by Kelly Bowen
“I didn’t come to Greybourne to seduce Miss Murray. I came to work.”
“Pity.” She offered Henry a mischievous smile. “If you ever stopped skulking in the back of ballrooms, you might convince her to dance with you.”
Henry scoffed in what he hoped was a believable manner. The truth of the matter was that he wasn’t sure he trusted himself to dance with Miss Murray. He didn’t think that he could take her in his arms and not give in to the relentless need that was getting worse with every moment. He’d capture her mouth with his, run his hands through her glossy black curls, taste the skin at the hollow of her throat, explore every one of her beautiful curves—
“Mr. Newton isn’t the only man who has tried to woo her, you know. He’s only the latest,” Kitty continued.
Henry’s eyes strayed back to where Maeve was still dancing with Newton. The jealousy and possessiveness that he thought he’d managed to tamp down roared to life again, worse than ever. “He will not buy Miss Murray’s affections with a few yards of silk.”
“Mmm. I was wondering where she found such a delightful frock.” She swirled the lemonade in the bottom of her glass. “Regardless, it’s possible that Mr. Newton might just be successful where her other suitors have failed.”
“Why would you say that?” He tried to make his words casual.
“Maeve will never leave the people of Greybourne. Not now, not with those who she considers family struggling as they are.”
“Miss Murray has made clear the shortcomings of the estate—”
Kitty snorted into her lemonade. “Shortcomings? Good Lord, Henry, I don’t trouble myself to understand anything about the workings of an agricultural estate but even I know that Greybourne is a bloody disaster. It’s no wonder Newton has petitioned the duke to break the entail on it.”
“He did what?” Henry realized he was gripping his glass so hard his hand was shaking. He forced himself to relax his grip before he shattered the crystal.
Kitty shrugged. “Newton is very wealthy and very good at making things profitable, Henry. He’s conscientious and ambitious and dotes on Maeve. With the Blackmores out of his way and Greybourne under his ownership, he could renovate the manor, redevelop the land, replace the tenants. Miss Murray’s crusade would be over, and she might find herself with the time on her hands to consider a future beyond mud and pigs.”
Alarm bells were clamouring loudly in Henry’s head. “How do you know that? That Newton petitioned my father?”
Kitty set her glass on the tray of a passing footman and gave him an impatient look. “Just something I overheard at the last family gathering. Honestly, Henry, I know you wish to distance yourself from them, but you really should try to take a little bit of an interest.” Her eyes wandered back to where Maeve and Newton still waltzed on the dance floor. “That really is a marvelous dress,” she remarked.
“A dress Miss Murray didn’t want,” Henry growled.
Kitty shrugged carelessly. “Well, say what you like about Mr. Newton, but he has excellent taste. In silk as well as entertainment.” She picked up her own skirts. “If you’ll excuse me, there is a game of faro that I believe I’m late for.”
“Faro?”
“One must find amusement where one can. Do take care of yourself, Henry.”
Chapter Eleven
The moonlight cloaked everything in a pale wash of light, bright enough to cast a shadow across the packed ground where Maeve stood. She cast her gaze up to the inky carpet of stars above her, shivering slightly as a breeze caressed the bare skin on her arms.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Henry said, emerging from the stables after seeing their horses bedded down for the night.
“Yes,” replied Maeve, not looking away from the sky, rubbing her arms with her hands.
“There are cathedrals and chapels across the continent with stars painted on their ceilings but nothing that man has created will ever match this.”
A warmth settled over her shoulders as Henry wrapped his coat around her.
Maeve yanked her eyes from the vista overhead and made to protest. “Henry, I don’t need—”
“To be cold,” he finished for her. “Keep it.”
“But—”
“Allow me to be your gallant knight, if only for a moment.”
“Then thank you, good sir,” Maeve managed. Standing out here with Henry, alone in the moonlight, wrapped in his heat and his scent, made the anticipation that had been simmering all evening flare again.
I want to kiss you.
Those words had swirled with silky cunning through her mind all night, making her blood too hot, her pulse too fast, and her skin too sensitive. It would be so easy to surrender to the temptation that was Henry Blackmore. But that surrender would only make his inevitable departure that much more heartbreaking.
I want to kiss you.
And no matter how much she might wish him to do exactly that, she needed to retreat behind the safe lines of reality.
“Thank you for coming with me this evening,” she said. There, that sounded composed.
“Of course.”
“Though I fear there might now be an army of pretty girls and their determined mothers preparing to assault Greybourne. You may want to prepare.” She would keep this light and flippant if it killed her.
Henry made a dismissive noise.
“You may scoff, but the truth of the matter is that the very unmarried son of a duke just dropped into their midst tonight. It was like throwing a side of beef into a pack of starving wolves.”
“Did you just refer to me as a side of beef?”
“Possibly. But a very handsome side of beef.”
“I’m flattered.” He was smiling, his teeth pale in the shadows of his face.
Maeve grinned back.
“I’ll have you know, Miss Murray, that I have perfected the art of skulking about in ballrooms over the years to avoid things like starving packs of wolves.”
“So you must be used to it.”
“To what?”
