camaraderie now—just like when the new puppy had been left in the carriage, supposedly.
‘I must speak with your wife’s sister,’ Rhys said. ‘I might have an idea which could help us both.’
‘What?’ The word darted from Warrington’s lips.
‘I thought Miss Cherroll might spend some time with the duchess. Perhaps speak of Greece or…’ He shrugged. ‘Whatever tales she might have learned.’
‘I forbid—’ Warrington’s head snapped sideways. ‘No. She is my family and she must stay with us.’
Rhys lips quirked up. ‘But, War, we’re like brothers. Your family is my family.’
Warrington grunted. ‘You didn’t believe that flop when I said it. Don’t try to push it back in my direction.’
Rhys smiled. ‘I suppose it is your decision to make, War. But remember. I am serious and I will not back down.’
‘I assure you, Rhys, Miss Cherroll is not the gentle sort that the duchess is used to having tea with.’
Rhys gave a slight twitch of his shoulder in acknowledgement. Warrington had no idea his mother was only having tea with memories of death. She’d lost her will to live. With her gone, he would have no one. No one of his true family left. And he was not ready to lose the last one. ‘Call Miss Cherroll. Let me decide.’
With a small cough of disagreement, Warrington shrugged. ‘Speak with her and you’ll see what I mean.’ He reached for the pull. A child’s laughing screech interrupted him. A blonde blur of a chit, hardly big enough to manage the stairs, hurtled into the room and crashed into Warrington’s legs, hugging for dear life, and whirling so he stood between her and the door.
Bellona, brandishing a broom, charged in behind the little one and halted instantly at the sight of Warrington.
Rhys took in a breath and instantly understood Wicks’s fascination with the woman. Her face, relaxed in laughter, caught his eyes. He couldn’t look away—no man would consider it.
‘Just sweeping the dust out of the nursery,’ she said to Warrington, lowering the broom while she gingerly moved around him. The child used him as a shield.
Warrington’s hand shot down on to the little girl’s head, hair shining golden in the sunlight, stilling her.
Bellona’s attention centred on the waif. ‘Willa, we do not run in the house. We swim like fishes.’
The child laughed, pulled away from the silent admonishment of her father’s hand on her head, puffed her cheeks out and left the room quickly, making motions of gliding through water.
Warrington cleared his throat before the chase began again. ‘We have a guest, Bellona.’
Rhys saw the moment Bellona became aware of his presence. The broom tensed and for half a second he wondered if she would drop it or turn it into a weapon. Warrington was closer, and Rhys was completely willing to let her pummel him.
She lowered the bristles to the floor, but managed a faint curtsy and said, ‘I did not know we had a visitor.’ Her face became as stiff as the broom handle.
Warrington turned to Rhys.
‘Bellona is… She gets on quite well with the children as you can tell.’ His eyes glanced over to her. ‘But she is not as entranced with tranquillity as her sister is.’
‘I do like the English ways,’ she said, shrugging. ‘I just think my ways are also good.’
‘But my children need to be well mannered at all times.’ Warrington frowned after he spoke.
‘I do adore the paidi. They are gold,’ she said, voice prim and proper. ‘But no little one is well mannered at all times. They have life. It is their treasure. They should spend it well.’
‘They should also know the way to be proper and comport themselves in a lofty manner when they meet such a person as we are privileged to have in our presence.’ He glanced at Rhys. ‘His Grace, Duke of Rolleston. Rescuer of lost puppies, everywhere.’ He turned to Bellona to complete the introduction. ‘Miss Cherroll, my wife’s kind and gentle-spirited youngest sister—’ his brows bumped up as he looked back at Rhys ‘—who has called me a few endearments in her native language that our tutor neglected to teach us, and when her sister translates I fear something is lost in the meaning.’
Her eyes blinked with innocence at Warrington for a moment before she acknowledged the introduction with a slight nod.
‘I believe the duke wanted to speak with you.’ Warrington walked to her, took the broom and looked at it as if might bite. ‘And I should see about Willa.’
The earl took two long strides to the door. ‘I won’t send a chaperon.’ He smiled at Rhys as he left. ‘You’re on your own.’
Chapter Two
Pleased Warrington had left them alone, Rhys’s attention turned to Bellona. She’d moved a step back from him and stood close to an unlit lamp on a side table. Her eyes remained on the arrow in his hand.
Perhaps he’d been mistaken about her. She might be unsettled.
Bellona nodded towards the arrow. ‘I believe that is mine.’
Rhys grasped the shaft with both hands and snapped the arrow across his knee, breaking the wood in two pieces. Then he held it in her direction.
The straight line of her lips softened. Her shoulders relaxed and she moved just close enough so that he could place the arrow in her hand. Exotic spices lingered in the air around her and he tried to discern if it was the same perfume from a rare plant he’d once noted in a botanist’s collection.
‘Thank you.’ She took the splintered pieces and increased the distance between them. Examining the broken shaft, she said, ‘I feared you would not be so kind as to return it.’
‘You could have injured someone. My gamekeeper.’
She raised her eyes to Rhys. ‘The arrow did what arrows do. I didn’t want to hurt him, but he—’ Bellona dismissed the words. ‘His voice… You should speak with him about glossa—his words.’
‘Leave the poor man alone. He has been on my estate his whole life and feels as much kinship to the land as I do.’
‘A man cannot own land. It is a gift from the heavens to be shared.’
‘For the time being, it is my gift and I control all
on it. You upset the gamekeeper.’
She shrugged. ‘He upsets rabbits.’
‘They are invited. You are not. However…’ His next words were about to change that, but he forgot he was speaking when her hand moved.
Flicking up the notched end of the arrow, she brushed the feathery fletching against her face. The arrow stroked her skin. One. Two. Three little brushes. Softness against softness.
His heart pounded blood everywhere around his body except his head.
He remembered where he was, but not what he’d been saying. He looked at her eyes, checking for artifice, wondering if she knew how he reacted to her.
‘I do not know if this is a good idea.’ He spoke barely above a whisper.
‘The traps are a bad idea. Wrong. Thinking you own the earth is not correct.’ She moved her hand to her side, the arrow tip pointed in his direction.
Traps? That problem was easily solved.
‘At the soirée, what did you say to Pottsworth in Greek that was so shocking?’ he asked.
She raised her brows.
‘Never mind.’ He turned away. Walking to the painting, he looked at it. An idyllic scene with a sea in the background. Waves lapped the sand and breezes brought the scent of moisture to him. ‘Are you one of the little girls in the painting?’ He raised his finger, almost touching the long-dried oils. She had to be the youngest one—the urchin had grown into the woman behind him.
‘Miss Cherroll.’ He turned back. ‘Are you the little one in the picture?’
‘It is just a painting. From my homeland.’
‘Tell me about yourself.’
‘No. You broke my arrow.’
‘I beg your pardon.’ He turned to her and locked his clasped hands behind his back. This intractable woman and his mother would not get on well at all. Such a foolish thought.
‘You do not mean to beg my pardon,’ she said. ‘You just speak it because it is what you have always said.’
‘I’ll buy you a score of arrows to replace this one if you merely promise you will not shoot in the direction of a person. I was making a point.’
