by Julie Beard
"Into the woods."
"Which direction?"
"Over there." She pointed to the top of the road.
He strode up the hill without becoming winded and instructed his driver to pull over to a feeder road and wait for him. Then he marched off in the direction Liza had pointed.
"You are an incorrigible rogue," she protested. "If you're going to be a ghastly beast about this, I'll let you take me to the edge of the small ravine. But you must drop me there and never look back."
"How dramatic," he said, his eyes twinkling down at her. "Who are you going to visit, Miss Cranshaw?"
"I cannot tell you."
He was silent a moment, then in a neutral tone asked, "Does Lord Barrington know where you're going?"
She froze. In the potent silence that followed, leaves crunched under his feet. Birds twittered in branches overhead. Sunlight dappled her eyes with hypnotic heat through the canopy of branches. She came to the queasy conclusion that there was no point trying to fool Jack Fairchild about anything. He was the sort of man a woman could be frank with—someone who was used to keeping female confidences, a trait that was responsible for a great measure of his success as a rake, she was certain.
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"No," she said hollowly. "Lord Barrington does not know. He would try to stop me if he did."
"You don't love him," Jack said matter-of-factly.
She squeezed her eyes closed.
"In fact, you hate him."
She remained silent.
"Don't marry him. He's a complete ass. Damnation, why do I keep saying these things?"
"Because you're cruel."
"I've got to be more subtle."
"I shouldn't think you were very well acquainted with subtlety." She felt sick to her stomach, and was just about to struggle from his arms when he stopped beneath a giant oak tree that hid them from the lowering sun. When he released her and her feet touched the ground, she winced. He gently leaned her against the trunk of the tree.
"Keep your weight off this ankle. You're still hurting." He knelt before her and picked up her foot. "Let me have a closer look."
She looked at him, aghast. "You can't do that!"
"What?" He looked up, his fine black brows drawing together in a frown.
"You can't touch my ankle."
"Why not?"
"It's not done."
"It is when someone twists a foot. Oh, come, Miss Cranshaw, do you think I'm trying to seduce you?"
Her toes curled with mortification, for part of her had hoped he was. "Of course not. Go ahead. But be quick about it."
She looked down diffidently at his thick, dark waves of hair, dunking how delightful it would be to run her fingers through it, to stroke his face and pull him into her
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wanton arms. Instead, she dug her gloved fingers into the bark of the tree.
'Tell me when it hurts." He cradled her foot in his hand and gently tugged off her white kid slipper. The gesture was so intimate it felt as if he'd just lowered her drawers. Her head clunked back against the tree as she stifled a hiss. Cool air seeped through her silk stocking and curled around her toes. Liza felt naked, and utterly scandalous.
"You really shouldn't, Mr. Fairchild."
"Shouldn't make sure you're not injured before I leave you alone in the woods?" was his even reply. "Nonsense. It's no more care than I would give a lame horse."
"Then be sure to check my teeth when you're done down there."
He chuckled softly. 'Try twisting your foot from side to side."
Eager to be done with it, she jerked her foot at his command, then cried out in pain.
"You see? You are injured," he murmured. He looked up, a dangerous concern itched on his face. "I am worried for you."
"Don't be," she replied in a high, thin voice. "It was a slight twist."
"That's not what worries me."
His fingers dug into the arch of her foot, manipulating the muscles. She groaned and shivered. "That feels too good."
"Your muscles have been strained." He massaged the arch with one hand while manipulating her heel with the other, digging into the soft padded flesh. Every muscle in her body loosened and wobbled. Liza felt herself sliding down the tree trunk and bolstered her other leg.
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"I am right about your regard for the viscount, am I not?" he asked carefully.
She had to shake her head to clear her pleasure-soaked brain. "What?"
"About the viscount. You loathe him, don't you?"
"Yes." She refused to elaborate any further.
"And you will not change your mind about marrying him?"
"No."
He heaved a sigh, then looked up sadly. "Then God bless you, Miss Cranshaw, for you shall need it."
