The Charmer

by CJ Archer

  ***

  "You should have reported it to Lord Lynden," Cook said, grinding the cloves with so much force Susanna was worried the pestle would crack under the pressure.

  "I didn't see the point," she said. "We have no clues as to who it was. Besides, Jeffrey would only worry."

  Hendricks snorted as he handed a tray to Susanna. "Only in that he'd be worried the intruder would take it upon himself to break into the Hall next."

  Bessie clicked her tongue as she set the table where Holt sat listening and watching. It wasn't like him to be so quiet. Susanna had grown used to his friendly chatter, his easy laughter, and flirting. Something was on his mind, something to do with where he'd gone that afternoon. He'd only been back a short time and together they had covered the orange trees for the night before coming inside. She'd gone straight upstairs with Bessie to wash up for supper and returned to the kitchen to see him sitting at the table, saying little and apparently lost in thought.

  She'd assumed he'd gone into the village but hadn't asked. He could do as he wished in the afternoons. Curiosity gnawed at her nevertheless. Curiosity and a dull ache. Most likely he'd gone to see a woman. Men like Holt always had women waiting for them somewhere. They seemed to attract them like bees to lavender.

  The ache turned to a wrenching twist and she turned her back to him lest he notice her staring. No matter how much she tried not looking at him, her gaze always wandered there when he was nearby.

  "You're unkind, Hendricks," Bessie said. "Lord Lynden would be concerned for his kinswoman and you know it."

  "I s'pose so." Hendricks peered over Cook's shoulder and sighed. "But I'm not sure he could do much to help, as the mistress says. What can he do when we don't know who it was?"

  "It should still be reported," Cook said with a grunt as she pounded.

  "Are you trying to turn those cloves to dust?" Hendricks asked. "They look ready to me. Come on, put 'em in, I'm starving."

  Cook shook the pestle at him. "Don't tell me how to do my job, Mr. Hendricks. I don't tell you how to do yours, do I?"

  "Yes, you do."

  Cook humphed and scraped the cloves into the pot simmering over the fire. "A few more minutes to let the flavor seep through then we're ready."

  "He'll probably come to see you tomorrow," Holt said, rising.

  "Who?" the servants all said as one.

  Susanna knew the answer. "You were up at the Hall?"

  He nodded and came to stand beside her. There was an extra intensity about him tonight that hadn't been there before, as if something troubled him. She didn't like it. She missed her amiable gardener. Could the intruder be worrying him? Or something else?

  Something to do with the desire that had passed between them?

  "You spoke to Jeffrey about last night?" she asked.

  "Not him, no. I spoke to a stable hand and another man there. I'm sure it won't take long before Lynden comes to speak to you. I mentioned the intruder to Milner at The Plough."

  "You did what?" Hendricks whipped around so fast the spoon in his bowl did a full swivel around the rim before settling back into place. "You fool! Now everyone will know. Cowdrey will—" He caught Susanna's glare and stopped.

  "Leave Farmer Cowdrey to me," she said. "Anyway, I'm sure Mr. Holt had good reason to tell Milner."

  "Two reasons," Holt said, addressing Hendricks. She applauded him for that. Hendricks, bless him, was as protective of her as her own father, perhaps more so since her father's health had begun to fade. Holt may never win the servant over before he left, but treating him with as much respect as he would the master of the house was a good start. Particularly as it didn't feel like he was treating her with any less respect by doing it. Indeed, she felt as if his words were directed at her, meant for her ears only.

  "First," he said, "Milner is the quickest way to get word out about the intruder. Once word is out, it's less likely to happen again. The village will be on edge, watchful. Anyone who was away from their home last night will come under suspicion. I think it's the best way to ensure it won't happen again, if the intruder was a local."

  "And if he wasn't?" Bessie asked in a soft voice.

  "And if he wasn't, I know who it might be. That's my second reason for speaking to Milner. He told me about a stranger to the village, other than myself. The stranger asked directions to Sutton Hall, so I went there after leaving The Plough. That's when I spoke to the stable lad and the stranger himself."

  "And?" Cook prompted, her attention as focused on Holt as the rest, her cooking forgotten.

  "His name is Monk. He claims he was at the Hall last night talking to Lynden."

  "So it can't be him," Bessie said, satisfied. "His lordship will vouch for him."

  "Aye," Hendricks said. "Did you ask him?"

  Holt shook his head and turned to Susanna. She saw the unspoken words in his eyes. He didn't want to ask Jeffrey because he didn't trust him to tell the truth.

