Butterflies took flight in her stomach, while her head worked through the scenario Travis Gentry had just threatened. “I think another call to the magistrate is in order.”
“Then shall we?” He offered her his arm, but she brushed past. When his footsteps sounded behind her, she resisted the urge to pick up her pace. When she spied Mr. Sudbury near the garden gate, she waved him to follow.
“Is there a problem?” he asked when he fell into step beside the Yank.
“You’d have to ask the lady for the details,” he said. “But it seems as though we may have a situation.”
“A situation?” Sudbury moved into her line of sight. “What’s this then?”
Robin reached the door to her office and threw it open, allowing the men to follow. Keeping to as sparse an explanation as she could manage, she filled the older man in on the issue at hand.
“So you’ve got a missing bow and-”
“Not missing,” the Yank corrected. “Purchased.”
Her temper flared, but Robin managed a terse, “I beg to differ. This man is a thief and I want him arrested.”
“Arrested?” The specialist straightened his spine and crossed both muscular arms over his chest. “I think not. With a receipt for purchase, there’s not a magistrate in this country who could find that a crime has been committed.”
“But the Locksley bow is gone?” He looked first to Robin and then to the Yank. “How is that possible?”
“She sold it,” Mr. Gentry said.
“He stole it,” she snapped.
“All right then,” Sudbury said. “What say I place a few calls and get to the bottom of this?”
“Please do,” Robin and the Yank said in unison.
Thankfully the trip to London proved unnecessary. Sudbury phoned well-placed chums of his with assurances that Mr. Gentry would remain in his custody until the situation was resolved. An empty pensioner’s dwelling had been readied on the property, and Mr. Gentry was sent there with instructions not to flee upon penalty of incarceration.
As Robin worked to restore order to her office and try to forget the disorder that was her life, Mrs. Sudbury rang up.
“The earl’s dinner over t’the manor house’s been canceled, and someone has to eat this,” she said in her sing-song cook’s-in-charge voice.
And eat they did, dining in grand style in the cozy staff kitchen at the far corner of the mews. Robin picked at the potatoes and thick slice of rye bread on her plate as she watched the American go at his second helping with gusto while discussing with Sudbury the merits of certain breeds of horses.
So much for the deprivation due a prisoner of the manor.
“Not hungry, are you, Lass?” The cook’s voice drew her out of her thoughts.
She turned her gaze to Mrs. Sudbury. The older woman’s wide brown eyes narrowed slightly as she leaned toward Robin in a conspiratorial gesture. “It was that way with Nigel and myself, you know,” she whispered. “One minute a body can’t get enough meat and potatoes, and the next you only have eyes for ‘em and the food’s gone stale and cold.”
Robin cast a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure the men were still deep in discussion. “What are you talking about?”
Mrs. Sudbury touched Robin’s arm and chuckled. “It’s as plain as the empty spot over your hearth, Child,” she said. “The man’s got it bad for you and you for him, and this situation with the bow is the Lord’s doing for sure.”
Robin felt the warmth fly up her neck and into her cheeks. “That is preposterous,” she stammered as she collected her plate and pushed away from the table. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go warm this a bit.”
* * *
Cold.
That’s what Travis felt every time he looked across the table at Robin Locksley. He shook off the feeling with a roll of his shoulders and returned to the conversation with Sudbury, a conversation that hadn’t lagged a bit despite his immersion in thoughts other than horses.
As he watched the pretty English lady slip out of the room, he felt his heart go with her. Stupid, he realized, since he knew very little about her.
His phone rang, intruding into his thoughts but not into Sudbury’s monologue on the new sod covering the pitch at the Guards Polo Club in Great Windsor Park. He excused himself to answer, then suppressed a laugh when Nigel barely noticed the interruption.
By the time Travis had finished speaking to his London solicitor, Robin had returned. Sudbury had moved on to talk about next year’s Royal Ascot and the assorted horseflesh in competition for the title.
“Good news, Mr. Gentry?” Sudbury’s wife asked.
