“A lantern put in my barn by Jeppeson.” Franklin said resolutely.
“No, I think that is not the case.” Killian pressed on, showing Franklin the blackened metal he’d picked up. “I found this at the hottest part of the blaze. The trademark on the metal is the same as other pieces from other lanterns used in your barn. This lantern is yours.”
“How do you know it’s from the hottest part of the fire?” Franklin queried, his anger rising.
Killian jerked his head towards the ruined barn frame. “Because it’s still smoldering there, and when I bent down to touch the remains, they were still hot, unlike the remains in other places which had already cooled. I will tell you something else too, Franklin. The hottest part of the fire came from the middle of the barn, not from an outside wall where an arsonist would likely start a fire so they could get away quickly. This blaze started inside. It’s my conclusion that the peg this lantern was on probably gave way and the lantern crashed to the floor.”
Franklin sputtered. “But who will pay for my barn? Where will my animals live this winter?”
Killian didn’t have those answers. Franklin would have to decide that for himself. Killian looked around at the people assembled. “Well, there just might be some people here looking for work who wouldn’t mind helping you raise a barn.”
Franklin’s eyes bulged at the prospect. “You don’t understand, milord,” he stammered in incoherent argument.
Killian placed a steadying hand on the big man’s shoulder, remembering the things Rose had shared at breakfast. “Oh yes, I do. I understand better than you think.”
Poetic justice, divine intervention, whatever one wanted to call it, Mr. Franklin had been served up his just desserts. If he wanted a barn by winter he’d have to pay those he’d cheated on wages earlier in the year. Killian thought the outcome quite fitting. He’d had his first trial as Pembridge and he’d passed admirably in his opinion.
Others seemed to think so too. By the time they’d said good-bye to Peyton at the turn in the road, and made their way through the village in the gig, he and Rose had picked up a following. By the time he’d parked the gig near the town commons, they were surrounded by merchants and day laborers who wanted to meet the earl in person.
Sensing the prospect of some extra income, the innkeeper discreetly rolled out a keg, followed shortly by a few trestle tables on the commons, leaving no doubt in Killian’s mind the day had become an impromptu holiday of sorts. It reminded him of the medieval court days he’d read about in history books with the lord of the manor sitting in judgment over disagreements and quarrels.
He sat at a table, people of the village on all sides of him. Someone thrust a mug into his hand, and he listened. He offered feedback. Then he began to plan. The comments all had one constant theme—the need for regular sources of income that existed beyond the seasonal opportunities of farming. Even the merchants were affected by the seasonal funding of their local economy. If people didn’t have money to spend, they couldn’t buy the goods stocked in the village shops.
Killian raised the mug to his mouth, expecting to taste ale. To his surprise, it was cider instead—a sweet, smooth cold cider, delicious and wet. He didn’t need more than a second swallow to know it was the finest cider he’d ever tasted. He caught sight of Rose moving through a crowd of women, someone’s baby on her hip, her bonnet askew from the baby’s antics and her lovely hair peeking out.
Red-gold.
The idea he’d been searching for finally came to him in concrete detail. Rose’s shed full of red-gold apples. Red gold. She wasn’t the only one. Practically everyone grew apples here and made cider. Cider was commonplace here.
Red gold.
The Redstreak apple.
Cider.
A cider cartel.
There was a market for cider if one could get it to the city.
“Do you send cider up to Hereford?” Killian asked, his mind alight with ideas.
“Yes, milord. But that’s only one city. There’s not too many big cities around here.” It was true. Pembridge-on-the-Wye was closer to Wales than it was to London. Killian smiled. A farmer alone could not think of the expense of sending his cider to London. That’s where they needed him. He could show them how to mitigate expenses by working together, and once London got a taste of this cider, it wouldn’t want to buy anything else, no matter how much closer it was. His mind was spinning fast now. Who was to say they couldn’t also go into Wales? Their little cartel could become international, would become international once he got done with it.
Chapter Thirteen
Killian was quiet on the drive home—all his attention riveted on the horse and the road perhaps? Or were his thoughts elsewhere? Rose wondered. Had he figured out that he didn’t need her at all? He didn’t. He’d been fine on his own, magnificent in fact. From the moment he’d stepped down from the gig at Franklin’s barn, she’d seen a different side of him, a side that made her wince with embarrassment when she recalled the rough dressing down she’d given him that first day in the orchard.
She’d listened to rumors, seen the playful light in his eye and taken that to be the sum of him, a man more interested in the light pleasures of lazy society. She’d judged him on his appearance, determined to find him shallow because he’d been handsome and absent to defend himself against the rumors that had drifted down from London over the years. But Killian Redbourne was much more than that.
Today he’d been the earl. He’d actively sought justice for the fire. He’d given of his time to those who needed his ear. He’d sat for hours with the people, listening to them. When he’d risen from the tables, there’d been a new sense of purpose to the crowd. The grim expressions had been transformed into something more hopeful. Change was in the air.
