by Heather Snow
And then Derick had found her journals. He’d known she’d been unhappy in England, but he’d had no idea how much his mother had detested this country until he read it in her own words.
Would it be such a bad thing if the traitor did turn out to be his mother? After all, the only person’s reputation that could be hurt was his own, and he’d be long gone from these shores. Yes, it would confirm that his blood was tainted even more than he’d known, but that was just by degrees, wasn’t it? It would merely give him all the more reason to put England behind him.
Emma might be able to enlighten him further about his mother and her actions. But he didn’t quite trust himself to be around her yet and not ravish her. She’d haunted him these past few days and nights, keeping his body on a knife’s edge of desire, the memory of her just as tenacious as the actual woman herself.
When he’d returned home, Billingsly had informed him that Emma had come to the castle all three days, looking for him.
She must have learned he was back, because a note had arrived this morning inviting him to discuss their investigation over breakfast. He’d sent back a polite refusal, claiming estate business.
’Twas a perfectly legitimate excuse. After all, that was one of the reasons he’d agreed to take this last mission in Derbyshire—and regardless of whether Farnsworth ever showed himself or not, Derick still had to make certain everything was in order with the castle and its lands before he left for the Americas. He intended to hire a local steward. As Derick wouldn’t be available to oversee the estate as a whole from abroad, he wanted a separate man managing each of his properties who would in turn report to his newly hired man of business.
That was the excuse he was giving himself, anyway. Derick looked over the list of possible applicants. There were five names on it, men local to the area who’d come highly recommended. Emma would probably have some sort of mathematical equation to determine which one of them would be best—
Damnation. She intruded even when he was doing the most mundane of tasks.
He turned his focus back to his list. He recognized two of the names as boys he’d known in his youth. Interviewing them would give him at least a couple more days of respite before he had to face Emma again—
“I hope you don’t mind that I let myself in.”
Derick’s head jerked up at the sound of Emma’s voice. He nearly snapped the leaded pencil he held in his hand, so tight was his grip on it.
Good God. Just one glance and he knew he was going to have to keep a tight grip on more than his pencil, because the woman standing in the doorway to his study presented one hell of a temptation.
Gone were her colorless plain dresses and mismatched footwear. Instead, a green riding dress molded to her curves—curves he would know by touch alone now—complemented by chocolate kid boots. Her rich chestnut hair ringed her face in a more intricate coiffure than he’d ever seen her wear, yet his mind’s eye conjured how it had looked only days ago, rippling down her back in wild abandon. His hands itched to feel the silky strands slipping between his fingers again. Her skin glowed soft against the fabric of her dress, making his mouth water for a taste. It would take nothing, just a tiny movement and he could be out from behind his desk and have her in his arms, his tongue skimming down the sweet valley between her breasts—
His eyes widened as they reached her neckline. Derick cleared his throat. “Did you lose your fichu on the ride over?”
Damnation, he could practically see to her navel in that low-cut vee. Well, that was an exaggeration. The dress was actually rather modest compared to some of the European styles he was used to, but there was certainly more of Emma’s bosom on display than was practical. Or advisable, given his demonstrated lack of control where she was concerned. Derick swallowed.
“I’ve decided to stop wearing them.” She shrugged. “I find this fashion much more…freeing. Don’t you?”
A not-so-innocent smile tugged at Emma’s lips. Derick narrowed his gaze. So that’s what she was about. He’d suspected that she was entertaining hopes in his direction, but he hadn’t counted on her active pursuit. Perhaps he should have. She’d clearly been plotting in his absence. But now that he was onto her game, he would just have to discourage her.
He shrugged in return, slipping on a mask of nonchalance. “It’s a matter of taste, I suppose,” he said, returning his gaze to the list of possible stewards before him.
Emma didn’t say anything for a long moment. Finally, he couldn’t resist a quick glance. She still wore a smile, but it seemed a little too wide, and her right fist was clenched by her side. Ah, hell. He’d injured her feelings. He shouldn’t care. If this were any other mission, any other woman, he wouldn’t care. But this was Emma, and he had no desire to hurt her. He would have to be gentler in his rebuffs. “The look is very becoming on you, however.”
“Thank you.” Her smile turned self-deprecating, but at least it was genuine. She took a deep breath. “I warn you now, I’ve come to tempt you.”
“What?” The pencil in his hand did snap then, the crack harsh in the room. He knew subtlety wasn’t one of Emma’s many talents, but still.
A small line appeared on her forehead and her brows dipped in confusion. “I remembered how you used to filch Cook’s blackberry pastries when we were younger. She was pensioned off a few years ago, but I found her recipe and tried my hand at them. I thought I might tempt you into taking a break from your accounts for a nice picnic.”
Of course. He needed to remember that Emma didn’t always mean things the way they sounded, or always take things the way they were meant. Still, his body didn’t care how she’d meant it. His nerves had gone on alert the moment she’d walked into the room, and when the words “tempt you” had crossed her lips, they’d gone wild.
“That is rather tempting,” he murmured. “But I still need to finish up these books.”