Travis slid the phone into his pocket and pointedly ignored the bored look on Robin’s face. “Not really. It looks like my passport’s not going to be returned until this mess has been resolved.” He turned to stare at the prim redhead. “So in the meantime, I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere, and my business is going down the drain.”
The cook pointed her finger at him. “The Lord knows your troubles, Mr. Gentry. Lay them at His feet.”
“I already have, Ma’am.”
But had he?
In the days that followed, while he wandered around the castle grounds with little to do but think, Travis pondered the question at great length. Ultimately, as he lay beneath the cherubs and clouds of an eighteenth-century frescoed ceiling in one of Lowingham Manor’s three pensioners’ houses, he realized he’d only played at trusting the Lord.
Climbing out of the bed, he landed on his knees and lowered his head until his brow touched the feather mattress and his eyes slid shut. For what seemed like an eternity, he listed all his worries, from the potential ruin of his deal with Daniel Securities to the worry over the Locksley bow to his inability to find comfort in the peace and quiet of the countryside. Then, one by one, he let them go.
All but one.
The next morning, that last trouble arrived at the breakfast table in apple green, the same sweater she’d worn in the maze. Travis glanced up from his plate of ham and Scotch eggs to watch her pour a cup of tea before he returned his attention to his breakfast. Finding the chair farthest from him, she dove into reading the London Times without so much as a “good morning to you.” In return, Travis tried to muster up all the reasons why he shouldn’t care, starting with the extension he’d gained on the Daniels Security deal.
Each day after started and ended the same. Even Sunday morning brunch after early church services had brought no end to her silence. To think she would still carry a grudge after listening to a sermon on bearing with each other in love.
By Monday morning, their game had driven Travis to distraction, forcing him to take up manual labor to work off his frustration. That afternoon he dragged the gardening tools into the patch of weed-choked vegetables named after his tormentor. In short order, he had the weeds pulled and several rows ready for fall planting.
Funny how it didn’t seem like farming when he dug in the dirt with Robin Locksley in mind. Tuesday morning at breakfast he still hadn’t figured it out.
“May I join you?” she asked.
Travis jerked up to stare into the face of the object of his thoughts. “Sure,” he said with a shrug of nonchalance as false as Nigel Sudbury’s teeth. “Take a load off,” he added for effect.
Take a load off? Where had that lame statement come from? He fought the urge to cringe, covering his embarrassment by filling his mouth with a fork full of eggs.
The redhead settled into a chair on the opposite side of the table, nearest to the door. Without actually looking him in the eye, she pointed to the sugar bowl and muttered something about passing it to her. At any moment, Travis expected her to bolt and run.
When he leaned forward to press the delicate porcelain piece in her direction, their fingertips touched and scalded a path on his skin. He snatched his hand back and upset the creamer, littering Mrs. Sudbury’s floral tablecloth with spilled milk.
Righting the crock, he grabbed for the
napkin in his lap and dabbed at the spot. Through it all, his companion sat silently, watching his shame with eyes that gave away nothing of her thoughts.
“I must apologize,” she said over the rim of her cup. “You’ve certainly not shirked hard work during your stay, and I’ve been remiss in saying so.”
Travis bristled at the reference to his forced house arrest. The woman acted like he’d checked into a bed and breakfast. The part about her apologizing softened the rest, but only slightly.
“What is it you Yanks say?” she continued. “You’ve got a green thumb. I’m suitably impressed with the quantity of work you’ve accomplished.”
He shrugged and waved away the compliment with the napkin in his hand. Best not let her know how well her words fit in his ears and in his heart. “Hard work’s cheaper than therapy.”
A hint of a smile touched her fresh-scrubbed face, and she pushed back an errant strand of red from her forehead. “Do you find yourself in need of therapy very often, Mr. Gentry?”
“Call me Travis and I just might answer that question.”
She tilted her head slightly as the smile dawned bright, illuminating the room despite the grayness of the morning. “All right.” She paused to take another sip of tea. “Travis.”