“Being pursued. I imagine that sons of dukes tend to have long lines of beautiful women angling for their favour wherever they go.”
“Unless he goes to Greybourne. Then the beautiful woman there blackmails him into buying her baubles like seed drills.”
“Did you just call me beautiful?”
“Possibly.”
“I’m flattered.”
Henry stepped closer to her, his smile faltering, to be replaced with something more intense. “You are beautiful Maeve,” he said quietly.
Maeve shivered again, only this time it had nothing to do with being cold.
He stepped closer to her so that only inches separated them. “It’s not the dress or the ribbon or the lace because you were just as beautiful this afternoon in your trousers and coat with mud in your hair.”
“Henry—”
“You were even more beautiful up on a roof with thatch stuck to your skin and rain running down your face.” He reached out and touched her cheek, a butterfly-light touch that left her swaying unsteadily. “Your heart is what makes you beautiful.”
She stared up at him, her heart pounding.
“Dance with me, Maeve.”
She opened her mouth to speak but the ability to do so seemed to have deserted her.
“I didn’t dance with you tonight, Maeve. I wish to remedy that.”
“You didn’t dance with anyone tonight,” she managed shakily.
“I didn’t want to dance with anyone else. I wanted only you.” His fingers tenderly tucked an errant curl behind her ear.
“Why are you asking me now?” Her words had been reduced to a whisper because his lips were a breath away from hers.
I only wanted you. And God help her but she wanted him too.
“Because I couldn’t dance with you without doing this first.”
And he kissed her.
Maeve had been kissed before but never like this. No one had ever claimed her quite the wa
y Henry Blackmore was doing now in the moonlight. His hands slid from the edge of her jaw down the column of her neck, his fingers coming to rest lightly at her nape. His lips explored hers with a seductive thoroughness, not rushing, and giving her time to pull away if she wished.
She didn’t wish to pull away. She only wished to be closer to his heat and his touch and the feel of his mouth on hers. Her hands came up, sliding over the fine silk of his waistcoat, slipping over his shoulders and arms. He moved beneath her touch, his muscles bunching and shifting beneath her palms, drawing her closer. His coat slid from her shoulders, and Maeve let it fall, liquid heat racing through her veins and making her feel like she was on fire.
She breathed in his warmth and the scent of his skin as he angled his head, deepening their kiss. She lifted her hands and buried her fingers in the thick softness of his hair, wanting more. Henry made a low sound in his throat and nipped at her mouth, his tongue slipping past her lips to explore her mouth. He tasted faintly of fine claret and Maeve swayed against him, the feel of his hard body against hers sending ribbons of desire spiralling through her.
His hands slid down her back, possessive and strong. At the same time, his lips grazed the underside of her jaw, moving across her skin to caress the hollow at her throat.
“I’ve wanted to do this all night,” Henry whispered.
“This?” Maeve managed, her head falling back.
“Kiss you. Taste you.”
His words made Maeve’s knees threaten to buckle. Her fingers tightened against the back of his head.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured against her neck. His hands moved to her waist, sliding up her ribs, his thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts.
Maeve arched into his touch, any sort of coherent thought lost under a tidal wave of need. She wanted all of this man. She wanted him mind, body, and soul.
But she couldn’t have him. Henry Blackmore would only ever be a brief stitch in the fabric of her life and to let herself dream and want something more was unfair to both of them.
Maeve tipped her head forward, her cheek sliding along his, before laying her head against his shoulder. She was breathing hard and so was he, his heart pounding beneath her touch.
“I want you,” he said against her ear.
“And I you,” she replied softly. “But we can’t do this. I can’t give myself to you and then watch you walk away from here. From me.”
His fingers slid under her chin, tipping her face up to his. He rested his forehead against hers. “I never wanted to come back here. I wanted to forget that this place ever existed.”
“But now you’re here.”
He exhaled, his breath unsteady. “Now I’m here. And what I’m supposed to do isn’t what I want to do anymore.”
Maeve pulled back trying to see his expression but there wasn’t enough light to read his face clearly. “What does that mean?”
“I wish I could give you what you want. I wish I could give you the money to restore this estate. I wish I could give you the means to help every soul here. But I can’t.” He sounded wretched.
“Can’t or won’t?”
“I can’t, Maeve. It’s not my money to give.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I, entirely. It’s complicated. And I can’t tell you everything because I’ve given my word that I will not.”
“What can you tell me then?”
He straightened, pulling away from her, running his hands through his hair in clear agitation. “John Nash.”
Maeve frowned. “I have no idea who that is.”
“Nash is the preeminent architect in all of London. His commissions come directly from the Prince Regent. Among others. Until recently, I was working under Nash on a design for a new pavilion to be built in Brighton for the prince.”
“Ah.” Maeve suddenly understood. “John Nash is the man you must prove yourself to.”
“Yes. My entire future hinges on what I do here. If I don’t restore the manor to his satisfaction, then I lose my place on the pavilion project and subsequent royal commissions.”
“I see.” Maeve bent and picked up his coat from where it had fallen from her shoulders.
“If I am to become the best in my field, I must work with the best,” he said quietly.