What did that mean for her? He’d done it all by himself. He had not needed her introductions as he’d feared. The men liked him for himself. Why should they not? His command had been impressive today. She had watched him whenever she could. She could not help but feel proud in ‘her man.’ But that was where the fantasy ended. He wasn’t her man. He’d never be her man. Whatever he’d been before, a businessman of sorts, he was an earl now and out of her league.
“A penny for your thoughts,” Rose ventured cautiously. They were nearly home. She mentally cringed. How easy the idea of them together had slipped into her way of thinking. This wasn’t their home. It was her home, and it would her home after he left.
“I’ve been thinking of all that needs to be done.”
“For what?” Rose felt as if she’d entered a conversation halfway finished and was missing vital information.
“To set up the cider cartel, Rose.” He explained the details to her, how they would transport the local cider into cities year-round. “We’ll probably have to grow more apple trees to keep up with demand once we get established.”
There was no missing the excitement in his voice, and it was contagious. They pulled into the yard and he came around to help her down. She put her arms about him and kissed him full on the mouth. “You’re brilliant.” With Killian at the helm of the project, she had no doubt it would succeed in ways local farmers could not hope to achieve.
“I have you to thank for the inspiration.” His eyes twinkled as he set her down, still holding her close, the heat of his body comforting and solid against the evening chill. “Red gold you called it, and so it will be. Now, as I recall, we have some unfinished business upstairs from this morning. Shall we?”
There was an extra edge of euphoria to their lovemaking that night, Rose’s thoughts of a dismal future without him firmly pushed away in the wake of Killian’s ardor and the hope that the cartel might give him a reason to stay. Maybe she wouldn’t have to say good-bye after all.
Perhaps if she’d known him longer, she would have sensed the underlying urgency in his lovemaking. Perhaps she’d have realized the ardor that drove him was fueled not only by exhilaration over his plans but by the imminent appr
oach of their good-byes.
As it was, she had a rather rude awakening the following morning.
The bed was empty. Killian stood bare-chested, dressed in trousers before the open wardrobe, carefully folding the spare shirt and clothes Dursley had brought down for him. It took a moment or two for Rose’s sleepy mind to register that these weren’t the actions of a man called away on an emergency; such a man would be stuffing clothing haphazardly into a valise. These were the actions of a man who’d planned a departure.
“What are you doing?” Rose managed to ask. She’d not expected to wake like this. She’d expected a cozy morning in bed, picking up where they’d fallen asleep last night, safe in each other’s arms.
Killian turned from the wardrobe, a smile on his face. “I’m leaving, Rose.”
As if that was cause for a smile. Her stomach plummeted. “Leaving? For where? Why?” Rose sat up in bed, shoving handfuls of hair out of her face.
“I can’t stay here forever if we’re to get the cartel up and running.” He shrugged into his spare linen shirt, looking elegant and graceful, a stark reminder that he’d worn clothes far beneath his station since he’d arrived at her doorstep. So this was how it would be. He would return to his rightful station and she would be left in hers. No plans for them crossed his lips.
He put on the hunting jacket he’d arrived in and pulled on his boots. Each action led him closer to farewell. Rose’s throat tightened. She’d known he would leave her. She’d just hadn’t known it would hurt so much. He snapped the valise shut and came to the bed, dropping a quick kiss on her cheek. “Everything will be all right, you’ll see.”
He was too cheerful for her taste. It would certainly help if he felt even a twinge of sadness at going. Rose merely nodded. “Take care of yourself,” she managed. He wouldn’t want tears. It would make him regret their time together. Regrets were not what she wanted him to remember.
Rose heard the front door shut and hurried to her window. She’d torture herself a bit longer and see him leave. She pulled back the lace curtain to watch him harness the pony and throw his bag up onto the gig before swinging into the seat. He slapped the reins and was off.
Rose sighed, her breath frosting the window pane. She’d meant to give herself an experience. But he’d taken her heart.
Chapter Fourteen
It was impossible to get Killian Redbourne out of her head, out of her house or off her land. Everywhere she looked, there were reminders. Some physical—the dining-room table where they’d eaten that first dinner together—others mental images of things he’d said, things they’d done. Even the orchards weren’t safe from memories of him. He was simply everywhere.
After three days of trying to prepare the press for the annual cider-making and succeeding only minimally, she finally gave in and contrived an excuse to drive up to Pembridge Hall in the old farm wagon. She dressed with conscientious care, not wanting to look overdone for a casual call upon a neighbor. She didn’t want Killian to suspect she was moping, pouting or in anyway sulking due to his absence.
She loaded two small casks of cider in the back of the wagon and set off under the flimsy pretense that she’d not yet paid him for his work in the orchards. Not that the earl needed payment, of course. But he might appreciate the humorous gesture anyway.
Pembridge Hall was a monstrous sprawl of a house, big and intimidating. The old earl had liked to intimidate people, he’d wanted those around him to feel the weight of his consequence. He’d been a skinny, bony bag of a man and had had to do his intimidating through avenues other than his size. Pembridge Hall was proof of that.
She summoned her courage and knocked on the door. A stuffy butler answered it; she vaguely recalled him from the few times she’d visited on formal occasions. “I’m Mrs. Janeway. I’ve come to see the earl.”
