“Making your hair turn white doesn’t go any way toward detracting attention from your inherent beauty,” Simon scoffed, eyeing the now white strands in dismay. “Your skin is still smooth as is usual for someone of your age, and your youth and vitality positively shine through. Nobody is fooled, you should know that.”
“Oh?” Francesca’s voice turned prim, warning him that he had overstepped some imaginary boundary only she was aware of. “You were fooled yesterday,” she pointed out, giving him a snooty look.
“No, I wasn’t,” Simon chided, fighting a smile at her look of askance. “I was willing to go along with your subterfuge, thinking you had good reason to feel the need to try to disguise yourself, but really, nobody is fooled. Not even Charlie and Tom and they are as thick as two short bricks.”
Francesca wrinkled her nose up, realising that he had a good point. Although neither thug had pointed out her beauty, she had not really considered why they had thought it necessary to attack her on the path, unless they thought she was Madeline. That thought brought forth a frown of dismay.
“What is it?” Simon whispered, watching consternation sweep over her face. “Don’t lie,” he warned, placing a gentle finger beneath her chin to tip her head up until she was looking at him. “I know you were going to,” he warned.
“Ho –” Francesca stopped and glared at him when he began to shake his head.
Simon leaned until his lips were inches from her ear. Francesca could hear her own heart thumping heavily in her ears but refused to cower away from him. Francesca’s stomach dipped nervously. She could feel the warmth of his breath sweep over her cool cheek, causing her to shiver in anticipation.
“I know you,” he whispered gently. “Almost as well as you know yourself.”
Francesca shook her head nervously and wrenched her head to one side, not only to break his gentle hold but to create some distance between them.
“You don’t know anything about me at all, you should know that,” she snapped. “Now, do you want me to show you my uncle’s library or not?” She didn’t stop to check he was following her, merely turned toward the doors and drew a key out of her pocket.
“Why do you keep it locked?” Simon asked, watching as she turned the key and pushed the door open.
“Habit, I suppose,” Francesca replied, wincing at the loud squeaking the broke the quiet of the corridor.
The smell hit him first. Despite several months having passed since the fire, the strong smell of smoke still hung in the air. It probably had something to do with the timbers that lay half burned on the floor.
“Who put the fire out?”
“Most of the staff,” Francesca whispered, her voice choked with emotion as she studied the dark rectangle on the floor where her uncle’s large oak desk had once stood.
“It used to be a room filled from floor to ceiling with some very old books. I understand the fire took hold very quickly. The staff and men from the village worked for hours to try to get it under control but not before -” Her voice choked and she turned away. She was about to walk toward the window when Simon’s arm around her waist stopped her.
“Wait!” Simon growled, drawing her against him for a few moments. It was the best he could do without drawing her into a hug, which he wasn’t sure she would accept. He didn’t want to offend her sensibilities, but knew she was deeply upset at being in the middle of such a macabre scene and he felt the unfamiliar need to comfort her.
Tugging her against his solid length, he studied the ground between where they stood at the window, feeling the first tendrils of satisfaction sweep through him.
“What?” Francesca whispered, staring out of the window before twisting around to stare up at Simon. “What is it?”
“When was the last time you think someone was in here?” he asked carefully. He didn’t want to frighten her, but needed any information she could give him.
“Nobody has been in here since I arrived a few months ago. Before then? I am not sure,” Francesca sighed, frowning up at him. “Why?”
Simon pointed a finger at the tell-tale footprints in the soot directly beneath the window. “Because someone has been in here recently.”
It was more of a wrench than he dared to admit when he released his hold on her waist, and slowly moved toward the footprints. Studying the window-frame, he pointed out the large area where soot had been dislodged by an unknown intruder. On either side of the window cill, weeds grew with tangled determination along the stonework. It was clear from the broken and crumpled foliage, that someone had been through the window in the past few days.
When Francesca drew alongside him, he pointed out the broken branches, and finger prints further along the wall. Together they traced the footprints to the dark rectangle where her uncle’s desk once stood, then over to the far wall where the shelving had once displayed the very old books Francesca had mentioned. It was the amount of footprints next to the window at the far wall that drew their attention.
“Do you think they were waiting here for something?” Francesca gasped, peering out of the window directly into the stable yard.
“Or someone,” Simon murmured, looking over the top of her head to the stable doors. He sighed deeply at the uninterrupted view at the rear of the house. Turning toward the side windows, he eyed the small spinney that sat only a few hundred yards away.
“Who sleeps on this side of the house?”
“Nobody,” Francesca replied sadly as she stared up at the charred beams of the ceiling. “This side of the building is considered unfit for habitation at the moment. My uncle’s room was directly above us.”
Simon spun around to stare at her. “Do you still have his belongings?”
Francesca nodded cautiously, knowing before he spoke what he was going to say.
“Take me there?”
Francesca hesitated. “What do you think about this?” She nodded toward the smudged soot.