He nodded his approval. “So, Robin.” He tested the taste of her name on his lips and decided he liked it just fine, so he said it again. “Robin, I don’t recall the need for therapy before I met you.”
“Nor did I need a solicitor.”
He winced. “Touché.”
Their gazes met and locked. For a moment, the room shrank until all the ancient timbers and crumbling plaster walls were gone, leaving a set of sparkling green eyes that he could have easily become lost in—just like the maze. Only the ring of his cell phone broke the silence.
“Yeah,” he grunted into the object of offense.
“Mr. Gentry, this is Constance.”
Reluctantly he allowed his gaze to leave the redhead and fall on the window behind her so he could think straight. “What’s up?” he asked even though he knew.
“The embassy courier has arrived. Shall I have him transport the package to the authorities in Malmsbury?”
“No,” he said much too loudly. He quickly offered Robin a weak smile and watched her return one much more dazzling. “That won’t be necessary.”
“But, Sir, I thought you were anxious to have this matter settled. Are you sure you want the package to go back to the vault at the embassy?”
He watched Robin rise to reach for the pot of tea on the sideboard. She topped off his cup and then her own, sliding back into her seat with the poise of a beauty queen. Even watching her pour sugar into her cup was like watching grace in motion, just like how she stirred her tea without spilling a drop.
“Sir?” Constance’s voice nagged at his ear and forced his mind back to thinking of things of which he wanted no part. “Your passport has arrived. Once you deliver the bow, you can go.”
She paused, possibly waiting for him to respond. Instead Travis tightened his hand around the phone and watched Robin’s fingers slide across the table to place her spoon on the saucer.
“Sir, did you hear me?”
“Yes, Connie, absolutely.” He’d heard, all right, but Constance hadn’t been the first to deliver the news. Yesterday his London solicitor had phoned to tell him he had been released pending the return of the bow to Lowingham Manor. A determination would be made on its ownership via transatlantic wrangling.
Little did his breakfast companion know she owed her beautifully groomed garden to his frustration over that fact. With a promise to call soon, Travis ended the conversation and offered Robin a shrug.
She shared his smile. “Problem?”
He faked disappointment with a shake of his head. “Looks like I’ll be here indefinitely.
Chapter 7
Indefinitely?
Robin covered her confused feelings with a bland smile. “Then we shall have to find something productive for you to do,” she said. Something that will get you out of the garden and away from my thoughts.
“I give a hearty second to the lass’s motion,” Mrs. Sudbury said from the doorway. “You like the garden, don’t you, Mr. Gentry? Seems quite a pleasant opportunity for the two of you to work together.”
A range of responses played across Travis’s face, each fleeing as quickly as it appeared. Robin watched in
fascination while the Yank turned his charm on the cook.
“The garden’s fine, Ma’am,” he said in that Rhett Butler drawl of his, “but I think I’d prefer peeling potatoes to planting peas.”
“Now stop your teasing.” Mrs. Sudbury punctuated the statement with a giggle and a light toss of her cleaning cloth. “You’ll do nothing of the sort, will he?” She turned narrowed eyes toward Robin, all sign of giddiness banished.
Robin refused to be intimidated by the meddling cook. “Perhaps Mr. Sudbury’s got something for him. After all, Mr. Gentry is a security specialist.”
This drew a chuckle from the Texan. She glanced his way, and the man had the audacity to wink.
“And Mr. Gentry would sure appreciate it if you’d call him Travis,” he said. “I believe we know one another well enough by now, don’t you?”
Ignoring the reminder, Robin forced her attention back to Mrs. Sudbury. Any hope of help from her vanished at the sight of her smile.
“Pish-posh, Girl,” she said. “My Nigel’s a dear, but he’s not got enough t’do on his own. I’ll not be surprised if he doesn’t announce his retirement soon. You know he’ll be eighty in a few weeks.” She shook her cloth as if to wave away the subject. “Now scoot, the both of you or it’ll be time to serve lunch before the breakfast dishes are washed.”
