A Runaway Bride for the Highlander

by Elisabeth Hobbes

‘Avery included a note with Carrie’s letter. Here, read it for yourself.’

  Petra scanned the note written in a firm male hand. The Thrumbys had received an offer for the business from a Bond Street competitor and had agreed to sell. The new owner created her own hat designs, therefore Marguerite’s were no longer needed.

  ‘At least they will continue to employ the ladies in the village to make up the hats,’ Marguerite said, her voice full of resignation. ‘The quality of their work is exceptional.’ She gave Petra a wan smile. ‘All due to you, dearest. You taught them well.’

  ‘Dash it all. That is so unfair. We needed that income.’ She bit her lip at the pained look on Marguerite’s face. ‘Now what will we do? Ask Red for help, I suppose.’

  Marguerite shook her head. ‘No. We will think of something. In the meantime, we will be frugal.’

  They were already careful with every penny. ‘I wish I could help more.’

  Marguerite pursed her lips. ‘We will have to cut back on meat... It is so expensive.’

  ‘Well, Red better not hear about that, or it will be all the excuse he needs to put us back on the marriage mart.’

  Marguerite paled. ‘He is sure to find out eventually. I have to think of some other way to augment our income. Sometimes publishers need illustrators for their books. I will write to them and send some examples of my drawings. Perhaps I can use a nom de plume.’

  Petra nodded. ‘Good idea.’ A recollection of something she’d seen on her way to the village popped into her mind. ‘Why don’t I see if I can pick some blackberries for jam? We have lots of sugar in the pantry.’

  Marguerite gave her a grateful smile. ‘Excellent idea. A good supply of preserves will help us through the winter.’

  It wouldn’t be enough, though. But Petra had an idea about that, too. The countryside was full of free food if one knew where to look. Blackberries were just the start.

  Not too many minutes later, Petra had equipped herself with an old straw hat, a large wicker basket and covered her oldest spring muslin with an apron that had seen better days.

  Outside, a light breeze cooled the warmth of the sun and she strolled along swinging her basket until she arrived at a blackberry bush hanging over the lane. The last time she noticed it, the brambles had been covered in little white flowers. Now the prickly canes were weighed down with gleaming clusters of black fruit.

  Unfortunately, they were on the other side of a ditch and hanging over the top of a dense hedge far too high for her to reach.

  Bother. They hadn’t looked so high when she was travelling in the trap.

  The other side of the bush grew in a field belonging to the Longhurst estate. On that side, the berries were temptingly easy to reach even for a short person such as she. A wooden stile a few feet from where she was standing offered perfect access to the field and the blackberries.

  Besides, who would care? No one had lived at Longhurst since she and her sisters had arrived at Westram more than a year ago. According to the locals, the new Earl was away fighting on the Peninsula and cared not a bean for the estate. In consequence, there was no one to care if she trespassed. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had planted the brambles. They were part of nature’s bounty.

  After a quick glance up and down the road, she hiked up the skirts of her old blue gown and climbed over.

  Wary of fierce thorns bent on ripping her clothes to shreds, she pushed into the bush using her basket as a shield. Soon it was full of shiny blackberries and becoming quite heavy. A trickle of sweat ran into her eye and she wiped it away on the corner of her apron.

  She picked a berry and popped it into her mouth. Mmm...delicious. And exactly right for jam. She tasted another just to be sure.

  The jingle of a bridle and the sound of a horse’s heavy breathing had her whipping around.

  A tall fair-haired man with an amused expression on his handsome face gazed down at her from the back of a huge brown horse. He leaned forward and let his glance travel down her length. It lingered at her feet.

  She glanced down. Heat rushed to her face at the sight of her stockings bared to her garter at the knee because her skirts had tangled with the thorns when she turned. She pulled them free.

  When she looked up again, his light blue eyes were twinkling and he wore a charmingly boyish smile. The sort of smile a man knew would cause the nearest female to forgive him.

  Her stomach fluttered wildly. She tried to ignore it. Harry had worn the same sort of smile when he sought her forgiveness each time that he had strayed. As an unmarried girl, she had adored that smile. As a wife, she had come to dread it. She’d learned it meant he’d made yet another conquest and was trying to jolly her along as if it meant nothing.

  No, a gentleman’s smiles and promises, no matter how charming or sincere they seemed, were definitely not to be trusted. She schooled her expression into cool politeness and dipped a curtsy. ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

  ‘Good day to you, wench.’ His voice was deep and rich and smooth. ‘May I ask what you are about?’

  Wench? Pinpricks shot across her shoulders. ‘What does it look like I am doing? I am picking blackberries.’ Dash it. She should not have responded so sharply.

  ‘My blackberries,’ he said with another smile.

  Oh. She winced. ‘Then you must be Lord Longhurst.’

  ‘Indeed.’ He inclined his head slightly.

  It seemed the wanderer had at last returned. ‘Well, sir, this fruit may grow on your property, but since they grew without the aid of any man or woman, it might be argued that they have no particular owner.’

  He frowned. ‘Are you one of my tenants?’

  He thought she was a farm labourer’s wife. Dash it all—was she supposed to wear her best gown to go blackberry picking? For a moment she was tempted to play along, but she did not know this man or his character. At first glance, he looked handsome and charming, but she knew better than to judge anyone by appearances. Or at least, she did now. Besides, it would be embarrassing when he later caught her out in her lie. ‘No, sir, I am not a tenant of yours. I am Lady Petra Davenport. I reside at Westram Cottage. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Longhurst.’ She bobbed a small curtsy. As a formal introduction, it would have to do.

