In the Shadow of Croft Towers

by Abigail Wilson

  I squinted to get a better look, wondering if the rough-looking man could be another one of the highwaymen. I bit my lip and wiggled my fingers. Why couldn’t I remember what the others had looked like?

  Mr. Sinclair laughed then popped the man on the arm. “Let us hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  The man nodded. “Don’t you worry. That unfortunate incident is all taken care of. We’ll give Captain Rossiter a merry chase. He’ll not interfere. I promise you that.”

  “You’ve been a good friend. Fait attention à toi!”

  I attempted a deep breath, but my chest felt tight. Mr. Sinclair not only knew French but spoke without a trace of an accent. The web of lies he’d spun for my amusement continued to grow.

  That unfortunate incident? Why I thought of Thompkins at that moment, I don’t know. But I could see her stern face as if she stood in the forest watching them with me.

  Could Mr. Sinclair have had something to do with her disappearance? No. No. He’d been as surprised as I that day at the inn. Hadn’t he?

  I touched my forehead. Regardless, I had foolishly agreed to be his partner in crime. Without thinking, I took a careless step back and—snap!—a twig broke beneath my boot.

  Both heads turned my direction. “What the devil?”

  Mr. Sinclair motioned with his chin for the whiskered man to head the other way, and the man took off at a run. For a breathless second I thought I’d been spared from discovery, but Mr. Sinclair flew across the path, his eyes bearing down on me.

  I took another wild step, hoping he hadn’t actually recognized me and that somehow I could disappear into the trees, but I was wrong—dead wrong. My foot slipped on a wet rock and I fell in that wretched way that shifts like a dream. My misstep, however, was all too real. The icy cold brook slapped against my backside with a vengeance, fighting my stays to steal what was left of my breath, but I managed a ridiculous scream.

  Shocked, I tried to stand, but fell back as the frigid water soaked its way through every last layer of clothing. My skin stung as I soon realized I’d scraped my arm and my back. Though I attempted to move, my legs only kicked at the gravel. My hands shook as I felt for a rock to help me.

  “A bit cold to be swimming, don’t you think, Miss Delafield?” Mr. Sinclair laughed then slipped his arm around my back and lifted me from the icy clutches of the brook.

  “I-I—” I couldn’t speak as the blustery wind wrapped my body in a new wave of wintry cold.

  Mr. Sinclair’s voice grew serious as he met my eyes. “Please tell me you have a horse.”

  I shook my head, my teeth chattering.

  Setting me on my feet, he ripped off his jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders, buttoning it just below my chin. “I’m afraid we’re in for it then. You’ll be chilled through by the time I can get you back to the Towers.” He glanced first to his left and then his right. “We haven’t much time. You must rid yourself of these clothes and get in front of a fire as soon as possible.”

  Every muscle in my body shook, and he drew me against him, wrapping his arms around my back. Lowering his voice, he spoke at my ear. “Do you trust me, Miss Delafield?”

  What a question. Not one I wanted to answer, of course. But I had little choice. I lied. “Y-yes.” It would be the perfect opportunity for another disappearance—mine.

  “Then I have a plan. Not a great one, but a plan nonetheless. There is a gamekeeper’s cottage not far from here. I’ve used it from time to time. It stands empty as Mr. Davenport was turned off last year. It has firewood, however, and supplies to make some tea.” He pressed his lips together. “I’m afraid we have no choice but to make use of it.”

  I nodded, taking a few wobbly steps in the direction he’d indicated, but all my joints complained and my muscles rebelled. I’d only made it a few steps before I caught my toe on a tree root and pitched forward, slamming into the icy ground, bruising my already sore knees. Before I could regain my footing, Mr. Sinclair swung me into his arms as if I weighed nothing, my drenched frock probably dripping down his legs. “I believe you could stand for some assistance, Miss Delafield.”

  I didn’t answer. Wet, cold, embarrassed, I closed my eyes and turned my head into his chest away from that knowing look. Yet there, all I could do was listen to the beat of his heart through his thin shirt.

