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My Lady's Trust
Julia Justiss


She Would Be Safe Among Strangers,Laura Martin assured herself. But would the cloak of anonymity she wore to escape a hellish marriage also protect her from the discerning gaze of the Earl of Beaulieu? Or would the famed Puzzlebreaker discover her deepest secrets as easily as he had the key to her heart?Desire filled the earl when looking upon the enigmatic Laura Martin. Reclusive as she was, he saw the tender heart she'd hidden beneath the chilly facade and recognized her as his destined bride. But could he teach her to trust him enough to let him into her life–forever?









“I owe you a debt I can never repay.”


“Were it in my power, I’d go to the ends of the earth to grant you your heart’s desire.” He smiled, his face lightening. “Now what, I wonder, would such a calm and quiet lady desire most in the world?”

Freedom from fear. The thought flashed into her head on a stab of longing. “M-my needs are few, my lord. I’m quite content.”

The earl chuckled. “A lady with no demands? What an extraordinary creature!”

“Not at all. Alas, I’m entirely ordinary.”

The wryness of her rejoinder faded, replaced by a curious mingling of alarm and anticipation as the earl stepped closer. She stood motionless, breath suspended. She could not make herself look away.

“No, my lady,” he said after a long moment. “Though you may be many things, �ordinary’ is certainly not one of them…!”




Praise for Julia Justiss’s previous works


The Proper Wife

“Justiss is a promising new talent and readers will devour her tantalizing tale with gusto.”

—Publishers Weekly

The Wedding Gamble

“A scintillating, thoroughly engaging, love story!”

—Romantic Times Magazine

“This is a fast-paced story that will leave you wanting more…you won’t want to put it down!”

—Newandusedbooks.com

A Scandalous Proposal

“Ms. Justiss’s writing style makes it impossible to put this delightful tale down.”

—Rendezvous

“Ms. Justiss captures the essence of the Regency period….A compelling, satisfying read.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

#592 CALL OF THE WHITE WOLF

Carol Finch

#593 DRAGON’S DOWER

Catherine Archer

#594 GOLD RUSH BRIDE

Debra Lee Brown




My Lady’s Trust

Julia Justiss







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Available from Harlequin Historicals and

JULIA JUSTISS


The Wedding Gamble #464

A Scandalous Proposal #532

The Proper Wife #567

My Lady’s Trust #591


In memory of fellow writer

Nancy Richards-Akers

shot to death by her estranged husband

June 1999

and to all women caught in domestic abuse.

Get help. Get out.

Your children need you.




Contents


Prologue (#u1db24e11-6e8c-568e-b6ce-47047ec08267)

Chapter One (#ua9de9bc3-d6b6-5979-806a-57ff26bb25d7)

Chapter Two (#u6240d701-9de6-5555-86ca-42165c68d76c)

Chapter Three (#uc9f7804b-e60e-5236-8c43-7899eb7c3886)

Chapter Four (#udc6cb942-35b8-5e82-83ef-d241a64c4015)

Chapter Five (#u997abc92-f4bc-5b4d-9d90-61d0989f2ed1)

Chapter Six (#ue6e61480-8d05-5d79-9613-42b1325502de)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue


Soundlessly Laura crept through the dark hall. Having rehearsed—and used—the route before, she knew every carpet, chair and cupboard in the passageway, each twist of the twenty-nine steps down the servants’ stair to the back door. Even were their old butler Hobbins and his wife not snoring in their room just off the corridor, the winter storm howling through the chimneys and rattling the shutters would cover the slight rustle of her movements.

Just once she halted in her stealthy passage, outside the silent nursery. Leaning toward the door, she could almost catch a whiff of baby skin, feel the softness of flannel bunting, see the bright eyes and small waving hands. A bitter bleakness pierced her heart, beside whose chill the icy needles being hurled against the windows were mild as summer rain, and her step staggered.

She bent over, gripping for support the handle of the room where a baby’s gurgle no longer sounded. Nor ever would again—not flesh of her flesh.

I promise you that, Jennie, she vowed. Making good on that vow could not ease the burden of guilt she carried, but it was the last thing she would do in this house. The only thing, now, she could do.

Marshaling her strength, she straightened and made her way down the stairs, halting once more to catch her breath before attempting to work the heavy lock of the kitchen door. She was stronger now. For the past month she’d practiced walking, at first quietly in her room, more openly this past week since most of the household had departed with its master for London. She could do this.

Cautiously she unlatched the lock, then fastened her heavy cloak and drew on her warmest gloves. At her firm push the door opened noiselessly on well-oiled hinges. Ignoring the sleet that pelted her face and the shrieking wind that tore the hood from her hair, she walked into the night.




Chapter One


The crisp fall breeze, mingling the scents of falling leaves and the sharp tang of herbs, brought to Laura Martin’s ear the faint sound of barking interspersed with the crack of rifle shot. The party which had galloped by her cottage earlier this morning, the squire’s son throwing her a jaunty wave as they passed, must be hunting duck in the marsh nearby, she surmised.

Having cut the supply of tansy she needed for drying, Laura turned to leave the herb bed. Misfit, the squire’s failure of a rabbit hound who’d refused to leave her after she healed the leg he’d caught in a poacher’s trap, bumped his head against her hand, demanding attention.

“Shameless beggar,” she said, smiling as she scratched behind his ears.

The dog flapped his tail and leaned into her stroking fingers. A moment later, however, he stiffened and looked up, uttering a soft whine.

“What is it?” Almost before the words left her lips she heard the rapid staccato of approaching hoofbeats. Seconds later one of the squire’s grooms, mounted on a lathered horse and leading another, flashed into view.

Foreboding tightening her chest, she strode to the garden fence.

“What’s wrong, Peters?” she called to the young man bringing his mount to a plunging halt.

“Your pardon, Mrs. Martin, but I beg you come at once! There were an accident—a gun gone off…” The groom stopped and swallowed hard. “Please, ma’am!”

“How badly was the person injured?”

“I don’t rightly know. The young gentleman took a shot to the shoulder and there be blood everywhere. He done swooned off immediate, and—”

Her foreboding deepened. “You’d best find Dr. Winthrop. I fear gunshots are beyond—”

“I already been by the doctor’s, ma’am, and he—he can’t help.”

“I see.” Their local physician’s unfortunate obsession with strong spirits all too frequently left him incapable of caring for himself or anyone else. ’Twas how she’d gained much of her limited experience, stepping in when the doctor was incapacitated. But gunshot wounds? The stark knowledge of her own inadequacy chilled her.

Truly there was no one else. “I’ll come at once.”

“Young master said as how I was to bring you immediate, but I don’t have no lady’s saddle. ’Twill take half an hour ’n more to fetch the gig.”

“No matter, Peters. I can manage astride. Under the circumstances, I don’t imagine anyone will notice my dispensing with proprieties. Help me fetch my bag.”

She tried to set worry aside and concentrate on gathering any extra supplies she might need to augment the store already in her traveling bag. The groom carried the heavy satchel to the waiting horses and gave her a hand up. Settling her skirts as decorously as possible, she waited for him to vault into the saddle, then turned her restive horse to follow his. Spurring their mounts, they galloped back in the direction of the marsh.

As they rode, she mentally reviewed the remedies she brought. During her year-long recovery from the illness that nearly killed her, she’d observed Aunt Mary treat a variety of agues, fevers and stomach complaints—but never a gunshot. To the assortment of medicaments she always carried she’d added a powder to slow bleeding, brandy to cleanse the wound and basilica powder. Had she thought of everything?

She had no further time to worry, for around the next bend the woods gave way to marsh. A knot of men gathered at the water’s edge. As she slid from the saddle, she saw at their center a still, prone figure, the pallor of his face contrasting sharply with the scarlet of the blood soaking his coat. His clothing was drenched, his boots half submerged in water whose icy bite she could already feel through the thin leather of her half-boots. The squire’s son Tom held a wadded-up cloth pressed against the boy’s upper chest. A cloth whose pristine whiteness was rapidly staining red.

Her nervousness coalesced in firm purpose. She must first stop the bleeding, then get the young man back to Everett Hall.

“Peters, bring more bandages from my bag, please.”

At her quiet command, Tom looked up. “Thank God you’re here!” His face white beneath its sprinkling of freckles, he scooted over to let her kneel beside the victim. “He’s bled so badly—and…and he won’t answer me. Is…is he going to die?”

“Help me,” she evaded. “Lean your full weight against him, hard. Keep that cloth in place while I bind it to his shoulder. Did the shot pass straight through?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. I—I didn’t think to look.” Tom’s eyes were huge in his pale face. “It’s my fault—I wanted to hunt. If he dies—”

“Easy, now—keep the pressure firm.” To steady Tom—and herself—she said, “Tell me what happened.”

“I’m not sure. The dogs raised a covey, and we both fired. The next moment Kit clutched his chest, blood pouring out between his fingers. Maybe—perhaps one of our shots hit that bluff and ricocheted. He fell in the water, as you see, and we dragged him to land but feared to move him any further until help arrived.”

Listening with half an ear, she worked as quickly as she could, her worried eye on the unconscious victim’s gray face and blue-tinged lips. If the shot was still lodged in his body, it must be removed, but at the moment she didn’t dare explore the wound. Fortunately, the chill that numbed him also slowed the bleeding. She only hoped the effect would last through the jolting necessary to take him to shelter. And that his dousing in frigid water wouldn’t result in an inflammation of the lungs.

“Is he…tell me he’ll be all right!”

The desperate note in Tom’s voice recalled her attention. Avoiding a direct answer, she looked up to give him a brief smile. “We must get him out of the cold. Have you sent to the hall?”

“Yes. My father should be along any moment.”

Indeed, as Tom spoke they heard the welcome sound of a coach approaching. Riding ahead was the squire, a short, rotund man on a piebald gray. He took one long look at the scene before him and blew out a gusty breath.

“God have mercy! What’s to be done, Mrs. Martin?”

“If you would help me bind this tightly, we can move him into the carriage and back to the hall.”

After securing the bandage, she directed the grooms to carry the victim to the coach, the unconscious man groaning as they eased him against the padded squabs.

“Tom, ride on ahead and alert Mrs. Jenkins. We’ll need boiling water and hot bricks and such.” The squire shook his head, his nose red with cold and his eyes worried. “Go on, I’ll settle with you later. There’ll be a reckoning to pay for this day’s work, make no mistake!”

Wordlessly his son nodded, then sprinted to his mount. After assisting Laura into the carriage beside her patient, the squire hesitated. “You’ll tend him back at the hall?”

“Until more experienced help arrives, of course. But I recommend you send someone with strong coffee to sober up Dr. Winthrop, or over to the next county for their physician. I’ve no experience with gunshots, and to tell the truth, the young man looks very badly.”

To her surprise, the squire seized her hands. “You must stay, Mrs. Martin, and do all you can! ’Tis no country doctor we’ll be having! I’ve sent word to the lad’s brother to come at once and bring his own physician. Please say you’ll stay with the boy until he arrives!”

An instinctive prickle of fear skittered up from her toes and lodged at her throat. She glanced at the still figure beside her. Was there something familiar about that profile? “He is from a prominent family?” she ventured, already dreading the response.

“Younger brother of the Earl of Beaulieu.”