  But that was absurd. Jeffrey had no reason to send a man to climb through her window. Why would he? Of all people, he knew they had nothing worth stealing.

  "Of course it may not be someone who went into the village at all," Cook said, ladling broth into a bowl from the pot. "There could be someone hiding in the woods." She stopped ladling and gasped. "Oh my."

  Bessie clasped Hendricks's arm. "Do you think it's possible?"

  A shiver slithered down Susanna's spine and she found her hand safely enclosed in Holt's big one. The pad of his thumb rubbed her knuckles, the movement soothing, sending a different kind of shiver through her. A warm one that made her heart lurch in her chest. His gaze locked with hers, reassuring. Comforting. She felt utterly safe with this man beside her.

  Yet that was absurd. Orlando Holt was a mystery and she needed to remember that. What sort of gardener needed direction for even the basic tasks, and didn't have his own gardening gloves? What sort of servant worked for no pay when much wealthier manors were within walking distance?

  She could not trust him with all her secrets. Not yet.

  "No one is hiding out in the woods," Hendricks said, patting Bessie's hand. "It's much too cold tonight. There's frost in the air already. Anyway, I'll protect you." His wrinkles bent into a reassuring smile meant only for the maid. She smiled back, but it lacked assurance.

  Cook handed a bowl to him and he had to let go of Bessie's hand to take it. "No offense, Mr. Hendricks, but I'll sleep with my sharpest knife under my pillow tonight, just in case. Unless Mr. Holt wants to sleep outside my door?"

  "Hush, Cook," Bessie scolded, lowering her head but stealing a glance at Holt.

  Susanna removed her hand from his. "What do you mean?"

  "I slept in your parlor last night after we scared the intruder away."

  "You did? On the floor?"

  "Yes. It's surprisingly comfortable and the rushes smelled pleasing."

  "I always have clean rushes," Bessie said. "But I hope it wasn't too uncomfortable."

  "He had a mattress," Hendricks snapped.

  Susanna hardly heard either of them. Blood pounded between her ears, deafening her to almost everything else. He had watched over her. Knowing such a strong and handsome man had spent hours outside her bedchamber door was a heady thing. But not as heady as knowing he'd done it to ensure her safety and not for more base reasons.

  Her gardener may be a mystery, but he had just endeared himself to her in a way that his flirting never could.

  "Why did no one tell me?" she asked but not harshly. She did not want Holt or the others to think her ungrateful.

  Bessie, Hendricks, and Cook exchanged worried glances as they passed bowls between each other. "We didn't want to alarm you, m'lady," Bessie said. She handed Susanna a bowl of the steaming broth. "You'd had quite an ordeal and, well, we weren't sure if you'd welcome Mr. Holt sleeping so near."

  "Oh. Yes. Of course." She placed the bowl on the tray to take up to her father. "It's unconventional, true, but I must be told everything that occu
rs in this house."

  "Yes, m'lady," Bessie said, passing over another bowl which Susanna set next to the first on the tray.

  "In that case," Orlando said. "I should tell you that I plan on sleeping in the parlor again tonight."

  "I don't think that's necessary. As Hendricks said, the intruder is unlikely to return tonight."

  "Protest all you like, madam, but I will be sleeping on the parlor floor again."

  The nerve of him! She was about to tell him he should mind his place but bit her lip to stop herself. Holt sported a devastating smile. He knew precisely what she'd been about to say.

  "Shouldn't you be asking me and not ordering me?" she said instead.

  He cocked his head to the side and she almost laughed at the cheekiness of his stance and the impish gleam in his eyes. He was certainly a man used to breaking a tense mood with his charm. "In that case, may I sleep on your parlor floor tonight, m'lady?"

  "No," she said, just to see his reaction.

  "Not the right answer." When she began to protest, he added, "You told me to ask so I did. You mentioned nothing about obeying."

  "Are you this impertinent with all your employers?"

  "Always, but they couldn't help but like me anyway."

  "Are you sure they didn't simply tolerate you? Perhaps they were short of strong backs in the garden."

  He pressed a hand to his chest. "You wound me, dear lady."

  She chuckled despite herself and shook her head. He was incorrigible.

  "I'll let you make it up to me by allowing me to sleep on the parlor floor," he said.

  "Not the floor, a mattress," Hendricks grumbled. "From the most comfortable guest bed, mind."

  Susanna picked up the tray with the bowls of broth for both her father and herself. "Good night, everyone."

  "Good night, m'lady," Bessie, Hendricks, and Cook intoned.

  Orlando merely gave her a wicked smile.