by CJ Archer
***
A tall, strongly built man was inspecting the makeshift canvas structure over the orange trees when Susanna and Orlando arrived in the walled garden. He looked around as they approached and Susanna was struck by a set of shrewd gray eyes that took in her appearance with a swift sweep. He gave no indication what he thought of her but removed his hat and bowed. His hair was short and brown, his face clean-shaved and the jawline firm. She could see why the chandler's wife said all the village women were talking about him in the same breath as Orlando. He was handsome, not in the striking and obvious manner of Orlando but more like a classic statue.
"Good morning," Susanna said. "Mr. Monk, I assume?"
He nodded and Orlando introduced them. A strange darkness threaded through his voice as he did so. She glanced at him sharply. His passive face gave nothing away. That in itself was odd. Orlando almost always had a friendliness about him.
"Ready?" Monk asked.
"Where's the timber?" Orlando said.
"It's being loaded onto a cart now. Lord Lynden will send someone to deliver it later."
"We have to remove the canvases first," Orlando said. "You do that end. I'll start with this."
"Wouldn't it be better if we both worked at the same end?"
"Why? Can't you reach the top?"
Monk's mouth twisted in a wry smile. "You may have an inch on me, but don't underestimate me, Holt."
"Enough," Susanna said with a shake of her head. They had the decency to look sheepish at least. "I thought I employed men, not boys."
"My apologies, Lady Lynden, I should explain. Holt here thinks I may be hiding something from him and as such, he's decided he doesn’t like me."
"I don't trust you," Orlando said.
"You don't need to trust him," she said, "you need to work alongside him. Nothing will get done while you two stand around and beat your chests."
Monk threw his head back and laughed. It transformed him from austere to affable, and Susanna couldn't help smiling along with him.
Orlando stormed off to the other end of the line of orange trees.
"I think I'd better help him," Monk said, speaking in low conspiratorial tones. He touched the brim of his hat and strolled after Orlando.
Susanna watched them, still smiling, a sense of satisfaction rolling through her like a warm wave. She couldn't identify the reason, but she knew it had something to do with Orlando's reaction to Monk's presence.
The men worked together to remove the canvases and the wooden stakes from the temporary structure. They spoke to each other only to give directions, and those were curt. The morning was cool and the air damp, but it wasn't raining. The men wore jerkins over their doublets and shirts, the sleeves rolled up to keep them clean. By the time they finished, they'd both discarded their jerkins. Orlando threw his over a hawthorn bush to keep it off the muddy ground but Monk dropped his onto a leather pack he'd left on the gravel path.
"Where do you want the canvases?" Monk asked, rolling up one of the large coverings.
"The stables, in the far corner," she said. "I'll show you."
"No," both men said.
"I'll show him," Orlando said.
"No need." Monk walked toward the arch, the rolled canvas slung over his shoulder.
To her surprise, Orlando neither argued nor tried to go with him. Once Monk was gone, he strode over to the pack. "Watch for him returning."
"What are you doing?"
"Looking for clues as to the real reason he's here."
"Jeffrey already told us. He has business with Mr. Monk. You don't believe him?"
He regarded her from his squatting position, the pack in his hand. "You do?"
She felt the sting of his disbelief across her face. It was as if he were disappointed in her for thinking Monk and Jeffrey told the truth. "I...I don't know." That was the truth. Jeffrey had no reason to lie to her, and yet he'd not explained Monk's presence to her satisfaction.
Orlando, however, had lied. He'd lied about his new cloak.
Despite her reservations, she stood by the arch. Orlando was intent on searching Monk's pack. Twice she turned to see if he'd found something, but he continued to rummage through the contents, checking each item thoroughly before placing it to one side. On her third glance, he'd stopped rummaging and his nimble fingers skimmed across seams, along the leather straps.
"Ah." The word was so soft she almost missed it.
"You found something?"
He pointed at the arch. "Keep watching."
She did but had to grind her teeth from telling him it was not his place to order her about. Her ears strained to listen but she could only hear the wind rustling the leaves.