“I think we may have found the hiding place of the person who hung the dead bird yesterday,” Simon sighed, shaking his head at her. “There is a perfect view of the back of the house and this is a good place for someone to hide, and wait to pick their moment.”
“But who?”
“I don’t know yet and,” he turned to scowl darkly at her, “I don’t want you going off on your own to find out for yourself, do you understand?”
Francesca’s brows rose and she immediately baulked at being issued such a stern command. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him exactly what he could do with his orders, when he took the wind out of her sails.
“I don’t want this person getting access to you. They are clearly disturbed, or dangerous, and I don’t want you leaving yourself open to unnecessary attack. Please, please, please, don’t take any risks, darling.”
It was the last word that shook her. He had issued it so naturally, clearly without thought, that she couldn’t find it within her to object to such an intimate endearment. Within moments she found herself swept back through the abandoned wing, only to slam to an abrupt halt at Simon’s soft curse.
CHAPTER SIX
“What is it?” she gasped when Simon’s long fingers closed around her wrist in silent warning.
“The door,” Simon growled, nodding toward the now open door leading to the entrance hall. “I closed it.”
Francesca gasped and felt a cold shiver snake down her spine. Instinctively she sidled closer to the masculine strength beside her, and made no protest when his arm slipped supportively around her waist.
Glancing around the room, he motioned toward the door.
“Please don’t say anything about what we have uncovered,” he whispered directly into her ear, while very much aware of the effect she was having upon his concentration.
“I won’t, but why the secrecy?” Francesca frowned, refusing to believe that Madeline or Bertie could be responsible. Madeline’s determination to take Simon on a tour swept through her mind and she glanced at him cautiously.
Francesca still wasn’t convinced but nodded anyway. The memory of her return home yesterday swept through her, and she wondered if the thugs had thought she was Madeline, who also had grey hair. Had she been attacked through a case of mistaken identity? It was true that Charlie and Tom weren’t the brightest buttons in the sewing kit, and it wasn’t so implausible for them to mistake Francesca for her companion that it could be dismissed. She eyed Simon warily, wondering if he had a point, but kept her thoughts to herself.
Simon’s fingers tingled where they rested on the gentle curve of her waist, and he willed his wayward body to cool. The gentle scent of lavender wafted upward, teasing his nostrils with feminine temptation, and he fought the urge to shuffle closer. He had to give himself a stern lecture to keep his mind on the business he was sent here to get on with, while they left the house through the heavy front door.
From what he had seen of the remainder of the house that was unaffected by the fire, it had been constructed to a very high standard using the finest materials. Apart from lack of maintenance, it shouldn’t take too much to refurbish. It was the wing that was fire-damaged that would cost a considerable amount of money, but at least it could be kept separate to the rest of the building, causing the least amount of disruption to anyone in residence while renovations were ongoing.
But you aren’t going to be here to oversee it, Simon reminded himself sternly. He couldn’t ignore his orders, and the pressing need to start to investigate the potential forgery for spy smugglers in Much Hampton. As soon as his work in Much Hampton was concluded, he would leave. Move on to his next mission, fighting to protect England’s borders from French invaders. That thought brought forth a strange sense of discomfort that made him want to tug his collar.
Quickly shoving the errant thoughts to one side, Simon escorted her away from the house. The silence that settled between them as they walked was almost companionable.
“I’m sorry, Francesca, I didn’t think to ask if it would be acceptable to you to take a short walk.” Simon slowed his pace, and glanced at her. The cool breeze brought forth a rosy glow to her usually pale cheeks which, combined with her beautiful amber eyes and full lips, made her simply breath-taking. Even with white striped hair.
“It’s alright,” Francesca replied, aware of his careful study. She fought the urge to touch her hair self-consciously. For some reason, she was reluctant to let him know just how much he unnerved her. Although aware he hadn’t asked, she had followed him blindly; without question, and she couldn’t fathom why.
“I wanted to get you away from the house for a few minutes, so we can talk undisturbed.”
“You mean, where nobody can overhear us,” Francesca corrected, giving him a stern look.
“I know you have secrets of your own, Francesca,” Simon began, struggling to find the words he needed to say that would both soothe her and garner her trust. He was a man of action and was used to subterfuge and sometimes sheer brutality to get what he wanted. It was rare for him to need to verbally persuade anyone to do anything, and it made him more than a little uncomfortable to be on such unfamiliar ground. Especially with Francesca, who, despite their shockingly short acquaintance, was beginning to mean rather too much to him.
“So do you,” Francesca replied defensively, sensing he was on the verge of something. It took all of her patience to remain quiet and wait for him to speak.
“What do you really know of Madeline?” he began, knowing he was walking on dangerous ground.
“I have known her since I was a child. She was my nursemaid for several years,” Francesca explained, feeling a surge of protectiveness to the woman who had been nothing but kind and understanding, and almost motherly toward her. “Although she hasn’t worked for my family for a long time, we have still kept in touch. When she found out I was coming here, she offered to join me as my companion.” Francesca paused at that. In reality, Madeline had been almost forceful in her insistence to accompany Francesca to Thistledown. At the time she had been all too pleased to have a companion, but now she had to stop and question the reasons behind her friend’s determination.