“I can understand that.” Maeve’s fingers were tracing the edges of the coat buttons. “And I understand that Greybourne is simply a necessary rung on the ladder of your ambition.”
Henry paced away and stared into space. A second later he paced back, grasping her hands in his. “I hate how that sounds. Because it’s not that simple anymore. You are a part of Greybourne. Alfred Baxter and the Dunlops are a part of Greybourne. I can’t just…” He trailed off in frustration.
“You can’t what?”
“If I asked you to come away with me, would you?” he whispered.
Maeve’s heart cracked. “I can’t.” She closed her eyes. “Not now. Not with Greybourne like it is. I can’t abandon—”
Henry pressed a brief kiss to her lips. “You don’t have to explain. I understand.”
“If I asked you to stay with me here, would you?”
He made a soft sound. “Not now. Not with everything I’ve worked so hard for—”
“You don’t have to explain,” she said sadly. “I understand.”
She understood that whatever this was between them, it was impossible. Not because they were too different but because they were too similar. Two people loyal to their dreams, determined to see their ambitions through. She couldn’t leave and he couldn’t stay.
“Maeve—”
“Shh. I just want this moment with you if it’s the only one I’ll have. One day I’ll look back and remember when a handsome architect kissed me under the moonlight. Even after I blackmailed him.”
“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Henry said, pulling her against him.
“What wasn’t?”
“You. This. Us.” His hand slid down her spine. “I—”
A distant shout interrupted whatever he was going to say. Another shout, this one sounding like it came from just beyond the mews.
“That sounds like Isaac.” Maeve stepped away from Henry. She didn’t like the ominous feeling that was crawling across her skin and raising the hairs at the back of her neck. She hurried alongside the stretch of the old stable yards, stumbling into the drive.
A man was hurrying toward them, a torch in his hand, the flames dancing wildly as he ran.
She squinted at the glare as Isaac Dunlop skidded to a stop before her. His worried face was wreathed in an orange glow, beads of sweat running down his brow, his chest heaving.
“Are they here?” he asked hoarsely. “Owen and Graham?”
Maeve’s stomach dropped. “No.”
“God.” Dunlop shoved his hair from his forehead. “I’ve been calling for them. They didn’t come home when it got dark. I can’t find them anywhere. I was just coming to check the stables. Edith stayed at the cottage in case they come back.”
“I’m sure they’re not far,” Maeve said with far more confidence than she felt. “What were they doing when you saw them last?”
“They told me they were going rabbit hunting. But some of my tools are missing along with their slingshots.”
“Did you check the barns—”
“The barns, the sties, the pastures, the old carriage house, the church, the smith’s, the sheds. There’s no trace of them.”
“Did you check the mill?” Henry asked from behind her.
Maeve spun. “What?”
“When I met them, they talked about the mill being the first thing they wanted to fix. If they took tools—”
Maeve cursed and Isaac paled.
“They know better than to go anywhere near that mill,” Isaac said. “It’s not safe. I’ve told them that a hundred times. Surely they wouldn’t go there.”
“Knowing better won’t necessarily have stopped the
m,” Henry said, and Maeve knew he was thinking about his own brother.
“I should have known what they were planning,” Isaac rasped. “If something has happened to them it is my fault—”
“It is not your fault,” Henry said clearly. “You can’t control everything.”
“We’ll look there first,” Maeve said, heading toward the stables, but Henry was already moving past her. He emerged a moment later with the three sound horses, bridled but not saddled.
“Here.” He threw the reins of one of the horses in Isaac’s direction and heaved Maeve up on the back of the second.
She yanked her skirts up her legs, ignoring the sound of stitches giving way, and reined her horse in the direction of the darkened lane that would lead them north toward the mill. Without waiting to see if Henry or Isaac were behind her, she kicked her horse into a gallop.
The mill sat hunkered and shadowed on its bank, the moon reflecting off the water that rushed by. Only instead of the stagnant pool of water that usually sat at the bottom of the waterwheel, a white froth bubbled and churned. Someone had opened the sluice gate to the channel that fed the mill.
The waterwheel wasn’t turning but it groaned and creaked, listing dangerously far from the side of the building, its rotting wooden spokes shuddering against the onslaught of water. Maeve’s horse pounded along the bank, coming to a sliding stop in front of the dark building. Henry was on her heels, Isaac only a second behind, the torch light flickering drunkenly off the old brick.
“Graham!” he shouted desperately, his voice competing with the rushing water and groaning wheel. “Owen!”
Henry and Isaac had dismounted and passed Maeve in her awkward skirts and were now sprinting down the bank. In the pale light, she saw Henry stop, bending to pick something up from the ground. Isaac’s torch revealed a bucket of tools, abandoned at the edge of the bank.
“Oh dear God.” Isaac looked around wildly but nothing moved save the boiling surface of the water.
Henry’s face was drawn. “I’ll check the inside of the mill. You go further down the bank—”
“Listen.” Maeve put a hand on his sleeve. She thought she had heard a faint cry from the side of the mill. She closed her eyes, listening hard and was rewarded with another sound barely audible over the rushing water.