"He's coming," she hissed when Monk emerged from the stables.
"Stay there if he's seen you," Orlando said. "If you move now, he'll grow suspicious."
"I don't like this," she said. "I wish we'd left him alone."
"I'm glad we didn't." He was right beside her, his voice soft in her ear. He stood near the wall so that Monk wouldn't be able to see him until he was through the arch. Orlando's hand touched her hip, reassuringly heavy.
"Why? What did you find?"
But he moved away and returned to the canvases dumped on the ground.
Monk smiled at Susanna as he neared the arch. "Your stables are interesting," he said. At her quizzical look, his smile widened. "It has only one horse but a lot of crates and boxes. I hope you don't mind, but I looked in one. Will you satisfy a simple man's curiosity and tell me what's in the jars?"
Simple? Mr. Monk was not simple. Everything about him was a puzzle. He spoke with a cultured, educated accent yet occasionally a word slipped through that made him sound like a stable hand. Like Orlando, he wasn't afraid to work hard and get dirty, something she found most of the upper classes didn't want to do. And when he smiled, it didn't quite reach his eyes. There was a faraway sadness amid their determined depths but only when he thought no one was looking.
It seemed she had two mysterious men on her hands.
"Most of it is orange marmalade," she said. "Cook and I make it from the fruit harvested from those trees." She nodded at the orange trees where Orlando worked. He lifted his head and frowned. She could tell he was warring with himself over approaching them. It must be torture standing there, wondering what they were saying. Yet he stayed.
"Orange marmalade," Monk said. "So that's what those trees are. I wondered why you were going to great lengths to protect them. It's fortunate you have help." He nodded at Orlando. "Those canvases are awkward."
"Very fortunate," she said, quietly.
"Forgive me, Lady Lynden, but I need to ask...where is your man from?"
"Why do you need to ask, Mr. Monk?"
"Because the distrust goes both ways, I assure you."
"You don't trust him? Why not?" She wasn't sure she wanted an answer, but she felt compelled to hear Monk's reasoning.
Trusting Orlando had just become one of the most difficult things to do, yet the most important. She wanted to trust him, desperately. When she lay in his arms she'd had no doubts. Not a single one. How could a man lie to a woman after he'd looked into her eyes with such intensity as he entered her? There'd been a raw openness in his gaze, and she knew with every piece of soul that their lovemaking had affected him as much as it had affected her. She would have staked Stoneleigh on it.
But in the light of day, the shadows of his lie and his nocturnal wanderings had remained when the shadows of night had fled. The feeling that she'd been manipulated would not leave.
"He seems too good to be true," Monk explained.
She had to laugh at that. In a way, it was the essence of her own reasoning. How could such a handsome, clever man with a dazzling wit and powerful presence be a mere gardener? Surely the Maker had something more in mind for him. "He worked in a manor house called Collier Dean in Sussex," she said, careful not to look at Orlando as she spoke.
"Where was he born? Wh
o was his father?"
She tensed. "I was satisfied with his credentials and his terms of employment, and didn't ask. I don't find it necessary to pry."
"My apologies, I didn't mean to offend you. But...Lady Lynden, I urge you to ask more questions about his background. The credentials you speak of came from his lips, I assume. Did he have a letter of introduction from his master at Collier Dean?"
"That is not your concern, Mr. Monk." It was a pathetic response, but she could think of no other.
"You're right, and it's not. However, you shouldn't employ someone you know little about."
"Like you, you mean?"
He nodded his head once, conceding her point. "All I'm suggesting is that if I were a woman alone I would not trust any pretty face that presents himself."
"Come now, Mr. Monk, I would hardly call yourself pretty. Handsome, yes."
He laughed. "Quick of wit and beautiful, I see."
Her face heated and she looked away.
"My apologies, I didn't mean to embarrass you."
"Thank you for your concern about Mr. Holt, but it's unfounded."
"You have reason to trust him? I'm glad to hear it."
She wished she had a reason to believe Orlando. There was, however, one thing she knew he was not guilty of. "No doubt you heard about the intruder here the other night and think Mr. Holt is to blame."