He trailed his fingers from her arch to the ball of her foot and softly pinched the spaces between her toes.
Liza bit her lower lip and breathed hard. "Where did you learn to do that?" she rasped, looking down at him as if he were an exotic turban-bearing alchemist from Persia.
His eyes gleamed with challenge. "I do not really think you want me to answer that, do you?"
She laughed, relieved to be reminded of his history with women. It put everything into perspective. This was not a special moment. This was more an automatic reflex— something he would have done for any woman.
"Now try to put some weight on it." He put her slipper back on. The leather slid sensuously over silk. She shifted her weight, and it indeed felt better.
"Your magic hands worked," she said lightly. "Your practice with other women has put you in good stead with me."
He rose and gazed at her steadily. "You see, you should trust me. I will never hurt you, Miss Cranshaw. I'm like
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an old tiger who has lost his teeth. All growl and no bite."
She narrowed her eyes on him, remembering the last time they'd been alone eight years ago. "Yes, but you still have your claws."
CHAPTER EIGHT
o sooner had Liza walked away from Jack than she saw Jacob Davis on the horizon. She shivered to think how close their paths had come to crossing. What would have happened if anyone had seen her behave so recklessly with Mr. Fairchild? In truth, it would matter little. Lord Barrington was determined to get his hands on her father's money regardless of Liza's reputation. She was far more concerned about Jack finding out about Mr. Davis.
She hurried toward the chandler, who hadn't seen her yet. His long, gray mat of hair blew in the wind. He wore a tattered jerkin and breeches that were as brown as his dirtied face.
When he at last spotted her, he strode to her side, then fell to his knees, kissing her glove.
"Oh, Miss Cranshaw, God bless you. Were it not for you, my family ..." The words choked off in his throat and tears fell down his dusty cheeks. Tears welled in
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Liza's eyes as well. When he saw them, he shook his head ruefully. "Beg your pardon, miss. I shouldn't carry on so. I'm so grateful, Miss Cranshaw."
"I know, Mr. Davis." She squeezed his hand, tugging gently. "Please, stand up. You owe me nothing. I have done so little."
And there would be littler still that she could do once her engagement was announced. The viscount would consider her his property then and would carefully scrutinize her actions. Barrington hated her charity work. He considered direct contact with the poor beneath a future viscountess.
"It may seem little to you, Miss Cranshaw, but you've given me hope."
Hope. Was that a wise gift when in reality there truly was nothing but despair for his family? Davis had been a chandler in Middledale during Liza's childhood. She had played with his daughter, Annabelle, and held her in great affection. When they grew older, however, Bartholomew Cranshaw had discouraged the friendship. He had risen in rank and considered himself a member of the upper gentry and too good to be social acquaintances with a man like Davis.
Liza had never adopted such attitudes, and so she'd been eager to help the
Davis family. Recently released from debtor's prison in London, Jacob was afraid that the parish beadle would find a reason to send him back to prison. And so he'd refused to show himself to anyone but Liza.
"Mr. Davis, this is the last bit of money I can give you. After my engagement is announced, I cannot say whether I'll be free to meet with you again." She handed him a bag of coins. He hesitated a moment, then took it rever-
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ently in his calloused hands. "Of course, you can continue to live in the deer park, as along as Father doesn't see you, but I urge you to go to Reverend Stillwell. He's a good man. He will make sure the parish authorities give you food and money until you can find work."
Jacob's worn face twisted with wrinkles. "How can I know it's safe? What if they hand me over to the sheriff?"
"It won't happen, Mr. Davis. Your debts have been cleared. There is enough money in the parish to help you get back on your feet. I know because Father just made a donation. In the meantime, I have met a solicitor who just might help us find out who forced you out of your home and business."
His eyes focused on her with burning intensity. "A solicitor? Would he help me?"
Jacob Davis loved his family, but he now lived for one purpose only—vindication. He did not seem to see how his family suffered, living in the woods.