For a moment her heart nearly stopped. “The Puzzlebreaker?” she asked weakly. “Friend to the prime minister, one of the wealthiest men in the realm?”

“Aye, he founded that daft Puzzlemaker’s Club, but he’s a sharp ’un, for all that. It’s said Lord Riverton don’t make a move without consulting him. Been visiting friends up north, with this cub set to join him next week.” The squire sighed heavily. “When I consider what Lord Beaulieu may think should his brother Kit die in my care…I do swear, I rue the day my Tom met him at Oxford.”

“Surely the earl could not hold you responsible.”

The squire shrugged, then raised pleading eyes to hers. “I beg you to stay, Mrs. Martin. With any luck, my messenger will reach the earl within hours and bring his physician back, mayhap by nightfall. I’d not have the worthless Winthrop near him, drunk or sober, and Lord knows, my sister will be no help. Mistress Mary thought so highly of your skill—none better in the county, she swore. Will you not keep the lad alive until his kin arrive?”

And thereby encounter the Earl of Beaulieu? All her protective instincts screamed danger as the metallic taste of fear filled her mouth, seeming stronger than ever after its near two-year hiatus. Though her first impulse was to jump from the carriage, mount the borrowed horse and race back to the safe haven of her little cottage, she struggled to squelch her irrational panic.

She must fashion a measured reply. The squire would be expecting from her nothing more extreme than worry.

While she fumbled for appropriate words, the squire sat straighter. “You cannot fear I’d allow the earl to take you to task should…the worst happen. My good madam, surely you realize your well-being is of great import to me!” He leaned closer and kissed her hand awkwardly. “I only seek to do all we can for the poor lad until his brother arrives.”

“I know you would ever safeguard me,” she replied, and managed a smile. You’re being a nodcock, the rational part of her brain argued. The great earl was hardly likely to recognize her as one of the unremarkable chits making her bow he’d met but twice a handful of Seasons ago. Though this task was clearly beyond her skill, she had more expertise than any other person within a day’s ride, and the boy needed help now.

As she vacillated, torn between the safety of refusal and the peril of acceptance, she heard again Aunt Mary’s last words God spared you for a purpose, missy. He’s given you skill—use it wisely.

She glanced again at the boy, motionless and bloody beside her. Did not that innocent lad deserve the best possible chance to survive? Even if caring for him placed her in some risk.

But a risk much less serious than the young man’s chances of dying if left untended.

“Have the coachman drive slowly. He must be jostled as little as possible,” she said at last. “If the wound begins bleeding again, there will be nothing I can do.”

The squire released a grateful sigh. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll keep pace by the coach. Call if you need me.”

He stepped down and closed the door, leaving her in the shuttered semidarkness with a barely breathing boy whose powerful brother, Lord Beaulieu, would be upon her within hours, perhaps this very day.

What had she gotten herself into?

Hugh Mannington “Beau” Bradsleigh, Earl of Beau-lieu, leaped from the saddle and tossed the reins of his spent steed to the servant who materialized out of the darkness. His bootsteps ringing out on the stone steps, he approached the flickering torches flanking the entry of Squire Everett’s manor house. Before he reached the front portal, however, a tall, freckled lad he recognized as Kit’s Oxford friend rushed out.

“Lord Beaulieu, thank God you’re come. I’m so sorry—”

“Where is he?” At the stricken look coming over the young man’s face, Beau briefly regretted his abruptness, but after a message designed to convince him Kit could die at any moment and the most exhausting gallop he’d endured in years, he had no patience for an exchange of courtesies.

A shorter, rotund man with a balding head darted into view. “This way, my lord. Squire Everett here, but we’ll not stand on formality. Cook has a platter of victuals and strong ale waiting. I’ll have them sent up at once.”

Beau spared a brief smile for the older man who, though obviously anxious, made no attempt to delay him with excuses or explanations he at the moment had no interest in hearing. “You, sir, are both kind and perceptive.” Taking a deep breath, as he followed the squire to the stairs he voiced the anxiety that had eaten at him every second of the arduous ride. “How goes it with Kit?”

The squire gave him a sidelong glance as they started up. “Not well, I’m afraid. We very nearly lost him this afternoon. When do you expect your physician?”

The tension in his chest tightened. Kit—laughing, sunny-tempered Kit, so full of the joy of life. He could not die—Beau would simply not permit it. “Morning at the earliest. Who tends him now? Have you a doctor here?”

“Only a jug-bitten fool I’d not trust with a lame dog. Mrs. Martin keeps vigil, a neighbor lady skilled with herbs who is often consulted by the local folk.”

The image of an old crone mixing love potions for the gullible flew into his head. “An herb woman!” he said, aghast. “’Od’s blood, man, that’s the best you could do?”

The squire paused at the landing and looked back in dignified reproach. “’Tis not in London we be, my lord. Mrs. Martin is widow to a military man and has much experience tending the sick. She, at least, I was confident could do young Kit no harm. Indeed, she’s kept him from death several times already. In here, my lord.”

He should apologize to the squire later, Beau noted numbly as he paced into the chamber. But for now all his attention focused on the figure lying in the big canopied bed, his still, pale face illumined by the single candle on the bedside table.

Still and pale as a death mask. Fear like a rifle shot ricocheted through him as he half ran to his brother’s side. “Kit! Kit, it’s Hugh. I’m here now.”

The boy on the bed made no response as Beau took his hand, rubbed it. The skin felt dry—and warm.

“He’s turning feverish, I fear.”

The quiet, feminine voice came from the darkness on the far side of the bed. Beau looked over at a nondescript woman in a shapeless brown dress, her head covered by a large mobcap that shadowed her face. This was what passed for medical aid here? Fear flashed anew—and anger. “What do you intend to do about it?”

“Keep him sponged down and spoon in willow bark tea. He was so chilled initially, I did not think it wise to begin cooling him from the first. I’m afraid the shot is still lodged in his chest, but I dared not remove it. When does your physician arrive?”

“Not before morning,” he repeated, anxiety filling him at the echo. This kindly old biddy might do well for possets and potions, but was she to be all that stood between Kit and death until MacDonovan came?

No, he thought, setting his jaw. He was here, and he’d be damned if he’d let his brother die before his eyes. “Tell me what to do.”

“You have ridden all day, my lord?”

“Since afternoon,” he replied impatiently. “’Tis no matter.”

The woman looked up at him then, the eyes of her shadowed face capturing a glow of reflected candlelight. Assessing him, he realized with a slight shock.

Before he could utter a set-down, she said, “You should rest. You’ll do the young gentleman no good, once he regains consciousness, if you’re bleary with fatigue.”

He fixed on her the iron-eyed glare that had inspired more than one subordinate to back away in apologetic dismay. This little woman, however, simply held his gaze. Goaded, he replied, “My good madam, the boy on that bed is my brother, my blood. I assure you, had I ridden the length of England, I could do whatever is necessary.”

After another audacious measuring moment, the woman nodded. “Very well. I’ve just mixed more willow bark tea. If you’ll raise him—only slightly now, heed the shot in his chest—I’ll spoon some in.”

For the rest of what seemed an endless night, he followed the soft-spoken orders of the brown-garbed lady. She seemed competent enough, he supposed, ordering broths up from the kitchen, strewing acrid herbs into the water in which she had him wring out the cloths they placed on Kit’s neck and brow, directing him to turn Kit periodically to keep fluid from settling in his lungs.

Certainly she was tireless. Although he’d never have admitted it, after a blur of hours his own back ached and his hands were raw from wringing cloths. Mrs. Martin, however, gave no sign of fatigue at all.

Their only altercation occurred early on, when he demanded she unwrap the bandages so he might inspect Kit’s wound. The nurse adamantly refused. Such a course would engender so much movement his brother might begin bleeding again, a risk she did not wish to take. Unless his lordship had experience enough to remove the shot once the wound was bared—a highly delicate task she herself did not intend to attempt—she recommended the bindings be left intact until the physician arrived. So anxious was he to assess the damage, however, only her threat to wash her hands of all responsibility for her patient, should he insist on disturbing Kit, induced him, grudgingly, to refrain.

Despite their efforts, as the long night lightened to dawn, Kit grew increasingly restless, his dry skin hotter. When, just after sunrise, the squire ushered in Beau’s physician, both he and Mrs. Martin sighed in relief.

“Thank you, Mac, for answering my call so quickly.”

“Ach, and more a command than a call it was.” His old schoolmate Dr. MacDonovan smiled at him. “But we’ll frash over that later. Let me to the lad. The squire’s told me what happened, and the sooner we get the shot out, the better. Mrs. Martin, is it? You’ll assist, please.”

The nurse murmured assent, and Beau found himself shouldered aside. “Go on with ye, ye great lown,” his friend chided. “Fetch yerself a wee dram—ye’ve the look of needin’ one.”

“I’m staying, Mac. Let me help.”

His friend spared him a glance, then sighed. “Open the drapes, laddie, and give us more light. Then bring my bag. I may be wanting it.”

By the time the gruesome procedures were over Beau was almost sorry he’d insisted on remaining. First came the shock of the jagged entry wound, the flesh angry red and swollen. Then he had to endure the torment of holding down his struggling, semiconscious brother while the physician probed the wound with long forceps to locate and remove the shot. His back was wet with sweat and his knees shaking when finally Dr. MacDonovan finished his ministrations and began to rebind his patient.

It wasn’t until after that was complete, when the physician complimented Mrs. Martin on the efficacy of her previous treatment, that he remembered the woman who had silently assisted during the procedure. With the cap shadowing her lowered face, he couldn’t read her expression, but her hands had remained steady, her occasional replies to the physician calm and quiet throughout. He had to appreciate her fortitude.

Having lowered his once-again mercifully unconscious brother back against the pillows, he followed as the physician led them all out of the room.

The squire waited in the hallway. “Well, Sir Doctor, how does the patient fare?” he asked anxiously.

“The shot was all of a piece, best I could tell, which is a blessing. If I’ve not missed a bit, and if this lady’s kind offices in tending the lad until I arrived stand us in good stead, my hopes are high of his making a full recovery. But mind ye, ’tis early days yet. He mustn’t be moved, and the fever’s like to get much worse afor it’s agleaning. It’s careful tending he’ll be needing. Have ye a good nurse aboot?”

The squire glanced from the doctor to Mrs. Martin and back. “Well, there’s my sister, but I’m afraid her nerves are rather delicate—”

“I shall be happy to assist until his lordship can find someone,” Mrs. Martin inserted, her face downcast.

“Excellent. I recommend you accept the lady’s offer, Beau. At least until ye can secure the services of another such reliable nurse.”

“I’ve already sent a message to Ellen. That is, if it will not be an inconvenience for you to house my sister and her daughter, squire?”

“An honor, my lord,” the squire replied with a bow. “And yourself, as well, for as long as you wish to remain.”

“Then I should be most grateful to accept your help until my sister arrives, Mrs. Martin.”

After she murmured an assent, the squire turned to the physician. “If you tell me what I must do, Doctor, I’ll sit with the lad while Mrs. Martin takes her rest. She’s been at his side since morning yesterday and all night, too.” The squire directed a pointed look at Beau, a reminder he owed the man an apology—and a humble thanks to the quiet woman who’d so skillfully nursed his brother. “Lord Beaulieu, you must be needing your rest, as well. I’ll just see the lady on her way and then return to show you to your chamber.”