“Right this way, please.” At least that was something, Rose thought. She’d not been turned away and, in fact, had been easily admitted. Killian didn’t plan on ignoring her then.
The butler led her to a small sitting room done up in various shades of yellow, and she sat down to wait, her confidence surging a bit over the decent reception.
“Mrs. Janeway, how delightful to see you again.” It was Dursley who spoke from the doorway. Her hopes fell. It was the wrong earl. How awkward.
Disappointment must have shown on her face. “You were expecting Pembridge?” Dursley inquired kindly. “I am afraid he’s not here.”
Luck was not with her. First the wrong earl, then Killian was out on some errand. It was probably no less than she deserved, traipsing over the countryside hunting down a man who’d made it clear their brief interlude was over. She’d never thought much of women who made cakes of themselves over men. Now she’d become one.
Rose gathered her dignity. “It’s no problem. I brought him some casks of cider. I thought he might need them.” She couldn’t think of why he’d need them. Hopefully, Dursley would throw her a scrap of mercy and not ask. “If you could tell him when he returns?”
“I will, Mrs. Janeway, although it might not be for a while.” Dursley was looking at her strangely. “I can see you don’t know. He’s gone. He left for London a few days ago.”
Rose was thankful she was sitting. Otherwise she might have fallen over completely. Killian was gone? In London? “How long will he be gone?” She couldn’t bear to ask the other question on her mind: Will he be back?
Dursley shook his head patiently. “I don’t know. He didn’t say. I’m sorry, I assumed he’d told you.”
Rose was numb. Killian had simply disappeared back to London. When he’d said he couldn’t stay here, she had thought he meant at her house with her. But he’d meant it in a far bigger sense. He couldn’t stay in Pembridge-on-the-Wye. It hadn’t been clear to her, but then it had all happened so fast. They’d been making love and then he’d been gone.
She managed to get home before she broke into tears in the privacy of her room. The best she could hope for now was that he didn’t mean to betray the villagers who’d believed in his cartel. It was clear to her that he meant to run the cartel from London, from the terminus of the supply line instead of at its onset.
In hindsight, it made sense. He was a man of business with other interests he could simultaneously oversee if he were in London, and he’d said the estate was broke. Dursley must be tying up loose ends for him before heading back.
She knew she should be thankful. Killian had found a way to be the absent earl he wanted to be and to help the people find the income they needed. He’d discharged his duty on terms acceptable to all—except perhaps her.
Rose punched the wet pillow. She’d been such a fool.
Chapter Fifteen
London, November 30, 1830
Killian lifted his hand from the stationery, setting aside the quill as he debated what more to add. His letter to Peyton was mostly complete. The villagers could celebrate the upcoming Christmas season with glee. He had contracts for cider with over fifty inns in the greater London area, with the promise of more next year. The letter contained the details, along with the delivery date for the first shipments and an order to start the cider presses. Between pressing and carting, they’d have all the work they wanted and more just to fill these initial contracts.
He’d tell them himself except that speed was of the essence, and he wanted to stop along the way home and cultivate a few of the inns that ran along the Herefordshire-London road. The letter would arrive before he did, and the villagers would need all the time they could get.
Killian felt well pleased with his efforts. But he felt more pleased with the idea of going home. For the first time in his adulthood, he had a place he wanted to call home. He picked up his quill and hesitated again. He wanted to add a postscript for Rose, to tell her he was on his way home, on his way back to her, that he’d missed her tremendously. Time without her had provided him with a perspective on what she’d come to mean to him.
He decided against it. This let
ter would be passed around, everyone wanting to hear the details of the cartel. This missive was not the place for personal disclosures.
“Milord, the messenger is ready to leave.” A footman entered the room to collect the letter. There’d be no time to write a second one privately. Killian carefully folded the heavy paper and closed it with the Pembridge seal, something he was still getting used to.
He wished he was leaving with the letter, but he still had another day in town before he could depart.
Killian closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He was tired of London. Even with all the comforts of his own home, Killian longed for the simple pleasures of Rose’s soft bed
The visions of her in his mind were strong. He could see her in the fields, all boots and trousers, her hair tucked up beneath a cap, challenging him. He could see her beside him in the gig in her blue dress with the lace at the throat, ready to stand by him and ease his way if need be. He saw her amid the women in the village, respected as a leader in her own right. He saw her at the coin box, in the cider shed on the work table and in his arms up against the wardrobe, her hair loose, her passion exposed. And he saw her rumpled with sleep that last day when he’d kissed her good-bye.
She did understand, didn’t she? He was coming back. She did understand he wouldn’t leave her? He hadn’t said good-bye because it wasn’t good-bye. He’d be back for her. How could he not be? One did not throw away a piece of one’s soul. But he worried. He had no explicit guarantee. He had only the implicit promises their bodies had made each other, the implied bonds of their midnight conversations.
In his excitement over the cartel, the scene that last morning had not resonated with him at the time. But now, as he played it back in his mind, the exhilaration of the cartel subdued, he wondered what it had looked like from Rose’s perspective, and prickles of doubt began to nag at him. Had she thought he was saying farewell to her? To them?
Wicked Earl, Wanton Widow Page 6