"That would be a right good deed, miss. I could never find a solicitor to help in London. There was one who was said to help those in need. A Mr. Fairchild. But I never had the privilege of meeting him."
"Mr. Fairchild? Jack Fairchild?" Liza's skin turned hot and cold all at once. "You say Mr. Fairchild helped those in prison?"
"Yes, miss. He advised the ones facing trial, and never expecting so much as a copper for his pains."
Liza turned and walked a few paces, then covered her eyes with a hand, hiding the tug of tenderness. What an extraordinary thing to do. What was she going to do with this man? This dangerous and wonderful man who continually exceeded all bounds and challenged all the limitations she'd finally convinced herself to accept.
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She lifted her face into a ray of soothing sunlight. The hope Mr. Davis felt began now to flicker in her as well. If Jack Fairchild was already inclined to help the indigent, then how much more might he be willing to help Jacob Davis if she asked him to? For some reason she had not yet discerned, Fairchild had made it his personal mission to prevent her marriage. That had to be the motive for his seductive behavior. It couldn't be mere desire. Not even he would be so craven that he would recklessly seduce the daughter of his most prosperous client simply to satisfy a lustful urge. Precisely why he wanted to foil her marriage plans was the great mystery. Under ordinary circumstances she would assume Mr. Fairchild simply wanted her dowry for himself. But he was an unusual man, and she believed him when he said he would never marry for convenience. What an enigma he was!
Considering his behavior thus far, she knew he would welcome the chance to meet with her again. She could easily lure him into another tête-à-tête and then ask him to help the Davis family.
She turned back to the chandler. "There has been a most remarkable turn of events, Mr. Davis. Jack Fairchild is the very man I spoke of. He is now living in Middle-dale."
"What? Oh, blessed, blessed day!" Davis said, shaking her hand. "Blessed day! He can help me right the wrongs done to me. How did you find him?"
"It was surely Providence. I will talk to Mr. Fairchild about you at the first opportunity. Meanwhile, you must try to remember everything you can about the events that preceded the fire. The law just may be on our side. Will you do that? Good. I'll send word through my abigail
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about our next meeting. Good-bye, Mr. Davis. We'll meet again very soon, I hope."
Davis nodded. "Very good, Miss Cranshaw."
"Good-bye!"
******************
The Cranshaw family gathered with their guests in the west parlor. Jack only listened with one ear to the idle predinner chat. His mind was still in the woods with Liza. She'd not returned yet, and he grew worried. He shouldn't have left her alone.
Rosalind Cranshaw sat on the sofa with her older sister, the silver-haired Mrs. Brumble. Liza's sister, Celia, sat alone at a gaming table, shuffling cards by herself, stealing curious glances at Jack now and then. Viscount Barrington stood near the fireplace with Mr. Cranshaw. Jack stood by himself near the terrace doors, glancing out of them when he could. The others doubtless thought he was admiring the extravagantly decorated grounds. But in fact he was looking in the direction of the last place he'd seen Liza.
She was so present in his mind's eye that he could see her image more clearly than those gathered here in the room. She had more presence than any other woman he'd ever met; a certain gravitas mixed with an intoxicating innocence. It was a heady combination that left him shaken. Clearly she was more than his usual damsel in distress. She wasn't going to be an easy conquest. This act of charity would cut both ways, and likely as cleanly as a medieval misericorde plunged in the heart.
"You'll find, Mr. Fairchild," the viscount said, breaking Jack's reverie, "that the people of Middledale are largely uncultured, typical of most wayward villages. Cranshaw
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has a number of arable pastures in the vicinity, and the yokels are invaluable in working the land."
Jack forced his gaze away from the garden and smiled obliquely. The viscount was pretending that Jack hadn't been raised with every expectation that he would one day have dealings with his own tenants.
"Is that so, my lord?" Jack replied.