He bowed. With a nod and a curtsey, Mrs. Martin turned to follow the squire.

Delaying his apologies to pursue a more pressing matter, Beau lingered behind. “Was that report accurate, or are you merely trying to ease the squire’s anxiety?” Beau demanded as soon as the pair were out of earshot.

Dr. MacDonovan smiled and patted his arm. “God’s truth, Beau. ’Tis hard on you, I know, but there’s little we can do now but give him good nursing. He’s strong, though—and I do my job well. I canna promise there won’t be worrisome times yet, but I believe he’ll pull through.”

Beau released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Thanks, Mac. For coming so quickly and—” he managed a grin “—being so good. Now, I’d best give the redoubtable Mrs. Martin a word of thanks. Probably should toss in an apology, as well—I’ve not been as…courteous as I suppose I might.”

The doctor laughed. “Frash with her, did ye? And lost, I’ll wager! A lady of much skill, Mrs. Martin. ’Tis she more than me you’d best be thanking for keeping yon Master Kit on this earth. Lay in the icy water of the marsh nigh on an hour, I’m told. The chill alone might have killed him, had he not been carefully watched.” The doctor frowned. “Aye, and may catch him yet. We must have a care for those lungs. But away with ye. I can keep these weary eyes open a bit longer.”

Beau gave his friend’s hand a shake and started down the hall. Now that Kit was safe in Mac’s care, he noticed anew the ache in his back and a bone-deep weariness dragged his steps.

He saw Mrs. Martin by the front door as he descended the last flight of stairs, apparently in some dispute with the squire, for she was shaking her head.

“Thank you, sir, but ’tis only a short walk. There’s no need for a carriage.”

Beau waited for the little courtesies to be observed, his eyes nearly drooping shut until he noticed the squire make Mrs. Martin an elegant leg, quite in the manner of the last century.

“No indeed, dear ma’am, you mustn’t walk. I’m fair astonished such a gentle lady as yourself has not collapsed from fatigue ere now. What fortitude and skill you possess! Qualities, I might add, which nearly equal your beauty.”

After that pretty speech, the squire took Mrs. Martin’s hand and kissed it.

Surprise chased away his drowsiness until he remembered the squire had called Mrs. Martin a “lady,” widow to a military man. An officer, apparently, since his host would hardly extend such marked gallantries to an inferior. Beau smiled, amused to discover the middle-aged squire apparently courting the nondescript nurse, and curious to watch her response.

“You honor me,” said the lady in question as she gently but firmly drew back her hand.

Coy? Beau wondered. Or just not interested?

Then the nurse glanced up. Illumined as she was by the sunshine spilling into the hall, for the first time he got a clear look at her face—her young, pretty face.

In the same instant she saw him watching her. An expression almost of—alarm crossed her lovely features and she swiftly lowered her head, once again concealing her countenance behind a curtain of cap lace. What remark she made to the squire and whether or not she availed herself of the carriage, he did not hear. Before he could move his stunned lips into the speech of gratitude he’d intended to deliver, she curtsied once more and slipped out.

By the time the squire joined him on the landing his foggy brain had resumed functioning. Mumbling something resembling an apology as the man escorted him to his chamber, he let his mind play over the interesting discovery that the skillful Mrs. Martin was not only a lady, but a rather young one at that.

He recalled the brevity of her speech, even with the squire, whom she apparently knew well, and the way she skittered off when she found him watching her. More curious still. Why, he wondered as he sank thankfully into the soft feather bed, would such an eminently marriageable widow be so very retiring?

Having the widow tend his brother would give Beau the opportunity to observe this odd conundrum more closely. Which would be a blessing, for as his brother’s recovery—and Kit simply must recover—was likely to be lengthy, Beau would need something to distract him from worry. Luckily, nothing intrigued him as much as a riddle.




Chapter Two


A few hours later Laura pulled herself reluctantly from bed and walked to the kitchen. A bright sun sparkled on the scrubbed table and Maggie, the maid of all work the squire sent over every morning to do her cleaning, had left her nuncheon and a pot of water simmering on the stove.

She’d remain just long enough for tea and to wash up before returning to her patient. The kindly Scots physician had ridden straight through, he’d told her, and would be needing relief.

She frowned as she poured water into the washbasin. It wasn’t fatigue that caused the vague disquiet that nagged at her. She’d learned to survive on very little sleep while she cared for her dying “aunt Mary.”

No, it was the lingering effects of working for so many hours in such close proximity to the Earl of Beaulieu—a man who exuded an almost palpable aura of power—that left her so uneasy.

He’d not recognized her, she was sure. Even when he looked her full in the face this morning, she’d read only surprise in his eyes—surprise, she assumed, that she was not the aged crone he had evidently taken her to be. An impression she, of course, had done her best to instill and one he might harbor yet if she’d not stupidly looked up.

A flash of irritation stabbed her. She’d grown too complacent of late, forgotten to keep her head demurely lowered whenever there might be strangers about.

’Twas too late to repair that lapse. However, despite discovering her to be younger than he’d expected, there was still no reason he should not, as everyone else around Merriville had done, accept her as exactly what she claimed to be, the widowed cousin of the retired governess whose cottage she had inherited.

She felt again a wave of grief for the woman who had been nurse, friend and savior. That gentle lady, sister of Laura’s own governess, who had taken in a gravely ill fugitive and given her back not just life, but a new identity and the possibility of a future. Who’d become her mentor, training Laura to a skill which enabled her to support herself. And finally, the benefactor who’d willed her this cottage, safe haven in which to begin over again.

A safe haven still, she told herself firmly, squelching the swirl of unease in her stomach. She need only continue to act the woman everyone believed her to be. Young or not, a simple country gentlewoman could be of no more interest to the great earl than a pebble.

As long as she stayed in her role—no more jerking away in alarm if his eye chanced to fall upon her. She grimaced as she recalled that second blunder, more serious than the first. “The Puzzlebreaker,” as the ton had dubbed him after he’d founded a gentleman’s club devoted to witty repartee and clever aphorisms, was a gifted mathematician and intimate of the Prince’s counselors. But as long as she said or did nothing to engage that keen intellect or pique his curiosity, she would be perfectly safe.

Be plain and dull, she told herself—dull as the dirt-brown hue she always wore, plain as the oversize and shapeless gowns she’d inherited from her benefactress.

And avoid the earl as much as possible.

Dull, dull, dull as the ache in her head from the pins that had contained her long braided locks for too many hours. With a sigh of relief, she loosed them and, tying on a long frayed apron, set about washing her hair.

Beau smiled as he surveyed the modest gig and the even more modest chestnut pulling it. How London’s Four Horse Club would laugh to see him tooling such a rig.

But after a few hours’ sleep took the edge off his fatigue, a deep-seated worry over Kit roused him irretrievably from slumber. A check on his brother, whose color had gone from unnatural pale to ominously flushed and whose rapid, shallow breathing was doubtless responsible for the frown now residing on Mac’s tired face, had been enough to refuel his anxiety.

His physician friend looked exhausted after a ride doubtless as arduous as his own. Humbly acknowledging, at least to himself, that he’d feel better sending Mac off to bed with Mrs. Martin present to direct Kit’s care, he’d offered to fetch the nurse. At least the drive in the pleasant early fall sunshine gave him something to distract himself from his gnawing anxiety.

As the squire’s son promised, her cottage was easily located. He pulled the gig to a halt before it and waited, but as no one appeared to assist him, he clambered down and hunted for a post to which he could tie the chestnut. Finding none, he set off around the walled garden. Surely behind the cottage there would be some sort of barn.

Having found a shed, by its look of disuse no longer home to horse and tackle but still sturdy, he secured the rig and headed back to the cottage. A gate to the garden stood open, from which, as he started by, a black and white spotted dog trotted out, spied him, and stiffened.

Kneeling, he held out a hand. After a watchful moment, apparently deciding Beau posed no threat, the dog relaxed and ambled over. Beau scratched the canine behind his large ears, earning himself an enthusiastic lick in the process, after which the dog collapsed in a disgraceful heap and rolled over, offering his belly.

“Some watchdog. Where’s your mistress, boy?”

The dog inclined his head. When the rubbing did not resume, with an air of resignation he hopped up and loped off into the garden. Amused, Beau followed.

Behind the walls he found cultivated beds, herbs interspersed with a charming array of asters and Michelmas daisies and alternating with chevrons of turnips, onions and cabbages. Inhaling the spicy air approvingly, he was halfway across the expanse of tilled ground when a slight movement near the cottage drew his attention and he halted.

Halted, caught his breath, and then ceased to breathe.

A young woman leaned back against a bench, eyes closed, her head tilted up to a gentle sun that painted a straight nose, arched brows, high cheekbones and full lips with golden highlights. The collar of her gown lay unfastened, revealing an alluring triangle of warm skin from her arched neck downward to the top of an old worn apron, whose blockage of the view that might otherwise have been revealed below he would have fiercely resented had not the garment redeemed itself by clinging snugly to its wearer’s generous curves.

The lady’s hair, which she was drying in the sun, swirled over the back of the bench and cascaded down beside her in a thick fall of burnished auburn curls.

Just then she reached up to comb her fingers through one long section, fluffing it as she progressed. The movement stretched the threadbare apron taut against her body, its thin white cloth silhouetting her breast against the dark bench, full rounded side to sun-kissed tip.

Beau’s mouth grew dry, then dryer still as one curl tumbled from her shoulder, caught on the apron’s edge and came to rest cupped, like a lover’s hand, around the outline of that perfect breast.

She sighed, a slight exhale that parted her lips and made her look like a woman rousing to passion’s whisper. His body tensed in automatic response, his mouth tingling to trace the outline of that arched throat, taste the honey promised by those lips, his fingers itching to tangle themselves in that cloud of copper silk and pull this arresting vision closer.

A vision that was, he realized with a shock that rippled all the way to his toes, the woman he’d hitherto identified as the mousy, nondescript Mrs. Martin.

He tingled in other places, as well. And had not yet regathered wits enough to decide what to do about it when the dog, whose presence he had totally forgotten, had the deplorable ill timing to seek out his mistress.

At a lick to her hand, Mrs. Martin sat up and opened eyes as piercingly blue as the clear autumn sky. Eyes that went in an instant from sleepy to shocked. With a small shriek, she leaped up and backed away.

Conscious of a sharp sense of loss, he nonetheless endeavored to set her at ease. “Please, don’t be alarmed, Mrs. Martin. It’s Hugh Bradsleigh—Kit’s brother. I’m sorry to have startled you.”

As big a plumper as he’d ever told, he knew, realizing he’d never have been treated to this glimpse of heaven had the reclusive Mrs. Martin sensed his presence earlier. He still couldn’t quite believe the silent woman who had toiled at his side all night and this enchanting siren were indeed one and the same.

“L-lord Beaulieu! You—you startled me. Misfit,” she scolded the dog, who hung his head, tail drooping, “why did you not warn me we had visitors?”

Misfit. Beau grinned. Now there was an apt name. If he’d had the foresight to bring a bone, the wretched animal probably would have given him the run of the cottage.

Nonetheless, the pooch had led him to The Vision and thus Beau felt compelled to defend him. “He did inspect me rather thoroughly before he let me in.”