  Though I wasn’t near as cold cradled in his arms, I couldn’t stop shivering as he rushed down the uneven path. I told myself to stop being hysterical, but after what I’d overheard in the woods, the last thing I wanted to do was go to a cottage with Mr. Sinclair—alone.

  12

  Your clothes will have to come off.”

  My gaze flashed up to Mr. Sinclair’s shadowy figure as he ducked back into the front room and casually leaned against the cottage’s corner beam, as if he’d suggested nothing out of the common way. I wondered if he’d even tried to hide that smile of his.

  Of course not. And why should he? Regardless of what I overheard in the woods, I’d been the one to look the fool. Trembling down to my very core, I allowed him his moment of triumph, fighting instead to regain some semblance of control.

  He thrust a folded blanket into my hands, motioning me to the open doorway at the side of the room. “You can change in there while I light the fire. I found some clothes I left here on my last visit and laid them out on the bed for you.” He paused, waiting for me to do as he’d instructed.

  The bed. His clothes. What folly had I gotten myself into? My eyes grew wide as I glanced through the doorway and back, unable to move one wretched step toward it with propriety screaming in my ears.

  He took a deep breath. “You can wipe that look off your face. I have no intention of ravishing you. Not today or any day.”

  “No.” I forced myself to take a breath. “I didn’t think you would.”

  He gave me a wry smile. “Don’t look so disappointed.” He touched my wet shoulder. “You promised to trust me, remember? There is no other reasonable way to get you warm and fast. I, for one, have no intention of risking your health for some misguided sense of decorum. No one will know we were here.” He motioned toward the silent room. “Who’s to tell them? The rats? Now, get on with it. You’ve wasted enough precious time already. I’ll not be responsible for the illness that incites your death.”

  He was right, of course. How could anyone possibly learn we’d been the inhabitants of the old gamekeeper’s cottage for the afternoon? Two partners in crime—whether I wished such a thing or not. I met his penitent glare with one of my own as yet another freezing shiver wound its way down my spine. There was no choice but to get the wretched business over with.

  I stumbled past him into the adjoining room, the worn floorboards creaking beneath my dripping feet, and closed the door behind me. The room seemed to tilt as I removed my bonnet, and I grasped the edge of a nearby wardrobe. An unexpected wave of nausea hit my stomach. I fought the pain to strip the icy pelisse from my shaking body, then fumbled with the frock. My muddled progress was reflected in the looking glass as my numb fingers tugged at the wet stockings.

  I felt as if I watched a stranger, my skin was so pale, splotched with blue and purple. If I’d waited much longer, I’d have had to ask Mr. Sinclair for help. Thankfully, I was saved that embarrassment at least.

  Sluggishly, I pulled on the large pair of pants and thin white shirt, then drew the wool blanket tightly around my shoulders, glad it was long enough to wrap my body. I glanced down and winced. Poking from beneath the long pant legs were my two bare feet.

  All at once I imagined running from the cottage as far as I could get, escaping what could only be my ultimate humiliation. How could I bear his knowing look? But it was no use. The minute I decided to spy on a private conversation in the woods, I’d placed my safety and my integrity in the hands of a highwayman—a gentlemanly one, mind you, but a highwayman nonetheless.

  I rested my hand on the door latch before finally releasing it. The popping sound of a rich fire met my ear
s, and I hurried into the front room, surprised to find Mr. Sinclair absent.

  “Mr. Sinclair?” I whispered as I crossed the rug, taking note of the parts of the cottage I’d not noticed before. Cobwebs and mouse pellets crowded the corners and water stains painted the ceiling. A pervasive stale scent added its own delightful color to the room.

  He had pulled a worn sofa near the edge of the fender, and I eased down onto it, dust settling around me. After a sneeze, I took a breath, forcing my shoulders to relax. My partner had thought of everything. He might very well turn out to be a traitor to England, but as my toes stretched near the warmth of the flames and the scent of his pomade drifted up from the collar of his shirt, I found I’d no choice but to trust him. At least for now.

  The door slammed behind me and Mr. Sinclair appeared with an armful of firewood. He dropped the logs beside the sofa. “Warmer, I hope?”