Rather than leave him be, Emma came farther into the room. He felt her movements as if he and she were connected by some unseen force. The closer she came, the more his body tensed in anticipation.
“You have to eat sometime,” she cajoled lightheartedly, “and I don’t cook for just anyone. In fact, I’ve never cooked for anyone before.” She stopped between the chairs that fronted his desk, and tilted her head toward the window, where pleasant summer sunshine streaked in. “It’s a glorious day outside…”
He felt like the stodgiest curmudgeon disappointing her, particularly when she was trying so hard. And something told him Emma didn’t try in this arena. Indeed, her vulnerability spoke to him through the slight tremor in her otherwise light tone, through the over-brightness of her amber eyes. But the best course of action, for his sake and for hers, was to keep their interactions as businesslike as possible.
“Would that I could,” he said, aware that at least part of him meant that, “but I really must finish. And then I must arrange to interview potential stewards.”
A frown settled on her face. “Stewards? For your other properties?”
“No. For the castle.”
“Oh.” She chewed her lip as a soft sigh escaped her. “I thought you would oversee it yourself.”
When he came to live here and became the magistrate—and her “partner.” She’d left it unsaid but he heard it anyway.
“I haven’t decided to stay, Emma.” He needed her cooperative, though, so he left open the possibility even as guilt niggled at misleading her. “But even if I did, it would be some time before I could make such a move. There are many improvements a steward could get started making right away.”
Emma nodded. “Oh, I agree. In fact, I’ve long thought your land could benefit from some of the farming techniques we’ve been using at the manor. I’d love to spend a few days giving you a detailed tutorial on how I like my fields plowed.”
Derick felt his eyes go wide. He pressed his lips together tightly in an odd combination of lust and amusement.
“Or I could instruct your new man—if you’d ra
ther,” she rushed, misunderstanding his expression, he was sure.
His amusement fled. The idea of her showing any man how to plow her anything balled in his chest like a hot fist. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the tightness in his gullet was jealousy—of a yet-to-be-hired steward, no less. Absurd.
“I’m assuming you’d wish to engage someone local. Did you have a specific person in mind?” she asked.
“Yes. I have five names here.” He cleared his throat, having a hard time not thinking of the men on his list now as licentious field-plowers, and not liking it one bit.
“Fine. If you won’t come out for a picnic with me…” She held out her hand across his desk. When he just stared, she gave an imperious little snap of her fingers. “Let me see your list. I know everyone around here. I can give you my impressions.” She took the list from his hand and had a seat across from him in a scalloped wingback chair. “Although pastries and a bottle of wine would have been much more enjoyable,” she murmured beneath her breath.
Her quiet grumble restored his good humor.
As Emma settled her skirts around her, an uncharacteristically whimsical thought struck him. Sitting against the pearly bisque fabric, her green skirts hugging her thighs before flaring around her ankles, she looked like a mermaid queen upon her throne.
The image brought with it more old memories. Emma had often pretended to be a mermaid princess when they used to swim in the deepest part of the creek, hadn’t she? The one that pooled near the old cave close to the eastern border of Aveline lands. Yes. He’d forgotten all about that, but now…Recollections came rushing back, of the sun hot on his skin, his belly full of stolen pastries, Emma refusing to play one more game of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table until he pretended to be her merman servant. How he’d pouted and fussed, but had dutifully brought her make-believe food and drinks, or flowers, or whatever else she commanded until she was finally tired of that silly girl-game and relented. Then they’d be back off, running through the fields, playing fun games.
“Why are you smiling?” Emma’s bemused voice yanked him out of the past.
“I—” He hadn’t known he was smiling. “No reason,” he said, shaking off her question, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of lightness that remained. It had been years since he’d remembered something pleasant about his childhood. About the boy he’d been. How long ago that had been, how far he’d come—and gone.
He was a grown man, now. A man with years of false identities and dangerous, ugly memories. A spy. A fake.
He hadn’t always been, though, had he?
Emma’s words from the other night rang in his mind.
There was so much pride in your bearing. Because you knew your place.
Derick sat back in his chair, suddenly feeling off-kilter. He pushed his shoulders flat against the tufted leather, as if the ancient chair could ground him. Christ. He had no place. He’d never had a place. He just hadn’t known it back then. Hadn’t known he was a blood impostor to the viscountcy he was meant to inherit, to the country he loved.
But oh, how he wished he could recapture that pride, that feeling of knowing who he was, where he belonged. He could never un-remember all that he knew, but could he uncover that seminal part of himself that Emma once saw? If his childhood were laid out before him again, could he find it? Capture it? Take it with him to build upon in an unknown future?
Everything in him told Derick that if he didn’t find himself here, he never would.
It was a foolish thought. Hell, he could hardly even remember those days.
His gaze went to Emma, who was still studying his list of stewards, unaware of his intense regard.
He couldn’t remember, but she could.