He watched regretfully as with one hand Mrs. Martin fumbled to fasten the buttons at her collar and with the other gathered her glorious, sun-burnished hair into a knot. Though he was somewhat guilty at having startled her, he wasn’t so conscience-stricken that he felt compelled to point out the dowager’s cap for which, with sidelong glances as if she expected he might at any moment attack, she was quite obviously searching.

Instead he picked it up. “Your cap, Mrs. Martin.” With a slow smile, he held it out, just far enough to be polite but not so close that she could reach it without approaching him.

And, ah, how he wanted her to approach. After a moment, skittish as a startled doe, she did. “Thank you, my lord. I’ll take it now, if you please.”

Come get it, he almost said. Biting back the words lest he frighten her off, he simply stood, waiting.

She took the few steps that separated them, then snatched at the cap. Her hand grazed his palm as she grabbed, and for a moment, their fingers caught.

He felt the flame of contact in every nerve. And so, he realized exultantly as he watched her, did she.

Her blue eyes widened in shock, her lips once again parting slightly in surprise—an unconscious invitation. She even forgot, for a moment, to take the bonnet.

All too soon she remembered. Murmuring a disjointed thanks, she jerked it away and jammed it down on her head.

“I’ll…just gather a few supplies.” With that, she swiftly retreated into the interior of the cottage.

Leaving Beau gazing after her, amazed.

He sat down on the bench she’d just vacated to pull together his disordered thoughts. The young Mrs. Martin—she could not be more than five-and-twenty—possessed not just a pretty face, but an alluring figure. Indeed, the rush of attraction to that lush body still thrummed in his blood. An attraction that, based on her reaction to their unexpected touch, experience told him was mutual.

With his typical methodical precision, he pondered the implications of these new discoveries.

The first question posed by his now-fully-piqued curiosity was why so lovely a lady would choose to mask her beauty beneath dowager caps and ill-fitting gowns.

His second thought was of Kit—reviving a burden of worry heavy enough to extinguish the lingering embers of lust. For the immediate future all he had need of was a skillful nurse. Attraction or no, until Kit was out of danger there’d be no time to pursue other matters.

Still, that the intriguing Mrs. Martin had twice managed to distract him from his pressing anxiety was mute testament to the power of that attraction.

As he stirred restlessly, wondering how much longer it would take for her to “gather supplies,” it suddenly occurred to him that having the most capable nurse in the neighborhood take up residence at the squire’s manor would be much more convenient. Having that nurse be a lovely and discreet young widow with whom a mutual attraction had flared might, once his brother’s condition improved, afford enticing possibilities.

Despite his worry, a ghost of desire stirred at the thought and he grinned, more cheered than he’d been since he received the dire message of his brother’s injury. Kit would survive—he was in Beau’s care and he must survive—but after this present crisis he would doubtless require a long convalescence. Beau had detailed his men to wrap up the investigation in the north, and must shortly return to London to assemble his report. The imperative to resolve his present case would not permit him to linger here, but he would certainly visit frequently to check on Kit.

Beau took another deep breath of herb-scented air. Now this was a charming bower to which he’d happily return.

But first, he’d have to win over the shy Mrs. Martin, which would probably also require penetrating the puzzle of why she seemed to take such pains to remain invisible.

How fortuitous, he thought, his grin widening. He did so love solving puzzles.

He reconsidered the alarm that had crossed her face when she’d seen him watching her in the squire’s entry. Since his name and title were rather well known, she’d likely recognized who he was from the first, but in the sickroom she’d displayed no awe of his position or inclination to toady; indeed, rather the opposite. He smiled again at the memory of her stubbornness regarding Kit’s treatment and her total lack of deference as she ordered him about.

So why the mistrustful look? Perhaps she’d been raised on warnings about the subtle seducing ways of the high nobility, and saw him as such. Though he was by no means a saint, he could recall no escapades scurrilous enough to have penetrated this deep into the hinterlands. Not in recent years, at any rate, he amended.

He must demonstrate that though the wealthy Earl of Beaulieu might sit at the councils of government and move in a society many country folk deemed immoral, he was also Hugh Bradsleigh, a man like any other, who would never lead farther than a lady would willingly follow. Somewhat to his surprise, he found the notion that the lovely Mrs. Martin might be that rare individual who could appreciate him for himself alone immensely appealing.

Disarming her wariness would be quite a challenge—the one thing, he thought, spirits rising in anticipation, he loved almost as much as solving puzzles.




Chapter Three


A few moments later Mrs. Martin returned with a large satchel. The care she took that their hands not touch as he relieved her of it reinforced his conviction that she was not indifferent to him—an encouraging sign.

Once the lady realized he meant her no harm, she would doubtless be less wary. And begin allowing herself to respond to the pull he felt crackling between them.

He paused to savor the small delight of taking Mrs. Martin’s hand as he assisted her into the gig. Availing himself of this unexceptional excuse to lean close, he caught a whiff of soft perfume. Rose with a hint of lavender? Lovely, and it suited her.

How to set her at ease? he mused as he settled the satchel to one side of the seat and walked over to untie the chestnut. Questions about home and family, interspersed with teasing compliments, had usually relieved anxiety in the shier or more tongue-tied young ladies with whom he’d had occasion to converse, he recalled.

By the time he’d rounded the gig and hopped in, Mrs. Martin had repositioned the satchel between them and moved to the edge of the seat—as far from him as possible.

Suppressing a grin, he set the gig in motion. “Did you grow up in this area, Mrs. Martin?”

She slid him a sidelong glance. “No, my lord.”

“It is home to your late husband’s family?”

There was a minute pause. “No, my lord.”

“Do you enjoy the country? Your garden is certainly lovely.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“I must thank you, for your devoted care of my brother. We are both much in your debt.”

“Not at all, my lord.”

“I must apologize, as well,” Beau persevered. “I fear I’ve not been entirely courteous. Kit and my sister are all the family I possess, and I’m very protective of them. It’s distressing to know Kit was—still is—in danger.”

“Naturally, my lord.”

Beau stifled a rising exasperation. Could the woman not string together more than three words at a time? Even the most stuttering of young females managed better. Was she really as dull as she seemed?

He felt an irrational disappointment. Idiot, he chastised himself. Just because a woman possesses a certain skill—and a voluptuous body—does not mean she owns a mind of equal caliber. Besides, discretion is a more useful quality in a bedmate than conversation.

If he managed to persuade her there—an intention this one-sided conversation was doing little to strengthen. Until he recalled that sinuous fall of mahogany silk spilling about her sides and shoulders, one copper curl resting where he would wish to touch, to taste.

Interest stirred anew. Doubtless the effort would be worth the prize. Experience taught him women valued baubles, time, attention—and marriage. All he need do is discover which combination of the first three this little brown sparrow desired, and the attraction to him she was taking such pains to suppress would win out.

For a moment he allowed himself to contemplate the gloriously satisfying interludes that might thereafter ensue. And when his brother was fully healed, when he left Merriville for good, he would, as usual, be most generous.

He frowned slightly. A generosity, it occurred to him as he recalled the necessity of tying up his own horse and the total absence of servants, of which she seemed to stand in definite need. Did she truly—she a lady of gentle birth—live entirely alone in the cottage with only that unreliable mutt to safeguard her?

A well-honed protective instinct sprang up to overlay a more base desire. He glanced at her silent figure, as far away from him on the narrow bench as she could manage without falling out of the gig altogether, and smiled, a stirring of fondness in his chest.

A mutually satisfying interlude would benefit them both. He need only persevere, gently but persuasively, until Mrs. Martin realized the truth of that herself.

Would this interminable drive never end? Laura’s neck ached from keeping her head angled to the side, as if in rapt contemplation of the country scenery through which she walked nearly every day. Would such action not have looked extremely peculiar, she’d have been tempted to jump from the gig and finish the journey on foot.

At last it seemed Lord Beaulieu had, mercifully, abandoned his attempt to engage her in conversation. Perhaps, if she were lucky, her monosyllabic answers to a nerve-racking series of personal questions had left an impression of such dullness that he would not choose to pursue her acquaintance any further.

She needn’t find his queries alarming. Most likely the earl was merely attempting to make sure that the person he’d asked to care for his brother was entirely respectable. At least she hoped so, not daring to sneak a glance at his expression to verify that theory.

Her heart still beat a rapid tattoo, but that was to be expected after Lord Beaulieu had nearly scared her witless, suddenly appearing as if conjured out of air. Whatever had possessed Misfit to allow him to enter the garden unannounced? The animal was too shy of gunfire to make a hunting dog, for which reason the genial squire allowed the hound to stay with her, but he was usually an excellent watchman, greeting any approaching interloper, man or beast, with a volley of agitated barking.

Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment as she recalled how disheveled she must have appeared to him. She’d caught a speculative gleam in his eye at first, but sprawling like a wanton as she’d been, her hair all unpinned, she supposed she’d deserved that. Fortunately she’d also been wearing one of the oldest of Aunt Mary’s gowns, possessed of no style whatever and overlarge to boot.

By the time she’d buttoned up properly and tidied her hair, that unnerving look had vanished, though she’d remained so rattled, she’d forgotten where she’d left her cap. He’d had to hand it to her, which he did politely but pointedly, as if to subtly underscore how unladylike her behavior had been.

Charleton would have been much less kind.

Then there’d been that odd rush of…fear?—when her fingers chanced to entangle his. So jolting had that touch been, she’d made sure to avoid it happening again.

To her enormous relief she spied the gateposts to Squire Everett’s manor. A few more moments and she’d be delivered from his lordship’s excruciating proximity.

They were nearly at the manor when Tom rode toward them. A single glance at his face, tears tracking down the dust of his cheeks, was enough to drive the discomfort of the earl’s hovering presence from her mind.

“Oh, Tom! He’s not—” she began.

“No. Not yet. But the doctor was sending me for you, Lord Beaulieu. He said you should s-see Kit n-now before…” Swallowing hard, Tom left the sentence unfinished.

With a muffled curse the earl pulled up the chestnut, tossed the reins to her and sprang from the gig. By the time she’d controlled the startled horse and guided him to a halt before the front entrance, the earl had vanished.

The squire’s son was weeping openly as he helped her down from the gig. “I…I’m so sorry, ma’am. I should never…How can I ever forgive myself if—”

She patted his shoulder. “You mustn’t blame yourself! If the shot that wounded him was a ricochet, it might just as well have been his own bullet that struck him as yours.”

Shaking his head against her reassurance, Tom took the chestnut’s reins and led both animals toward the barn. For a moment Laura just stood there before the entry.

Should she go in and offer what help she could? But the earl’s physician was there, and much more knowledgeable than she. If the boy were truly dying, his family and friends would not want an outsider hanging about. Perhaps she should just quietly return to her cottage.

She considered the tempting notion for a moment before rejecting it. As long as the boy lived, she must at least offer her help. Only if the earl refused that offer might she in good conscience return home.

When she entered the sickroom a few moments later she found Lord Beaulieu bending over the boy, lips moving as if in conversation with his brother, hands clasping Kit’s limp arm. Though the earl seemed oblivious to her arrival, the doctor spied her immediately and walked over.

“There’s an infection beginning in his lungs, just as we feared. I’ve given him syrup of poppy, but weak as he is, I daren’t bleed him. If you’ve aught of remedies to try, I should be grateful of them.”