  I snuggled into the blanket. “Quite. Thank you.” I tried to reconcile the words I’d heard in the woods with the man who stood before me in his dirt-stained waistcoat and rumpled hair. But I found it nigh impossible. Curtis Sinclair was far too well rehearsed in whatever role he chose to play.

  He gave me a heavy nod. “You had me a bit alarmed back there.” He threw another log on the fire, his voice husky from the cold. “I won’t ask what you were doing hiding behind that tree. Quite frankly, it’s none of my concern. And I’ll say no more of it, if you promise me this will be your last foray into winter swimming. I hear it’s brutal on your health.”

  I smiled and pointed to the ball of wet clothes. “Your jacket, sir, and my . . . well, all my clothes.”

  “At your service, madam.” He bowed like a servant then gathered the pile into his arms. “Tea shall be ready in a moment.”

  “Tea as well. Goodness, you are quite thorough in your nursing duties.”

  A smile parted his lips. “Let’s just say I’ve had cause to use this little cottage from time to time. It is not wholly bare.”

  I widened my eyes but did not respond. After the adventures of the day, I was too tired to pursue such a thought.

  He laid out his jacket then every delicate piece of my clothing. I tried not to cringe as he stretched each one of my stockings across the fender’s edge. Satisfied they would dry, he dragged a wooden chair near the sofa and took a seat, resting his elbows on his knees. He flicked open the top button on his collar and slid his cravat from his neck, carelessly tossing it on a side table.

  Startled, I raised my eyebrows. It seemed my partner meant to be easy as well. And why not? Whatever ceremony was left between us, I’d put it to bed when I fell in the brook. Goodness, I was wearing the man’s clothes.

  I tried not to stare as he leaned back in his chair, swinging his boot across his opposing knee. Such missish airs would not be welcome, so I bit my lip and glanced away; however, I couldn’t very well ignore my rescuer completely.

  So . . . I took a quick peek.

  Mr. Sinclair had placed his arm behind his head, giving me the impression of ease, but I didn’t think him wholly unaffected. He’d learned something today in the woods from the whiskered man. And he didn’t like it.

  His arm sank down to his side as he turned to face me. I caught a hint of his broad chest inside the open collar. All too easily I remembered being held in those arms as he conducted me through the woods.

  Surely it was mere curiosity that urged me to look where a gently bred female should not. It wasn’t as if I was attracted to Mr. Sinclair—the rogue, the traitor with his miserable, dreary expressions. I tried to imagine spending the afternoon in the cottage with the far more handsome Mr. Cantrell, but the thought fluttered away as quickly as it had come.

  Though it was daytime outside the windows, clouds had moved in, shrouding the sun. It was strange how the gray haze made the flames brighter and Mr. Sinclair’s dark hair and blue eyes that much more alive. He didn’t look particularly evil. I wondered what he could be thinking, brooding as he was in his chair. I’d thought endless hours about him as a robber but no time of him as a man. Had he a lady that he loved? The thought caused my heart to tick a bit faster.

  “Mr. Sinclair?”

  He turned to meet my gaze. “Hmm?”

  “How long do you think it will take the clothes to dry?”

  He raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m not certain, but a long while. They will be missing us at the house before too long. I could account for my absence, but you?”

  A slight chill swept my frame. I leaned closer to the fire’s warmth.

  “Your hair is still wet. It cannot be comfortable as it is.”

  I shook my head, and the sopping lump sprinkled a few drops of water across my neck. “No, and I have little hope of it drying as it is. I’m not sure how I shall explain it.”

  “Why don’t you let it down? It’s absurd not to be comfortable now.”

  I reached up, but the blanket shifted and I gripped it fast. The white shirt was far too thin for my liking. “As you can see, I can hardly do so in my present state.”

  “Then by all means, allow your nurse to do it.” He crossed over onto the sofa, a light smile reviving his face.

  Suddenly he was close, too close. His presence was immense beside me. “My hair is fine.” My words sounded hollow. We both knew it wasn’t.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll feel a great deal better without it pulling at you so.” The sofa creaked as he leaned forward, the candle glinting with the rush of air. I blew out a long breath, but I couldn’t help but grin. Gently, he slipped the first pin from my limp coiffeur, and my skin fluttered beneath his touch. So this is what it feels like—the rush of the unknown.