"Yes, in fact..." As the viscount blathered on, Jack held his gaze, but he returned to the mental portrait he'd painted of the lovely Liza Cranshaw. In addition to her singular qualities, he had also noticed her more earthly attributes. For example, the long, languid curve of her neck to her shoulders, and how her creamy skin flowed like satin down to the swell of her breasts. And how Tier pink tongue brushed the corner of her mouth when she was nervous, and the delicate white teeth that bit into her plump lower lip afterward.
"I say, Mr. Fairchild, tell me about your experience as a solicitor." The booming voice of Bartholomew Cranshaw cut through his musings.
Cranshaw was a short, stocky man with a double chin, a square nose, and a head of graying blond hair that didn't seem to know which way to fall. He was keen-eyed, even behind a pair of spectacles, and though apparently good-natured, Jack had no doubt that he would be inflexible when it suited him. Anyone who'd made himself as wealthy as Cranshaw had must have a determined nature.
"I spent a great deal of time in Chancery Court, Mr. Cranshaw."
"Mr. Pedigrew spoke highly of you," Cranshaw replied. "He said you could have been a bencher if you'd set your mind to it."
"I daresay I could have." Jack cocked one eyebrow and
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grinned. "If I'd known that one day I would have to sully my hands working I'd have seen to it."
"What did he say?" Mrs. Bramble inquired, cupping a hand to her ear, where gray curls spilled from under her cap. "I couldn't quite hear."
Jack could not venture a guess as to her age. If Rosalind Cranshaw was in her forties, her sister was surely in her fifties, but her difficulty in hearing and her lovely silver hair made her seem older. She was not the beauty that her younger sister was, but Mrs. Brumble had a comforting charm about her that warmed the room.
"Not to worry, Patty." Rosalind pressed her sister's hand. "Mr. Fairchild said he might have been a barrister."
"That's nice, dear." Mrs. Brumble smiled sweetly at Jack.
"My sister is deaf in one ear, Mr. Fairchild. You know, Patty, how the men like to talk about business. You needn't pay much attention."
"Well, my dear," Cranshaw said to his wife with gruff affection, "isn't that better than discussing the weather?"
"The weather?" Mrs. Brumble brightened. "It's been dreadfully warm. Why, I went for a walk this morning and—"
"We could use a good solici
tor here in town," Lord Barrington cut in. "There's a constant stream of contracts and business that needs to be sorted out without going to London. What say you, Cranshaw?" He spoke like a man on the most intimate terms with his future father-in-law. "Should we let Fairchild handle that nasty little business in Broadway?"
Cranshaw took in a slow breath and studied Jack over the top of his spectacles. He pursed his lips and eyed Jack calculatingly. "Yes. And if you deal with this matter well,
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Fairchild, there will be more business for you than you can handle."
The doors to the parlor suddenly opened and Liza swept in, as fresh as a breeze over a windswept moor, and looking as lovely as the purple heather beneath it. Her cheeks were flushed and her vibrant eyes fixed on Jack for a tantalizing moment before moving on.
"There you are, my dear," said Rosalind. "I was starting to worry, though I know punctuality isn't your strong suit."
Bartholomew Cranshaw chuckled. It was clear by his softened features and indulgent smile that he doted on his eldest daughter.
Liza's smile brightened at the sight of him as well. "Good evening, Papa."
She wore the same gown Jack had seen her wearing in the park, but she'd added a Chinese robe. She'd doffed her bonnet and her luxurious raven hair was fastened up and behind her head à la grecque and topped with pearls. Ringlets of hair spilled like coiled ribbons from her temples. Her violet-blue eyes gleamed with a hint of mischief as she glanced at Jack again, but turned brittle when she spied Barrington.
"Where have you been, Liza?" he said in a condescending manner. "You know I don't like to be kept waiting. Nor, I should imagine, does our guest."
"Come, come, Barrington," Cranshaw said good-naturedly. "Surely you know by now that Liza keeps to her own time."
"Really, my lord, was it such a crime?" she asked, tight-lipped, avoiding his gaze.
Nonplussed by these twin rebuttals, Barrington raised his quizzing glass and sniffed. "Now that the settlement