Laura scanned her memory for the treatments Aunt Mary had used when one of the squire’s tenants had contracted an inflammation of the lungs the winter previous. “We might set a pot of mint steeped in boiling water by his bedside,” she whispered. “The vapor seems to make breathing easier. And wrap his neck with flannel soaked in camphor.”

The doctor considered a moment. “It canna hurt. An herbalist had the teaching of you, the squire said? There’s much they use that works, though we’re not knowing the whys and wherefores. Let’s try it, for God’s truth, I’ve done all I can for the laddie.”

After that she lost track of time. When she finally slipped from the room to find the necessary, night had fallen. On her way back the squire intercepted her, begging her to let him send Maggie to the cottage for her things so that she might remain at the hall to tend the patient. Taken aback, she fumbled for an answer.

“Both Lord Beaulieu and Dr. MacDonovan asked that I add their requests to my own,” he said. “The doctor admires your skill, and his lordship wishes every experienced hand available be put to his brother’s care.”

Though logically she knew if she were to be of continuing assistance it made much more sense for her to stay at the hall, still she resisted the notion of quitting even briefly the cottage that meant safety and comfort. A stirring at the depths of her being still whispered danger.

Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself crossly. The earl was fully occupied with his brother, whose survival remained in grave doubt. He had neither time nor interest to waste on his brother’s nurse.

“You will stay, won’t you, Mrs. Martin?”

Since refusing so sensible a request would appear both uncharitable and extremely odd, despite her forebodings Laura had little choice. “Of course, it would be much more convenient for me to remain. If my being here will not be an imposition on you or Lady Winters?”

“It will be a blessing,” the squire returned with a sigh. “My sister is in a state, what with sickness and more noble visitors about, and I’ve all I can do to keep the house running. ’Twould be a great comfort to me to know you were watching over the boy.”

“I must stay, then.” She made herself smile. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

He nodded and pressed her hand before releasing it. And so she returned to the sickroom, her concern over her patient’s condition underlined by the disquieting knowledge that for the indefinite future she would be residing under the same roof as the unsettling Earl of Beaulieu.

Just after dawn a week later Laura roused herself from a light doze. She glanced up quickly and was reassured to find her patient still sleeping deeply, brow free of perspiration and color pale but natural.

Another quick glance confirmed that the earl also slept, his tall form curled on a pallet beside his brother’s bed where he’d had a cot installed at the start of the crisis.

Though Lord Beaulieu had helped as much as possible, the responsibility for Kit’s care had still fallen primarily on Dr. MacDonovan and herself. She’d endured an exhausting and anxiety-ridden blur of time while Kit Bradsleigh teetered on the edge between living and dying, too preoccupied with nursing him to worry about the elder brother who seldom stirred from the boy’s side.

Last evening, the lad’s temperature had spiked and then, for the first time since the inflammation began, dropped to normal. After having hovered for days in a restless, semiconscious haze of pain and fever, Kit woke up clear-eyed, keen-witted—and ravenous.

Laura sent for as much chicken broth as she gauged her patient could tolerate, and Dr. MacDonovan. The physician, who’d been eating a late dinner with the earl, came at once, Kit’s brother on his heels. After a swift examination, to everyone’s great relief the doctor declared that, though Kit was still very weak and would need a long period of rest to fully recover, his lungs were clearing and he was probably out of danger.

The squire went off immediately to fetch a bottle of his best claret while Dr. MacDonovan laughingly admonished Kit, who demanded a glass of his own. As thrilled and relieved as the others, Laura uttered a quick prayer of thanks. And then shooed the men out, telling them that since her patient needed rest and their well-deserved celebration would likely be lengthy, they should take their bottle in the salon and she would keep watch alone. Abjuring her as a downy, kindhearted lass, Dr. MacDonovan shook her hand heartily and ushered the earl out.

She heard Lord Beaulieu come back in after midnight and gave him a nod of reassurance as he silently approached his brother’s bed. He took Kit’s fingers and held them a moment, as if to verify that the fever had really left, then looked back at her with a tired smile. “Thank you,” he whispered, and took up his post on the cot.

The earl’s valet would see to Kit’s needs when he woke, and both the doctor and Lord Beaulieu would keep the boy occupied during the day. Her work here would soon be done—perhaps for good, as Lady Elspeth, sister to Kit and his lordship, was expected soon.

She could return to the safety of her cottage before the household reverted to a normal routine—and the earl had leisure to become curious about his brother’s nurse.

She paused a moment by the doorway. In the hazy pastel light of dawn, the earl’s stern features were relaxed, his handsome face more approachable. She felt again that inexplicable pull, as if his commanding personality called out to her even in sleep. A tiny sigh escaped her.

If events had not transpired as they had, she might risk lingering here, responding to the wordless, urgent imperative that somehow drew her to this man. And then shook her head at her own foolishness.

If events had not transpired as they had, she would never have landed in this remote rural corner of England.

Fatigue must be making her whimsical. Straightening her weary shoulders, Laura slipped from the room.

Two paces down the hallway, a touch to her back made her jump.

“Don’t be alarmed, Mrs. Martin!”

She turned to see the earl behind her. “My lord?”

“I’ve not had the opportunity before, with you so occupied tending Kit, but I didn’t want another day to go by without thanking you for your efforts. Though at times I may have appeared…less than appreciative—” he gave her a rueful grin “—I want you to know mere words cannot convey the depth of my gratitude.”

She felt a flush of pleasure at his praise even as she set about denying it. “Not at all, my lord. I did only what any person trained in the healing arts would have.”

“You’ve done a great deal more, as we both know. Left the familiar comfort of your own home, devoted nearly every waking hour and worked yourself nigh to exhaustion in Kit’s care. Indeed, the squire’s since told me were it not for your prompt and skillful action immediately after his wounding, Kit would never have survived the journey back to the hall. And before you deny it, that assessment was confirmed by Dr. MacDonovan himself.”

Since she had, as he predicted, already opened her lips to demur, she was left with nothing to say.

“I owe you debt I can never repay. I won’t insult you by offering money, but were it in my power, I’d go to the ends of the earth to grant you your heart’s desire.”

The quiet conviction of those words somehow compelled her to raise her downcast eyes. She found his gaze fixed on her with such intensity, her heart gave an odd lurch.

He smiled, his face lightening. “Now what, I wonder, would such a calm and quiet lady desire most in the world?”

Freedom from fear. The thought flashed into her head on a stab of longing. She struggled to stem it, to summon up a reply blithe enough to match his teasing question. “M-my needs are few, my lord. I’m quite content.”

The earl chuckled. “A lady with no demands? What an extraordinary creature!”

“Not at all. Alas, I’m entirely ordinary.”

The wryness of her rejoinder faded, replaced by a curious mingling of alarm and anticipation as the earl stepped closer. While she stood motionless, breath suspended, his expression once again turned so fiercely intent she could not make herself look away.

“No, my lady,” he said after a long moment. “Though you may be many things, �ordinary’ is certainly not one of them. But you’ll be needing your rest.” He stepped back, breaking the invisible hold. “Suffice it to say you have my eternal friendship and support. If I can ever be of service to you in any way, you have but to ask.”

He made her a bow. When she continued to stand motionless, he gave her shoulder a gentle shove. “Go on now. If you expire from fatigue in the squire’s hallway, Kit will never forgive me.”

The unexpected contact sizzled through her. “My lord,” she said faintly, and curtsied. All the way down the hall she felt his lingering gaze on her back, while the imprint of his fingers smoldered on her shoulder.

Leaving Kit Bradsleigh in the physician’s charge, the next day at first light, Laura slipped from her patient’s room. She turned toward the stairs to her chamber, then hesitated.

Though she was tired after her long night, a vague restlessness haunted her. Accustomed to daily exercise tending her garden, walking out to gather supplies of wild herbs or to let Misfit ramble, she felt stifled after having been confined to the squire’s manor for nearly a week.

She considered taking the air in the garden, but unsure of the earl’s schedule, reluctantly dismissed that notion. The intricate arrangement of alleys and shrub-shrouded pathways would make it difficult to spot someone far enough away to avoid them, and should she chance to encounter the earl, he would doubtless feel compelled to invite her to stroll with him. Though she might simply refuse, with brutal honesty she had to admit the draw of Lord Beaulieu’s stimulating presence and the beauty of the fall flowers would likely prove a combination beyond her power to resist.

Why not visit the library instead? She’d become acquainted with its rich treasures two years ago when the squire had offered her a book to beguile the tedium of her long recovery. Given free rein thereafter, she’d been delighted to explore the excellent collection it contained. That decided, she headed for the front stairway.

Though Kit Bradsleigh was out of immediate danger, he remained seriously ill, and Dr. MacDonovan thought it prudent he still have care both night and day. Quite cleverly, she thought with a touch of smugness as she descended, she’d arranged with the physician to take the night watch while the doctor and Lord Beaulieu provided medical treatment and diversion during the day. She had further requested, since she would be eating at odd hours, that her meals be served in her room.

Yesterday when she’d returned to her patient, she’d discovered that Lord Beaulieu’s cot had been removed from the sickroom. Naturally, with his brother on the road to recovery, the earl would resume sleeping in his own chamber. So it appeared she would not see him again during his stay, since she’d neither meet him at mealtime nor encounter him in the sickroom during her night vigil.

Her relief at avoiding his too-perceptive eye mingled with a touch of what might almost be…regret. He affected her so strangely, setting her skin tingling with a sort of prickly awareness, as if some vital essence about him telegraphed itself to her whenever he was near. She found that entirely involuntary reaction both exhilarating and frightening.

Like that touch to her shoulder, the morning he thanked her for saving his brother’s life. Close her eyes, and she could almost feel it still, his fingers’ imprint branded into the sensitive skin of her collarbone.

How…peculiar. And a warning to her to be doubly on her guard.

After peeping ahead to ascertain no one was in the front hallway, she scurried to the library. Safely over the threshold, she paused to breathe in the comforting, familiar scents of beeswax and leather bindings before walking to the bookcase that shelved the complete Milan set of the Iliad and Odyssey. Her self-imposed confinement would seem much more tolerable if, after her rest, she could look forward to an afternoon among the heroic cadences of Homer’s poetry.

Impatient to inspect the treasure, she selected a volume and carefully smoothed open the manuscript. Just a few pages, she promised herself, and she would slip back to her room.

Within moments she was completely entranced. Eyes avidly scanning the verses, she drifted across the parquet floor, shouldered open the library door—and stepped smack into the tall, solid body of the Earl of Beaulieu.




Chapter Four


Beau was striding briskly down the hall, invigorated by his dawn ride, when a figure popped out the library door and slammed into him. The slight form rebounded backward, a book spinning from her hands.

Swiftly recovering his balance, he grabbed the maid’s shoulders to keep her from falling. His automatic irritation over the girl’s inattention evaporated instantly as first his fingers, then his brain registered the identity of the lady in his grip.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Martin! Are you all right?” Delighted with this excuse to touch her, he let his hands linger longer than absolutely necessary to steady her, reveling in the rose scent of her perfume.

As soon as she regained her footing, she pulled away. “Fine, thank you, my lord. And ’tis I who must apologize, for not watching where I was walking.”

With regret he let her go. “Are you sure you’re uninjured? I’m a rather large obstacle to collide with.”