  A few more pins and the tangle that had once been my chignon fell, allowing the bulk of hair down onto my shoulders. My hold on the blanket slackened and it tumbled to the sofa. I didn’t move to retrieve it, for he was already running his fingers through my hair, fishing for more pins, the damp ends feathering against my neck.

  Warmth flashed, then tingling cold. I opened my mouth to speak, but I could think of nothing to say. His finger grazed my shirt’s edge. My eyes slipped closed, my heart whispering with each wild beat, Turn around. Turn around. But I was bound to the sofa by invisible cords.

  His fingers stilled. Silence settled into the room like new-fallen snow, beautiful yet cold. I ran my hand down the blanket with unsteady fingers. “Thank you.”

  His hand lingered on my arm for the merest second before he slid back over to his chair. “Not at all.” The veiled look he wore so well returned to his face, making me wonder if I had imagined the last few intimate moments.

  I glanced down. “Mr. Sinclair?” All at once I needed to shift the conversation, anything to stop the drumming in my chest. “Did you ever receive that letter you were waiting for from Lord Stanton?”

  His eyes clouded. “No.” And he turned his attention back to the fire. “I’m at a loss as to what I should do. It weighs heavily on my mind, I assure you.” He picked a wood chip from his breeches, tossing it into the fire. “What about you? Have you thought any more about your future?”

  I pinned one of my arms against my stomach and wrapped the blanket around me once more, then sighed. I wanted to lie. I wanted to say I had all kinds of plans for where to go when Mrs. Chalcroft died. I certainly didn’t want Mr. Sinclair’s pity, but I found the words strangely empty. When I left Winterridge I had never planned to return.

  I shook my head, the warmth of his hands still fresh on my neck. If no one knew me this side of Reedwick, I supposed my wretched partner should.

  I met his eyes. “I have no idea what is to become of me.”

  He lowered his gaze, and I wondered if he had been listening at all. But when he glanced back up, there was a seriousness about his look. “You have much to recommend you.”

  I drew my legs into the blanket, tucking in my feet. I hadn’t been begging for a compliment.

  “But I do not think you realize it.”

  I l
et out a quick huff. “Considering the circumstances of my birth, I do what I can.”

  He held still as if in expectation. “And yet . . .”

  My stomach tightened. “What?”

  “Passion, intellect, courage. All admirable traits, and wasted in your current position, unless . . .”

  I waited for him to finish his sentence, but he chose to stand and stoke the fire. I tucked a wet curl behind my ear and squeezed my eyes shut. Allowing Mr. Sinclair to touch my hair did not give him the right to pry into my personal affairs.

  Resting the poker on the fender, he turned. “I apologize if I spoke out of turn.”

  “No.” I straightened my shoulders. “You’ve set me thinking is all, which I believe was your intention from the start.” I tilted my chin. “Perhaps, since you possess such a clarity of mind, you could tell me what you plan to do about your own future.”

  “Touché. And a difficult question to answer.”

  I was glad the teasing quality had returned to his voice. I offered a smile. “All right. Then what would you have liked to do—if you weren’t Lord Stanton’s heir?”

  He sat in thoughtful silence for a moment, then lifted his gaze. “Run a horse and stud farm.”

  “A stud farm? Raise hunters, you mean, or something else?”

  He rubbed his chin, a spark coming into his eyes. “I don’t believe I’ve ever shared this idea with anyone before.”

  “Well, I’ve never shown a gentleman my bare feet, so I believe we are even.”

  He laughed. “And we’re partners, don’t forget.” He crossed one leg over the other then uncrossed them, finally hopping to his feet. “You see, I have this idea . . . for His Majesty’s cavalry. How to breed and train the horses, selecting for certain characteristics.” Something distracted him and he glanced above my head. “Ah, your tea is ready.” He crossed the room.

  I called out over the back of the sofa, “Sounds like an interesting idea. The horses, I mean. Why won’t Lord Stanton fund such a project now?”