He lifted one shoulder. "I suppose so."
"Then you're mistaken. Mr. Holt could not have been the intruder. He was at my side as the man ran away. He could not possibly be in two places at once."
"No, of course not." He gave a perfunctory bow. "My apologies, I can see you are a formidable woman. But if you find your gardener is...not what he seems, you know where to find me." He walked off before she could ask what he meant.
Susanna followed him and received a loaded glare from Orlando when he looked up from the canvas he was rolling. A blankness quickly closed over his face and he threw the canvas at Monk. "Think you can carry two?"
Monk held out both arms, the canvas balanced on top of them. "Pile on another. I'll need to rearrange them in the stables, and make more space. Could take awhile."
"Take your time."
Monk left the garden carrying both of the heavy canvases as if they weighed nothing.
"What were you two talking about?" Orlando asked her when he was out of earshot.
"That's between Mr. Monk and myself."
He took a step closer and she swallowed. The look in his eyes was primal. The boyish humor had vanished, the dimples too. She shivered and rubbed her arms. But it wasn't fear that rippled through her, it was passion. Bold, fierce. Raw.
He was looking at her the same way. As if he would take her right there, on the damp ground, and stake his claim.
God help her, she would have let him too. She wanted him like she'd never wanted any man. But just as quickly as the change had come over him, it vanished. He stepped back, the storm clouds chased from his eyes as he stared at her in dazed confusion. It was as if he'd been in a trance or a dream and suddenly woken.
He turned and strode to the last orange tree where he remained, his back to her.
Orlando tried to breathe. It wasn't easy. His chest felt too tight to contain his wildly beating heart and his skin felt hot all over, especially at his groin. He closed his eyes, but all he could see in the darkness was Susanna touching Monk's arm and the cur laughing at something she said.
Hell. He wasn't supposed to feel like this.
"Will you come to me tonight?" she murmured in his ear.
He opened his eyes and drew the cold, sharp air into his chest. "Do you still want me to?"
"Of course."
"Then I will." There'd never been any doubt on that score. Not on his part. His relief at hearing the eagerness in her voice was immeasurable.
"He'll be back soon," she said. "What did you find in his pack?"
"There was a letter of introduction addressed to Lord Lynden from Lord Whipple slipped inside a partially opened seam."
"Lord Whipple? Monk's previous employer?"
"Possibly."
"Did it contain anything of note about Mr. Monk? Anything that may allude to him being untrustworthy?"
The last traces of the fog that had engulfed Orlando lifted. He finally remembered where he'd heard Lord Whipple's name before. A chill prickled his scalp and made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. "The letter contained very little of use, but it did reveal a prior connection between Monk and Lynden. It seems they knew each other years ago, but Whipple informed Lynden that Monk had changed in that time. He then urged Lynden to employ Monk. He said he was very good at his job." Very good. Urge. Neither were the precise words contained within the letter.
Lord Whipple hadn't urged Lynden to employ Monk, he'd forced him to do it by way of thinly-veiled threats to his person and property. And Monk wasn't very good at his job, apparently he was 'the best'. Unfortunately, the letter had not explained what he was best at, or what Monk was supposed to do for Lynden. There must have been earlier correspondence between the gentlemen.
Orlando didn't like it. Lord Whipple was a Catholic, suspected by the queen's spymaster of being behind several attempts to replace their Protestant monarch with a Catholic one. Orlando knew this because the Guild had been commissioned by the spymaster to watch him. When they'd not found enough evidence linking Whipple to any uprisings or plots, they had let him live.
If Whipple was indeed embroiled in something treasonous, how was Lynden connected? Why the need for Monk, a man Whipple described as deviously clever and single-minded?
And what did it all have to do with Susanna?
"How odd," she said. "I'll have to confront Jeffrey about it."
"Not yet." Hell, he'd already told her too much. She was not the sort to sit idly aside when something was afoot, yet that's precisely what she needed to do for the time being. "Susanna." He took her shoulders and locked his gaze with hers. "This is important. You mustn't confront Lynden or Monk. I have reason to believe you may be in danger—"
"What!" Despite her defiant outburst, he felt her shiver.