“Quite all right.”

“Let me restore your book to you.” As she murmured some inarticulate protest, he bent to scoop up the volume.

And froze for another instant when he read the title. The first volume of Homer’s Illiad. In Greek.

Slowly he straightened. “You are reading this book?”

Something like consternation flickered in her eyes as she looked up at him. She opened her lips, then hesitated, as if she found it difficult to frame an answer to that simple question. “Y-yes, my lord,” she admitted finally, and held out her hands for the volume.

He returned it. “You must be quite a scholar.”

For a moment she was silent. “My father was,” she said at last.

He waited, but when she didn’t elaborate, he continued, “And you, also, to be reading it in Greek. As I asserted earlier, not at all an ordinary lady.”

“But a tired one, so if you will excuse me—”

“Another moment, please, Mrs. Martin.” He couldn’t let her go, not yet, not when the only communication they’d shared for days previous or were likely, given her nursing schedule, to have in the days ahead were terse directives uttered in the sickroom. “You are looking pale. I fear you’ve been too long cooped up in the house. Do you ride?”

She shot him a glance before quickly lowering her gaze. “N-no, my lord.”

“You must stroll in the garden this afternoon, then. The day promises to be fair and warm. No excuses, now! I shall call for you myself after your rest to ensure it. We can’t have you endangering your own health.”

Again, that darting glance of alarm. “That…that is exceedingly kind, my lord, but I wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you.”

How could he ever disarm the wary caution so evident in those glances if she persisted in avoiding him? Determined not to let her wriggle away, he continued, “Walking with a lovely lady an �inconvenience?’ Nonsense! ’Twould be my pleasure.”

“Your offer is most kind, but I—I really should return and tend my garden. Weeds grow alarmingly in a week, and I must restock my supplies.”

“I should be delighted to drive you there. Perhaps you can explain something of your treatments. Dr. Mac-Donovan tells me Kit is likely to have a weakness in his lungs for some time, and may have continuing need of them.”

“Possibly, but I could not allow you to abandon your work for so tedious an errand.”

“I have no pressing business at the moment,” Beau replied, dismissing without a qualm the two satchels of dispatches his secretary had sent from London by courier just last evening. “What time should you like to go?”

She tightened her grip on the book and inhaled sharply. His concentration faltered as he watched her dart the tip of her tongue over the pouting plumpness of her lower lip. A unexpected bolt of lust exploded deep in his gut, recalling in sharp focus that vision of her in the garden that lingered always at the edges of his consciousness—arched white throat and pebbled breasts and wild tresses calling for his touch.

Heart hammering, he wrenched his thoughts back to the present. Mrs. Martin stood a handspan away, gaze lowered, cheeks pinking, her breathing as erratic as his own. She felt it, too, this primal beat pulsing between them in the deserted hallway. And as surely as he knew his own name he knew eventually she must succumb to it. To him. Already he could sense in her the fluttering anxiety between acceptance and flight.

“N-no, really, I…To be frank, my lord, I should be most uncomfortable to receive such marked attention from one so far above my station.”

She was trembling. He could feel the delicious vibrations thrum through him. How long and hard would she fight their attraction?

He did not wish to push her—too much—but he’d eagerly meet her, could she but persuade herself to advance a part of the way.

Would she? Caution said ’twas too early to rush his fences, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

“Your service to my brother makes us equals, Mrs. Martin. But given your obvious reluctance to bear me company, I fear I must have alarmed or offended you in some way. If so, I most sincerely apologize. I stand already so deeply in your debt, surely you know I would never do anything to injure you.”

She looked up then, as he’d hoped. For a fraught moment she studied him, her puzzled, questing gaze meeting his while he stayed silent, scarcely able to breathe, knowing the whole matter might be decided here and now.

Slowly she nodded. “Yes, I do know it.”

Elation filled him, urged him to press the advantage. “What time shall I bring the gig ’round, then?”

Energy seemed to drain from her and she sighed, as if too weary to withstand his persistence any longer. “Four of the clock?”

“I shall be there.” He reached toward her cheek. She stood her ground, permitting the slight glancing touch of his fingers. “Sleep, Mrs. Martin. Until four, then.”

She nodded again and, holding the volume to her chest like a shield, turned and walked swiftly to the stairs.

Beau stood staring after her, waiting for his heartbeat to slow. He’d been attracted to her from the first, but this…compulsion—he couldn’t think what in truth to call it—to claim the fair Mrs. Martin far exceeded anything he’d anticipated or previously experienced.

He shook his head, still amazed by it. Until a few days ago he’d believed that his current mistress, a lovely dancer as skilled as she was avaricious, had been more than meeting his physical needs.

Mrs. Martin roused in him a similarly intense response that was at the same time entirely different. Oh, he wanted her as he’d seen her in the garden—warm, eager, ardent—but he wanted just as fiercely to discover the story behind those skilled hands, the quiet voice that soothed his delirious brother’s agitation, to penetrate within the lowered head and engage the questing mind that read Homer.

He laughed out loud. Greek, no less! How could he have thought her intellect dull, even for a moment?

Maybe it was the shock of Kit’s close brush with death that heightened all his senses to so keen an edge. Normally he was the most analytical of men—the successful performance of his job depended upon it—but the power of whatever arced between them this morning defied analysis. This was alchemy, elemental substances bonding through some force buried deep within their respective natures, a force not to analyze, but to experience.

He intended to do so. Once Kit was out of danger, he wanted to experience every thrilling facet the unprecedented power of this mutual attraction promised.

That decided, he switched directions and headed for the breakfast room. The more he knew of Mrs. Martin, the more tools he’d possess to lure her to him—and turn his molten imaginings into reality.

Time to prime the voluble squire’s conversational pump.

He was pleased to find Squire Everett already at breakfast. “Come in, come in, my lord. Fine morning for a ride, eh?”

“A wonderful morning indeed.”

“M’sister won’t be down this morning—female palpitations or some such, so don’t stand on ceremony. Please, fill your plate. Marsden will pour your tea.”

“Have you had a dish sent up to Mrs. Martin yet?” he asked casually.

“Cook will take care of that. Must see that she gets her nourishment. Thin as a wraith anyway—can’t have her going into a decline.”

“Indeed not. What an invaluable member of the community! Has she resided here all her life?”

“No, the last few years only. Her late aunt, Mrs. Hastings—a most genteel lady, God rest her soul—owned the cottage first. Mrs. Hastings helped her husband, a botanist he was, in his studies of herbal plants, and became something of an expert herself.” The squire paused to take a bite of kidney pie and waved a finger at Beau. “So you see, my lord, ’tis no crone of a medicine woman who had the teaching of Mrs. Martin, but the wife of an Oxford don! Anyways, once the folk hereabouts learned of Mrs. Hastings’s skill, they took to consulting her. And when Mrs. Martin contracted a puerile fever, her family sent her to her aunt. Nearly died, Mrs. Martin did, and took the better part of a year to recover.”

“I’m sure her neighbors are most grateful she did.”

“God’s truth, that!” The squire motioned the footman to pour him another cup. “Given the, ah, weakness of the local sawbones, there’s a number of folk who’d be in bad frame indeed, were it not for Mrs. Martin.”

“My own brother included.”

The squire nodded. “Glad to know you realize that!”

“Her husband was a military man, you said. In what regiment?”

The squire stopped buttering his toast and looked up. “Can’t say as I know. Does it matter?”

Back off, Beau. “Not really. I’m trying to ascertain how I might best reimburse her for the time and skill she’s expended for my family. She would not accept payment in coin, I expect, but I should like to offer some gesture of appreciation. Is she perchance a reader?”

The squire chuckled. “My, yes! Quite a little bluestocking. Why, when she was laid up recuperating from her illness, I swear she must have read every musty tome in my library twice through. Not that I grudged her the loan of them, of course. Nay, I was glad to see them off the shelf for better reason than to make way for Hattie’s feather duster.” The squire put down his fork, suddenly serious. “Mustn’t think she’s one of them annoying, opinionated females who are always trying to tell a body what to do. Not a bit of it! Our Mrs. Martin’s quiet and deferential, a real lady.”

“So she has shown herself, under the most trying circumstances,” Beau agreed, noting the squire’s slight stress on the possessive “our.” “The rest of her family is not from this county?”

“No. Now that I think on it, I’m not sure where her parents live—nor her husband’s people.” The squire shrugged. “Never seemed important. She’s quality, as one can tell by looking at her, and that’s all that matters.”

“Of course.” Beau paused, choosing his words with care. “It does seem to me somewhat—odd, though, that she should be living alone, without any relations to accompany her. I must confess I was shocked when I went to fetch her and found not a single servant. I cannot help but think she stands in need of better protection.”

“Protection?” The squire stiffened and threw him a suspicious glance. “She’s well protected now, sir. I’d have a servant at the cottage full-time, if that’s what you’re hinting, but she’ll not hear of it. And my grooms have standing orders to keep a close eye on the place.”

Beau returned a bland smile. “That’s not the same as having her safe within one’s household. Perhaps I should speak to my sister—”

“No need for that!” the squire interrupted, his glance turning frostier. “She’d not stir from Merriville—likes to feel useful, she tells me. In any event, I’ve plans for her eventual protection—quite legitimate plans! No need to disturb your lady sister—Mrs. Martin will be well cared for, I assure you.” Pushing his chair back, the squire rose. “I’ll just go check on that breakfast plate.”

Giving Beau another sharp look, the squire paced out.

Beau savored the rich scent of his tea and smiled. So, as he’d suspected, the squire had “legitimate” plans in regard to Mrs. Martin. But though a match of such unequal age would not be unusual, often resulting in affection on both sides, he was certain the lady did not in any way reciprocate the squire’s tender regard.

Thanks be to God.

To his eye, Mrs. Martin’s reaction to the squire’s gallantry indicated disinterest cloaked in polite avoidance rather than coquetry. Nor, given the care she took to mask her beauty, did it appear she sought to attract any of the eligible gentlemen hereabouts.

Twofold thanks to heaven.

Why a vulnerable lady in such a precarious financial position would not wish to ensnare the affections of a potential suitor puzzled him. Solving that mystery was the key, he suspected, to unfettering the attraction between himself and Mrs. Martin.

Fortunately, uncovering people’s emotions and intent was a skill he’d perfected when still a lad, fascinated by puzzles of all sorts. While mastering chess, he’d discovered to his amusement that he could often learn as much about his adversary’s strategy from watching the reactions of face and body as by following the play. A sudden widening of the eyes, a quick indrawn breath, the alerting of the body and tensing of shoulders might indicate an opportunity discovered, or a check about to be set. Intrigued, Beau began to actively track such reactions. By the time he left Eton for Oxford he was able to pick up much more subtle signs.

Which allowed him to enjoy a quite profitable career at cards while at university. In addition, his ability to sense out which of two boxers would triumph, which jockey would bring home the winning horse, or which of two gentlemen would win a bet had led friends—and opponents—to wait on his choices and seldom wager against him.

And later led him to the secret career he now pursued, assisting Lord Riverton, an older Oxford classmate and now a cabinet member, in rooting out governmental corruption.

Given the strength of his need to disarm the wariness of Mrs. Martin, he gave thanks both for his skill and the invaluable contacts he’d accumulated over the years.