“But what about the years when you didn’t see her? What did she do?”
Francesca paused, her mind going blank. In reality, she didn’t really know much about what Madeline did do while she was away, and couldn’t remember it ever being mentioned in their correspondence.
Simon read the blank look for what it was and knew he had struck a chord.
“She wasn’t involved in my uncle’s death,” Francesca gasped, horrified that he should consider such a thing. The letter she had sent to Madeline informing her of her change of address had gone to the usual address in London; nowhere near Bodmin.
“I am not saying she was,” Simon sighed, digging deep for the platitudes he could use to ease his way. “I am just saying that there are many years where you weren’t in acquaintance with her, when she could have been doing anything. She could have been friends with anyone.”
Francesca frowned, feeling her hackles rise. Strangely she felt somewhat disappointed at his crude attempt to drive a wedge between herself and her best, and only, friend.
“Madeline is the most trustworthy person I know,” she snapped peevishly.
“I am not saying she isn’t, but neither can you utter that statement with utmost honesty because if you are honest with yourself, you cannot be sure of either Bertie or Madeline.” Simon bit back his frustration at the mutinous look that settled over her face and grasped her shoulders in a firm grip, drawing her around to face him when she would have turned away.
“Let me go,” Francesca snapped, her voice trembling with emotion.
“I’m sorry, Francesca, but in this game you cannot trust anyone. Even me,” he shook her shoulders roughly for emphasis, willing her to understand.
“What do you mean ‘in this game’? What ‘game’ are you involved in?” Francesca gasped, staring up at him.
The winds had teased her hair from the soft bun at her nape, dragging the long tendrils into complete disarray where they were relentlessly buffeted by the winds. With her hair flowing out behind her, she looked so achingly wild that he had to fight the urge to draw her against him and kiss her, to tame her wayward spirit and claim it as his.
“Nothing,” Simon sighed, “nothing at all. Just promise me one thing?”
“Why should I promise you anything?”
“Because I have nothing but your best interests at heart,” Simon replied honestly. He didn’t want to look too closely into the softness, the small ray of light that was beginning to blossom deep inside him in the very depths of the familiar darkness and shadows. Determined not to relent until he had the answer he wanted, he shook her once more for emphasis, watching her hair fly out behind her. “Promise me that you will wash that dye out of your hair and resume your normal colour. You may be leaving yourself open to further attack by colouring it white.” He was expecting some objection from Francesca, and was surprised when she made no attempt to argue. He had no idea where the sudden urge to warn her about the hair colour came from, but he couldn’t discount the notion that she may have been attacked for no other reason than she had been mistaken for her companion.
“Do you think Tom and Charlie thought I was Madeline?”
Her accuracy was unerring, leaving him impressed and horrified in equal measure. She was looking at him far too closely for him to be able to get away with lying, and even if he was inclined to fob her off, something deep within him knew he just couldn’t do it.
“I think it may be a possibility. Until we can find out what they wanted with either you or Madeline, you cannot put yourself at risk. If you stay at home, there is really no reason why you should die your hair anyway. The
re is nothing to hide from Madeline, Bertie or me, who all know who you really are.”
He watched a vague look sweep over Francesca’s face and bit back a curse of frustration. He knew she was still keeping secrets from him, and wished she would take him into her confidence. But I only arrived in the village yesterday, he thought. He was lucky she had confided in him as much as she had. Still, he was far too used to being the one who dictated the pace of the events around him. It grated on him to be at the mercy of a beautiful female. Biting back his frustration, he eased his hold on her shoulders, sliding his hands slowly down her slender arms to gently hold her hands. “Don’t take any unnecessary risks, Francesca,” Simon whispered, hating the distance between them, but reluctant to do anything about it at the same time. Releasing his hold on her, he held his elbow out in a most formal manner, clearly waiting for her to slide her hand into it so he could escort her home.
Shaking her head in consternation, Francesca placed her hand tentatively on his proffered arm. Silence settled between them as they returned to the house.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Simon murmured, nodding toward the moors that lay all around them. Orange and brown bracken lay interspersed amongst the vast green carpet of the moors. Aside from the odd bird gliding amongst the winds, there was no other sign of life. They could have been the only people for miles around.
“Harsh but beautiful,” Francesca replied with a sigh. “Don’t be lulled into a false sense of security,” she cautioned, nodding toward a darker patch of green at the base of a hill to the right of them. “Over there is a marsh that will suck you under if you venture over there. One or two of the villagers have met their end in that very spot over the years.” She shuddered and hastily looked away.
“Are there many marshes around here?” Simon asked with a frown. He made a mental note of its precise location. It was going to be difficult enough to spot in the daytime, he couldn’t afford to wander into it in the middle of the night.
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