"I think Monk was our intruder the other night, and until we know his reason for climbing through your bedchamber window, we must assume the worst."
She shook him off. "Are you suggesting he wants to harm me? That Jeffrey employed him to..." Another shiver wracked her, but this one was more visible, more violent.
"It's a possibility we must consider."
"Don't be absurd." She began to pace, four strides to the left, turn and back again. "Jeffrey is my cousin by marriage. I cannot think of any reason he'd want me..." She stopped pacing. "No. It's not possible. There is absolutely no gain to him if I were not here. None whatsoever."
"He could buy Stoneleigh at a good price. Who would inherit it if you were to...?" He couldn't finish the thought let alone the sentence. In five short days, he'd gone from being prepared to assassinate her to not being able to think of her death let alone speak of it.
She didn't look at him, and he knew she was considering whether Lynden was greedy enough to go to such lengths. In the end, she shook her head. Her panic seemed to have eased and her mind taken back control. She was thinking more clearly now. Good for her. He took her hand and squeezed. She squeezed back.
"I find it so hard to believe that Jeffrey would think like that. He's not a malicious man, nor violent. In fact, I think he abhors it. I once saw him turn away from a fight that broke out at The Plough. He'd gone quite green at the first spray of blood."
"Which would explain the need for Monk."
Her nostrils flared and he felt her tense. It was as if she was holding herself together, trying hard not to show fear or make a sound. "You think he..." Her words were barely a whisper.
"I don’t know." Yet it would explain much. Monk's presence for one thing, his ability to stealthily approach the stables the first time they met, the unsettling feeling Orlando got whenever he was n
ear.
However, it didn't explain why Orlando had never heard of him. Hughe made it his business to know the names of the other assassins operating on English soil. There was no Monk. He could be new, or he could be so good that he'd escaped their notice until now.
"Do not be frightened." He rested a hand on her shoulder, close to the small ruff she wore, and rubbed his thumb along her jawline. "I'm going to protect you, but be vigilant, my goddess."
She swallowed hard. Nodded.
"I'll go in search of him, see what he's up to."
He found Monk coming out of the brewery. The strong smell of fermenting malt leeched from the small building and hung on the air like an invisible fog.
"What were you doing in there?" Orlando asked, stepping in front of Monk.
"Looking for a drink. I was thirsty."
"You can go to the kitchen for that."
Monk shrugged one shoulder and made to walk around Orlando. Orlando stepped into his path once more. Monk raised a lazy eyebrow and smiled.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Holt?"
"What were you doing in the brewery?"
"I told you. Getting a drink. Ah, here's the building materials just arriving. Excuse me, I have work to do."
Orlando let him pass then followed even though he needed to investigate the brewery himself to see what had been disturbed.
He would not leave Monk alone with Susanna.
But as he passed by the entrance to the kitchen garden, Cook beckoned him from the doorway with a hiss and a crook of her stubby finger. "Did you see him coming out of the brewery just now?" she asked when he was close.
"Yes."
"Well, that's not the only place he went." She clutched Orlando's arm and pulled him closer. She was amazingly strong. "He was in the bakehouse before that."
The bakehouse stood next to the brewery. Like the stables, barn, and the main house itself, both buildings needed repair. Someone had fixed them up enough so they could be used, but all needed more work. The brewery in particular looked like a strong wind might blow it away.
"No one is to enter either the bakehouse or brewery until I've gone through them first," he said. "Understand?"
"But I've got to make the bread!"
"I'll do it immediately after we dine. Can the bread wait until then?"
"Aye, I suppose." Cook looked to Monk where he stood near the walled garden, giving directions to the men who'd delivered the timber. She frowned and the spidery lines across her cheeks reddened. "I don't trust him. It's those eyes. Too many shadows in them, like he's...haunted. He's hiding something, mark my words."
"I agree." Orlando went to join Monk and Susanna and hoped that Cook didn't see the shadows in his eyes.