The news of Kit’s accident had pulled Beau from a house party, where the number of congenial friends present had sweetened the business of observing a high-ranking government official suspected of embezzlement. His agents were at work amassing invoices and shipping figures—hence the satchels arriving daily by courier. The accumulating evidence, observation and instinct all told him the suspect he’d been watching was indeed the architect of the scheme.

Though he’d put all thought of miscreants aside while Kit’s life hung in the balance, once he was assured his brother was truly out of danger and Ellie arrived to oversee Kit’s care, duty compelled him to return to London and finish his assignment. Still, he could spare a few more days to recover from the shock of nearly losing a sibling—and to figure out how best to win the trust of the cautious Mrs. Martin. For when he returned to check on his convalescing brother, he intended for her to welcome him back with all the fire he knew she possessed.

As he drained his cup and took the stairs to Kit’s room, Beau considered various explanations for Mrs. Martin’s atypical behavior. Perhaps the lady avoided gentlemen and garbed herself in gowns that camouflaged her beauty because her heart still belonged to her late husband. If she didn’t avoid men out of heartache, she might do so from distaste, though he’d not noticed in her interactions with Mac, the squire, or his brother anything to indicate a dislike for men in general. Or perhaps she brooded over some disappointment in love.

The powerful physical connection that flared between them did not support any of those theories. Besides, he sensed in her not aversion, disdain, or the despair of lingering grief, but…a wary watchfulness.

The hallmark of someone with secrets to hide.

He stopped dead, arrested by the conclusion. He might be wrong—occasionally he was—but he didn’t think so.

He continued his analysis, excitement accelerating the pace. Mrs. Martin apparently moved easily among—indeed, was sought out by—the community in and around Merriville, so she didn’t avoid all society.

Mrs. Martin the widowed healer met society, he amended. Mrs. Martin the woman hid behind shapeless gowns and voluminous caps. What could a lovely lady of gentle birth feel so obliged to conceal that she tried to make her person virtually invisible?

Beau couldn’t imagine. But with urgency thrumming in his blood and the goad of an imminent departure, he intended to bend every effort to find out.




Chapter Five


Her palms damp with nervousness on the wicker basket she carried, at precisely four o’clock Laura Martin walked into the entrance hallway to meet the Earl of Beaulieu.

Despite her exhaustion this morning, she’d lain awake wondering if there might have been some way she could have avoided this excursion. Before falling into a leaden sleep, she’d concluded there was none, save a blunt refusal that would have been as ungracious, given the concern the earl expressed about her well-being, as it was insulting.

She’d blundered badly again, being caught with that volume of Homer. No chance now of Lord Beaulieu believing her to be dull-witted. But a scholarly lady could still be a recluse of little social skill—indeed, before her marriage had she not been just such a girl? As long as she kept conversation to minimum and behaved with an awkwardness that, given the state of her nerves, she would not have to feign, the outing might pass off well enough.

But as she stepped out under the entry archway to await the approaching gig, Laura couldn’t help but feel a surge of gladness. The afternoon was as fair as the earl had promised, gilded with the special light that only occurs in late autumn when balmy breezes, teasing reminders of the summer just past, seduce the mind into forgetting the cold threat of winter to come. The sun-warmed herbs in her garden would greet her with a bouquet of piquant scents, the beds of mums and asters with a painter’s palette of russets, oranges, golds, lavenders and pinks.

After having been trapped indoors for nearly a week, she simply would not let the exasperating, unnerving seesaw of reaction the earl seemed always to evoke in her spoil her enjoyment of this perfect afternoon.

Given the paucity of her experience with men, it had taken her time to realize, with some chagrin, that at least part of the uneasy mix was an entirely carnal attraction. Once long ago, when young Lord Andrew Harper took her walking in her mother’s garden, she’d experienced the same quivery awareness and agitation. Acutely conscious of the muscled masculine form beneath Lord Andrew’s tight-fitting coat and buff breeches, she’d both longed for and been terrified that he might kiss her.

He hadn’t, though he’d looked into her eyes with the same searing intensity as the earl. Soon after that walk, her father informed her he’d accepted the distinguished and much older Lord Charleton’s offer for her hand, putting an end to titillating interludes in the garden.

Could the earl desire her, too? A flattering thought, though ludicrous. If the Earl of Beaulieu did find his brother’s dowdy nurse attractive, it would only be because gentlemen, as she knew well, were not particularly discriminating in their passions. Any minimally satisfactory female would do until a more appealing prospect happened along, and there were surely few prospects in Merriville.

She was still smiling at the notion of the Lord Beaulieu ogling the village baker’s buxom daughter when the earl pulled up in the gig.

Sunlight glistened in the burnished ebony of his dark hair and warmed the brown eyes to amber flame. Apollo cast in bronze, she thought, as a now-familiar slash of awareness stabbed her belly and quivered down her legs. She didn’t realize she was standing motionless, simply staring at him, until the earl addressed her.

“Should I call someone to assist you up? I’m afraid the horse is so fresh, I cannot leave him.”

“No, I can manage,” she replied, cheeks warming. The cat looking at the king, pathetic as the old nursery rhyme.

Transferring the reins to one hand but keeping his eyes on the restive chestnut, Lord Beaulieu leaned over to steady her elbow as she climbed in, his touch light and impersonal. Nonetheless, tension simmered between them as she took her seat.

“Is the day not truly as splendid as I promised?” he asked, and turned to give her a brilliant smile so full of comradely enjoyment she had to smile back.

“Indeed it is. Thank you for offering to drive me.”

“Let’s be off, then. Do you need to gather wild herbs as we go, or just those in your garden?”

“I need only garden-grown medicinals.”

“Nonetheless, if you spy anything on the way that you can use, let me know. This fine animal isn’t capable of blazing speed, so it will be no trouble to bring him to a halt. Squire Everett told me your uncle was a botanist, and you came to Merriville to be treated by your aunt. Had you worked with herbs before then?”

Laura tensed. “No.”

But his tone was easy, almost teasing as he continued. “I understand you were quite ill. A lady whose mind is active enough to acquire Greek must have found the forced inactivity of convalescence irksome. Learning about herbs would have blunted the frustration, I should guess.”

She glanced at him, surprised at his perspicacity. “Yes, it did.”

“A fascinating art, the business of healing. From time immemorial men have attempted to understand it, sometimes with appalling results. Imagine, recommending the ingestion of black powder and lead to relieve stomach distress!”

She laughed. “Barbarous indeed.”

“Did your aunt start treating illness at your uncle’s behest? Or out of her own concern?”

Laura paused, uncertain how to frame a monosyllabic answer—or whether, in truth, she needed to do so. Unlike the unnervingly probing inquiry he’d subjected her about her family the last time he drove her, these questions were less personal.

Perhaps, given his brother’s illness, Lord Beaulieu had developed a genuine interest in the practical use of herbs. What harm if she replied at more length on this relatively safe topic?

Cautiously, tracking his reaction with quick, cautious glances, she began, “My uncle studied the makeup of plants and how the elements in them affect healing. He believed, and my aunt practiced, that only natural materials, especially such long-utilized botanicals as willow bark, foxglove, rosemary, and the like be used to treat the sick, and then in small doses. ’Tis best to intervene as little as possible, let the body’s natural strength heal itself.”

“That sounds wise. Do we pass any beneficial wild herbs on our route?”

“Several, though they are not at the peak moment for harvesting now.”

“Point them out, if you would.”

And so during the remainder of the drive, she indicated stands of willow and horehound, pockets of tansy, goldenseal and echinacea. At his prompting, she added details of the teas, infusions and poultices one could make from them.

Having the earl’s intense, probing mind focused on treatments rather than the individual describing them was an immense relief. Though a strong awareness of him as a man still bubbled at the edges of consciousness, by the time they reached her cottage Laura had relaxed to a degree she wouldn’t previously have believed possible in his lordship’s company.

As soon as Lord Beaulieu handed her down from the gig, which he did with business-like efficiency that further reassured her, Misfit bounded up. Whining with joy, tail wagging at manic speed, he blocked her path and insinuated his head under her fingers. Perforce halted, Laura laughed and scratched hard along the knobby bones at his tail while the dog groaned with delight.

The earl laughed, as well. “I believe he missed you.”

“He becomes distressed if I’m away for long.”

“Don’t like being left alone, do you, old boy?” Lord Beaulieu reached over to rub his long fingers behind the dog’s ears. “Misses his fellows, too, I’ll wager. Why doesn’t the squire take him out with his pack?”

“Having been caught in a poacher’s trap as a pup, he shies so at the sound of gunfire he’s useless as a hunting dog. After I healed him, the squire let me keep him.”

“As your guardian?” the earl guessed.

She shrugged. “Something like, I suppose. Please, do go in. I’m afraid I haven’t much to offer, but there will be cool water in the kitchen.”

“Knowing you’d likely not have anything in the house, I had the squire’s cook prepare us a basket of refreshments. I’ll fetch it when you’re ready.”

That so wealthy a gentleman, who doubtless had his every need anticipated by a small army of servants at every one of his numerous establishments, should have noted and planned for that small detail impressed her. “Thank you. Should you like to wait in the parlor while I tend the garden? I have a set of the studies my uncle published. You might find them interesting.”

“I’m sure I should, but I can’t imagine remaining indoors on so glorious a day. Let me help you.”

The idea of the impeccable earl down on his knees pulling weeds was too ludicrous to resist. Stifling a grin, she recommended that if he preferred to stay outside, he might seat himself on the old willow bench on the porch.

The same one, she recalled with a jolting flash of memory, on which he’d discovered her drying her hair that afternoon.

If he remembered the incident, too, he gave no sign. Thanking her, he inclined his long form on the bench and sat watching her.

At bit uncomfortable under his scrutiny, she donned her faded apron and a tattered straw bonnet. But after a few moments she fell into the familiar, satisfying routine, wholly absorbed in freeing the beds of weeds and snipping the leaves, stems and branches she needed.

A short time later he materialized at her side, startling her. To her surprise and amusement, there he remained, questioning her about each plant she weeded out or clipped to save, holding the trug for her to deposit the harvested bounty, and twice, over her laughing protests, carrying off a load of weeds.

After she’d finished, the earl fetched the picnic basket. Once more claiming it was too lovely to go indoors, he insisted on seating her beside him on the willow bench and unpacking the refreshments there.

Having abandoned them during the dull weeding process to sniff out rabbits or other pernicious vermin, at the first scent of food Misfit ambled back, waiting at Laura’s feet with polite, rapt attention for the occasional tidbit.

The golden afternoon dimmed to the gray of approaching dusk and the mild air sharpened. As if sensing his mistress would soon depart, Misfit trotted off and brought back a fallen tree limb, then looked up at Laura with tail wagging, an irresistible appeal in his eyes.

“All right, but only for a few moments,” Laura told him. With a joyful bark, Misfit dropped the limb and danced on his paws, awaiting her throw.

She lobbed it to the far wall, watching with a smile as the dog raced after, a dark streak of motion in the fading daylight. He bounded back, did a little pirouette before her, and dropped the stick once more.

Lord Beaulieu snatched it before she could, and after a grimace at its condition, threw it again, clear over the fence and into the brush beyond. The hound rushed to the wooden barrier and then out the gate.