Travis tossed the napkin next to his empty plate. Only a sprig of parsley and the slightest smudge of mustard mixed with paprika showed the man had dined there.
Robin mentally counted the calories and cholesterol and decided the Texan was a walking time bomb if he ate this way all the time. “Perhaps you could take a stroll while I busy myself with the work I’ve been neglecting,” she suggested.
Mrs. Sudbury shot her a warning look. Why the woman had taken to the Yank was a discussion best left for another day. How quickly Robin could make her escape—alone—was the immediate issue.
“A run is probably what I ought to consider after such an excellent meal. I’ve been just about everywhere, even had breakfast at Kensington Palace once, and I’ve never tasted anything so good.” Her companion pushed away from the table and patted his still very flat stomach. “Mrs. Sudbury, do you suppose you could show me how you make those Scotch eggs?”
Once again, the normally staid and solid cook giggled as she began to describe her special process of rolling the stuffed boiled eggs in a certain sausage available only at the market in Tetbury. All the while, Travis hung on her every word, giving the impression that the cook’s egg recipe was akin to the secrets of the mummies’ tombs. Robin resisted the juvenile urge to roll her eyes in favor of the more mature reaction, none at all.
A quick glance at the clock over the mantel showed her how very late the hour had grown. “If you’ll both excuse me,” she whispered, hoping to make a quick exit.
“Miss Robin, Miss Robin,” Annabelle shouted from just outside the large open window.
Robin leaned against the sill to stare down at the flustered girl. “I’m sure no business is so important that it must be conducted through the window. Please have a seat on the bench, and I’ll see to you shortly.”
Turning to face the other two occupants of the room, she smoothed a strand of hair off her face and offered a weak smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just be off.”
She brushed past the cook and headed down the hall toward the exit, partly upset at Annabelle’s behavior and partly thankful that she’d been given a reason to leave. By the time she reached Annabelle, she’d all but forgiven the girl for her brash behavior.
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br /> “Now,” she said as she ignored the two faces at the window and sat beside the girl, “what’s the matter?”
Annabelle turned a flushed face toward her and pointed toward the east. “Come quick, there’s a dead fellow in the maze.”
Before she could respond, Travis Gentry leaped from the window like one of those chaps in the cinema. “Get in the house, ladies,” he shouted in midair. “I’ll take it from here.”
Robin watched her breakfast companion change from personable to predatory before his boots hit the ground. Beside her, Annabelle began to whimper.
The girl hid her face and dissolved into full-fledged tears. “If only I’d not fancied him.”
* * *
If only.
Travis heard the words but refused to think of what they meant. The old habits kicked in hard, and in the time it took him to reach the maze, emotions were forced out by instinct.
He’d been lost in the green monster before, so he took a second to get his bearings. With the sun at his back, he crept slowly into the leafy jungle, taking note of where he stood and where the shadows lay.
A sound just around the bend stopped him in his tracks. Too soft to be words and too distinct to be anything but a man in pain, Travis balled his fingers into fists and readied himself to strike. Either the guy wasn’t dead or there had been more than one of them. In either case, he had no plans to walk into a trap.
As he scanned the perimeter, he took note of two sets of footprints in the hard-packed dirt. Again, the sound drifted past him. Travis cast a glance over his shoulder to be sure he hadn’t been followed. The redhead hardly seemed like the type to take orders.
Moving soundlessly to the edge of the opening, he said a brief prayer for safety and discernment. A moment later, he stormed around the corner to face the source of the sound.
To his surprise, a gangly fellow barely on the far side of puberty lay crumpled in a ball on the ground. Blood trickled from his nose and a small garden trowel lay beside him. His fair hair was laced with green leaves and dirt, and his disheveled clothing looked worse. The patch on his white shirt pocket gave him away as a member of the staff. Beneath the manor’s coat of arms, the name Nick was embroidered in scarlet script.
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