She chewed on her lip for a bit, then handed the list back to him. “I’d skip interviewing Smalls…he’s a drunkard. And Ogleby is horrible with figures—not at all what you want in a steward. Any of the other three should do nicely.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
An awkward silence drew out between them. Emma’s eyes flitted to the door, but she pulled her bottom lip back between her teeth. It was clear she didn’t want to leave. Derick was no longer certain he wished her to, either.
Finally, she cleared her throat. “Well, since you’ve decided we’re to be all business this afternoon, I’ve learned something new in our investigation.”
“You mean about Molly’s death?” He frowned. “You still don’t think it’s Harding?”
“It could be, of course. But I wasn’t entirely convinced. So while you were gone…” She paused, rampant curiosity on her face, perhaps hoping he’d offer up where he’d been. He didn’t. Thankfully, she gave up. “I went back into town and asked more questions, dug a little deeper. And guess what I discovered.”
He shook his head, waiting.
“There’s been a stranger hanging about the past few weeks.”
Oh hell. He did not want Emma stumbling upon Farnsworth, or learning why the agent—and by extension, why he—was really here. “A stranger?”
“Yes. A drifter. Several people have seen him, yet no one knows where he’s staying or why he’s here. Perhaps he’s the man we’re looking for.” She shivered. “I’d much rather believe that than to think someone I’ve known for years did such an awful thing. I haven’t had any luck finding him the past couple of days, but since you’ve turned me down for the afternoon”—she stood, brushing her skirts out—“I suppose I’ll go back into town and continue my search.”
Derick rose from his chair, as well. He was glad to hear Farnsworth might still be around, though the agent better have a good reason he’d yet to contact him. Regardless, he couldn’t have Emma coming across the man before he did. “You know, I’ve decided that a picnic would be just the thing.”
Emma’s head snapped up. “Truly?” Her delighted smile gave him pause as he remembered his intention to discourage her. He weighed it against his need to distract her. He didn’t want Emma caught up in this mess any more than she had to be.
“I’ve got to eat sometime,” he said, using her argument. “I have one request, however.”
A bemused smile crossed Emma’s face as she cocked her head. “Yes?”
“I’d like to take our picnic up to the old cave we used to play in. Do you remember it?”
Emma laughed. “Of course…”
“Good. Now run home and change into something more adventurous,” he said. And less alluring. “Maybe even a bit scruffy. Suitable for climbing about. I’ll do the same and meet you at the manor in an hour. You can tell me more over those pastries and that bottle of wine.”
Emma slid a sideways glance to the man riding on horseback alongside her mare. In simple buckskin breeches and a plain cotton shirt, Derick seemed more…rugged. She liked seeing him without his cravat, the muscled column of his neck swarthy against his white collar. She noticed his lustrous black hair wasn’t so precisely styled as it had been, either. It was as if every day he let go of a little more of the masquerade, became a little more like the young man she’d known.
She loved it when a plan came together. The fact that Derick was falling so neatly into her schemes further convinced Emma of the rightness of them.
Oh, she’d had a few moments of doubt when he’d turned down her invitations. And when he’d not responded to her attempted flirting. But he’d come around, hadn’t he?
“What changed your mind about our picnic?”
A smile lifted the corner of Derick’s mouth that she could see in profile, though he didn’t look at her. “I remembered how much I loved those pastries,” he said.
She resisted a grin. She’d known those were a good idea. And so was the two bottles of wine she’d brought. She was thrilled that he’d changed his mind, as she hadn’t really looked forward to another fruitless afternoon of searching for a stranger who very well might not even be in town anymore. She’d been excited when she’d first heard of the man,
hoping she could solve Molly’s murder without having it be her own footman. But she’d had no luck finding the mysterious stranger, and it had frustrated her to no end. This afternoon with Derick would be a much-needed respite.
Though the cave was on Derick’s lands, it was not far from the border of Wallingford Manor, which had made it an ideal play spot for them as children. The lane was overgrown now, taken over by the short-leafed, slender-stemmed primrose with its basal rosettes of pale yellow, guelder rosebushes with their little red cranberry-like berries and pretty lavender four-petaled mezereon. The flowering shrubs formed a beautiful carpet. Emma thought it almost a shame to let the horses trample upon it.
“I remember a time when this path was well worn,” Emma said. “By my feet.”
Derick turned his head to look at her then. “Yes. You always did seem to turn up at my favorite spot.”
She laughed, and gave a little shrug. “It was the one place I could be almost guaranteed of finding you.”
His deep chuckle joined hers. “You were quite the pest, you know.”
Emma harrumphed. “As much as you grumped and complained, you were still there every single day.” She aimed for a jaunty raise of her eyebrow. “I would say you wanted to be found.”
Emma couldn’t keep the smile from her face. Just like he’d wanted to be found then, she was certain he did now, too. She couldn’t have envisioned getting him so thoroughly alone as the cave on her first try—and it was his idea. It was as if he were scripting his own seduction. On some unconscious level, Derick must want to be compromised. Because deep down, he wanted what she had on offer…a partnership—based on business at first, yes, but she suspected more would follow once he got accustomed to the idea—purpose, a place to belong.