“He’ll love that,” Laura said. “’Tis a shame he cannot hunt, for he dearly loves to retrieve. Keeps my vegetables safe, and provides hares for the stew pot several times a week.”

The earl gave his slimy hands a rueful glance. “He makes a rather messy business of it.”

“So he does. Thank heavens you were not wearing your gloves—they’d be ruined!” Laura rummaged in her basket for a rag. “Here, let me wipe them.”

He held out his hands. Without thinking, Laura grasped his wrist. Which, she immediately realized, was a mistake.

The warm touch of his skin sent a shock through her, while below the cuff of his shirt she felt his pulse beat strongly against her fingertips. Without conscious volition she raised her eyes to his.

He stared back. The air seemed suddenly sucked out of the afternoon sky, and she had trouble breathing.

She should look down, wipe his hands, step away. But she didn’t seem able to move, her body invaded by a heated connectedness that seem to bind her to him by far more than the simple grasp of his wrist.

Finally, with a ragged intake of breath she tore her gaze free and wiped his dog-slobbered hands with quick jerky motions. After achieving the barest minimum of cleanliness, she released his wrist and shoved it away.

Still shaky, she stepped back—and tripped over Misfit, who chose that moment to bound up to her, stick in mouth. Not wanting to step on the dog, she hopped sideways and lost her balance altogether.

An instant later she hit the ground in an undignified tangle of skirt and limbs, face up to the startled earl and the star-dusted sky. Her cheeks flamed with humiliation, but before she could speak, Misfit, delighted she’d apparently decided to join him at his level, put both paws on her chest and leaned over to lick her face.

“Stop…Misfit…down!” she attempted to command between swipes by his long pink tongue, all the while trying unsuccessfully to wriggle out from under his weight. After a moment the absurdity of her position overwhelmed embarrassment. Leaning her head back under a continuing assault of doggy kisses, she dissolved into laughter.

He ought to shoo the dog away, help her up. Instead Beau stood frozen, watching the arched column of long white throat, the chest quivering with amusement. All afternoon he’d been haunted by memories of her on the bench where he’d surprised her sun-drying her hair, where today she’d invited him to linger, where, separated only by a picnic basket, they’d eaten the cold meat and cheese and bread, sipped the wine the squire’s cook had packed. Which he’d eaten and drunk without tasting anything because it was her slender body, her wine-sweet lips he wanted to devour.

And now, while that ungrateful mutt dribbled slobber on her face, all he could think of was brushing the dog aside so he might kiss that throat, cup his hands over the breasts now prisoned by muddy paws, move over her and into her. It required another full minute and all the strength of mind he could muster to beat back the pulsing desire to gather her in his arms and carry her into the cottage.

But he was master of his appetites, and she was not ready for that. He called once more on the iron self-discipline upon which he prided himself, under whose guiding check he’d operated all afternoon, keeping the conversation carefully neutral, masking the desire she aroused in him with every small movement—the way she touched the tip of her tongue to her top lip when in contemplation, the subtle sway of her hips as she walked, even the tilt of her head as she gazed up at him inquiringly, like a little brown sparrow.

How unobservant people were, he marveled as he watched her tussle with her dog. How could any man look at Mrs. Martin, really look at her, and see only the drab exterior, miss the translucence of skin, the smoky fire of her hair beneath the ubiquitous cap, the sparkling brilliance of mind so evident once he finally got her into conversation. Dismissing the sparrow as dull and familiar without noting the intricacy and subtle shadings of color and pattern. Even the squire, though he’d not been totally blind, had perceived but little of her subtle allure, else she’d not still be a widow.

He was fiercely glad of that blindness, however. For she was his sparrow—his. The strength of that sudden conviction startled him, but it emanated from somewhere so deep within him he didn’t bother to question it.

It would be a novel experience, using his skills to entice a lady. He’d not previously done so, being too circumspect to dally with married women of his own class and too protective of his bachelor state to pay singular attention to a maiden. The strength of his wealth and title alone, he considered cynically, had always been more than enough to garner him the favor of any lesser-born female who caught his eye.

But he would use them now, his vaunted skills, to lure this little brown sparrow and tame her to his hand.

Mrs. Martin, with her long white throat and deliciously heaving chest and frothy petticoats thrown back to reveal shapely ankles, represented temptation strong enough to break the resolve of a saint. Not being one, he’d best bring to an end the torturous pleasure of watching her. Thank heavens she was too modest to let her glances stray below his waistcoat, else she’d have clearly defined evidence of his desire the sternest of will could not conceal.

Ruthlessly he disciplined his thoughts, reassuring himself of the intimacy to come by recalling that timeless, breathless interval when she captured his wrist and his gaze. So strong was the sense of connection that he knew, he knew, she sensed and reciprocated the same powerful emotions that were roiling through him. However, though her agitation immediately after spoke of the depth of her attraction, her care to quickly move away told him she wasn’t ready quite yet to succumb to the force that sparked so readily between them.

But she would be. Soon. And having made such progress today in setting her at ease, he’d not jeopardize her willing acquiescence by rushing his fences now, like an untried schoolboy.

“Misfit, heel!” he commanded. When, with a droop of tail, the dog reluctantly complied, Beau held out a hand. “Mrs. Martin, shall we retrieve you from Misfit’s pack?”

At his teasing comment, she froze. The unselfconscious delight drained from her face and, ignoring his outstretched hand, she scrambled to her feet, brushing at the mud the dog had left on her apron.

“L-lord Beaulieu, excuse me! That was undignified.”

“What need has one of dignity on so lovely a day?”

Her glance shot to his face and probed it, as if looking for evidence of mockery or disapproval. He held her gaze, his amusement fading.

Abruptly she lowered her chin, took a step away and grabbed her basket. “We’ve lingered far too long. ’Twill take but a moment to pack up the herbs. If you would be so kind, my lord, would you make sure the gig is ready?”

Somehow in an instant, the easy mood that had gilded the golden afternoon had shattered, leaving in its place a chill that had nothing to do with the evening’s approach. Beau was at a loss to explain why it happened, or to figure out how to recapture their warm intimacy. Dismay and anger and heated frustration seized him.

He knew instinctively that pressing her to stay, teasing her further, would only deepen her wariness.

After a moment in which, his mind still a swirl of protest, he could summon no logical reason to stall their departure, he replied, “Of course, madam.” And bowed, though she’d already turned away, retreated to her workbench, putting even more distance between them.

After watching her for another moment, Beau headed for the shed. Analyze, analyze, he told himself as, teeth gritted, he stalked over to prepare the gig. He hadn’t even touched her hand to help her up, so it couldn’t have been his barely repressed desire that frightened her off. What was it she had apologized for—a loss of dignity?

Dignity—a stifling word, that. Had some repressive individual—a stern governess, a cold mama, a disapproving father—or husband—stolen from her the ability to express joy openly? So that the keen zest for life, the unfettered laughter he’d just witnessed, emerged only in unguarded moments and was viewed as a lapse of propriety to be immediately regretted?

His anger shifted, redirecting itself against whomever had required his Sparrow to restrain her innocent delight in life. He’d like to teach the fellow the propriety to be found at the end of a clenched fist.

He felt again that surge of fierce protectiveness. Mrs. Martin had an enchanting laugh, and he meant to hear it, often. He’d have her indulging—and sharing with him—all the passionate responses she so diligently suppressed.

I’ll make it so good for you, for us, he vowed as he speedily checked over the chestnut. I’ll give you freedom from want and restraint, cherish your body, revel in that questing, active mind. You need only let me.

But his frustration revived on the drive back, which mirrored in unwelcome parallel the first time he’d driven her from the cottage to the hall. Mrs. Martin perched on the edge of the seat, as far from him as possible, replying to his every conversational opening an unvarying series of “yeses,” “nos” or “I don’t know, my lords.”

How could she sit there so composed and distant, virtually ignoring him, when his body hummed with suppressed desire, his mind with the fervent need to probe her thoughts, know and explore and nurture her?

By the time he drew rein before the squire’s entry hall, irritation at the unexpected setback drove him to be just a bit less cautious.

And so, after a groom came to the chestnut’s head and Mrs. Martin turned to climb down from the carriage, he stayed her with a touch to the shoulder. Enough of impersonal, nonthreatening courtesy.

Beau took her hand and slowly, deliberately, raised it. “I enjoyed this afternoon very much, Mrs. Martin.”

He moved his mouth across her knuckles, the barest touch of lip and warm breath. Then, while her eyes flared open and her gaze jerked up, he turned her hand over and applied the glancing, shock-spitting caress of his lips down her slender fingers to her callused palm. He had to call once again on his famous self-control to stifle the near-overwhelming impulse to sink his teeth into the tempting plumpness beneath her thumb where the palm narrowed to the soft, rose-scented skin of her wrist.

He released her then, pulses hammering, astounded that a simple brush with his lips could instantly rekindle desire to urgent fever pitch. He glanced down at her.

Lips slightly parted, eyes locked on him, she stood motionless, oblivious of the footman waiting to hand her down, looking awestruck as if she, too, could not credit the strength of what just passed between them. Her hand was still outstretched where he’d released it, fingers splayed and trembling.

Oh, yes, she felt that. Satisfaction surged through him, his only compensation for being forced to restrain himself from claiming her on the spot.

No, Mrs. Martin, he told her silently as he bowed in farewell. This unnameable force between us cannot be ignored, try you ever so coolly to deny it. Sooner or later, all the secrets and passion you are at such pains to hide will be mine.




Chapter Six


Her body and mind still spellbound by the earl’s simple gesture, not until the squire offered a bluff greeting did Laura notice her host striding out.

“Come in, come in, my lord, Mrs. Martin! We’ve guests for you to meet. Lady Elspeth and her daughter, Lady Catherine, have just arrived.”

Another stranger. Rattled as she felt at the moment, Laura was tempted to avoid the introduction. However, she swiftly realized that if she excused herself now, she might be pressed to join the party in the drawing room later. Better to brush through this quickly and avoid a more protracted conversation over biscuits and tea.

The arrival of his lordship’s sister, however, meant she would soon be able to return home. An unexpected ambivalence dampened the surge of relief she’d anticipated at that reprieve.

Swallowing her protests over windblown hair and grubby gown, she followed the squire to the south parlor.

She refused to glance at Lord Beaulieu during the short walk. Drat, how the man unsettled her! Just when she’d thought they’d developed a comfortable rapport, nurse to patient’s elder brother, he had to intrude again upon her senses with his tantalizing, dangerous appeal.

That so small a gesture as his lips brushing her palm could evoke so agitated a response only underscored she was a fool to believe she could remain a detached acquaintance. His very presence stirred both memories she’d rather suppress and longings she could scarcely put a name to.

She’d do better to follow her original plan of avoiding him.

By the time she reached that conclusion, the squire had ushered them into the parlor. A beautiful, raven-haired lady with the earl’s dark eyes rose as they entered.

“Beau!” She held out her arms.

The earl strode over to envelop his sister in a hug. “How glad I am to see you, Ellie! But you’re so pale. A difficult journey? Or did this scamp worry you to death?”

He turned to catch a child who hurtled into the room at him. “Uncle Beau! Do not tease Mama! She’s been sick, so I’ve been ever so good. Did Uncle Kit really get his arm—eeh!” The rest of her sentence ended in a squeal as Beau tossed her into the air.




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