  He removed his hat and gave her another winsome smile. ‘So, we are neighbours. Please purloin as many blackberries as you desire.’

  Had she not already explained they were not exactly his to offer? She smiled back sweetly. ‘As you can see, I have already helped myself to as many as I need.’ She frowned. ‘Besides, rather than galloping around the countryside and fussing about a few dozen blackberries, I should think you would rather spend your time setting your estate in order.’ She gestured to the acres of hay spread out before her.

  The amusement in his face faded. Oh, dear. Why had she let her tongue run away with her when she knew she was in the wrong? If she had known he had finally taken up residence, she really would never have climbed his fence. She opened her mouth to apologise, but he forestalled her with a pleasant smile and a bow.

  ‘As you say, ma’am. I do indeed have a great deal of work requiring my attention. I wish you good day.’

  He signalled to his horse to move on and the animal obediently took a short run at the stile. Rider and beast cleared the obstruction in magnificent form. The sound of hoof beats faded into the distance.

  A bruising rider herself, she could not help but admire his skill. And he looked so good on a horse. Dashing. Oh, no. She was not going to think of him that way. She shook herself free of such musings. He was simply a new neighbour with whom she had made an acquaintance.

  She stomped out of the bushes and heard the sound of tearing. Blast, she’d caught her apron and now she would have to mend it. Well, it would be something to do when she had finished making the jam.

  Hopefully she would be busy enoug
h that it would take her mind off his face and that lovely smile. Smiles like that caused nothing but trouble and heartache, yet it seemed that she had still not learned her lesson.

  Good Lord, he might even be married. A man didn’t stop being charming to ladies, just because he was wed. If anyone knew that, she should.

  * * *

  He’d called her a wench! Mortified heat scalded the back of Ethan’s neck. How was he supposed to recognise her as a lady? Not a ribbon or a ruffle to be seen. Tangled up in a blackberry bush, her legs displayed for all to see and with deep red juice staining her full lips, she’d looked like a roundheeled lass ready for a spree.

  He was lucky he hadn’t given in to the urge to kiss those luscious, ripe lips. Not something he was in the habit of doing or even thinking as a general rule, but in her case, for some reason he could not quite understand, he had been very tempted indeed. Fortunately, the lady’s tart remarks had reminded him that no matter how attractively dishevelled a woman might be, he was an officer, a gentleman and an earl with duties and responsibilities to King, country and his family name.

  But there really had been something deliciously pretty and alluring about her... He winced. He had thoroughly deserved the sharp edge of her tongue when she caught him ogling the slender legs bared to his gaze. Right now, he did not need the added complication of any sort of lass, common or noble, in his life.

  Honestly, though, what sort of lady went about the countryside without even a maid?

  Dash it, kissing her wouldn’t have crossed his mind under normal circumstances. His army duties had kept him too busy to worry about the ladies, except for the occasional foray when he was on leave, until Sarah had begun to pay him particular attention. Her own husband had been killed, but she had remained on the Peninsula as companion to her sister, the wife of one of his fellow officers. Sarah had stirred up feelings he thought he’d long buried in response to a childhood fraught with drama. A sense that perhaps he did warrant affection from someone. His parents hadn’t thought so. They had been far too involved in themselves to pay attention to their only child.

  When Sarah had entered his life almost a year ago, she’d been attentive and, well...loving, if he even understood the meaning of the word. There was no denying he’d been smitten. He should have known better than to believe a woman could actually care for him in the way he had thought Sarah did.

  Fortunately for him, a brother officer had heard her talking to her sister about how life as the wife of an earl would suit her very well. How she liked the sound of being called Lady Longhurst and would enjoy the privileges a title brought, even if it did require marriage to him. His friend had teased him about how popular he was among the ladies now he was an earl.

  Ethan had come to his senses with a jolt and only just in time, because if their relationship had gone much further, he would have been honour-bound to take Sarah to the altar. A lucky escape indeed.

  Bitterness rose in his throat like gall. How had he not seen through Sarah’s smiles to the truth beneath? It was the first time any woman had trapped him with her wiles and it would also be the last. But apparently, those few weeks of so-called affection had left him feeling that something serious was lacking in his life and made him vulnerable to the first pretty lady he came across now he was back in England.

  Damn it! Didn’t he have enough to keep him occupied, adjusting to his new position in life without the sort of distraction a pair of blackberry-stained lips brought? He hadn’t even known he was the heir to the Earldom until he received a letter from a lawyer hired by some busybody third cousin twice removed who had searched down every line of the family tree, going back as far as his great-great-grandfather to search him out.

  Apparently, it had taken some digging to discover that his great-grandfather, the fifth son of the Earl, had been bribed to take his wife’s name in order to inherit the wealth of an old Cornish mining family. With only daughters to their name, the Trethewys had thought they were getting a nobleman, but instead Great-Grandfather Trethewy had been a ne’er-do-well gambler who had lost most of the family fortune the moment he got his hands on it. As a result, both families had cut the connection. Certainly, if Ethan’s father had known he was related to an earl, he would have used it to his advantage in some way.

  Even after Ethan learned of the title, he had put off returning to England for as long as possible. The army was his life. All he had known since he was a youth. He hadn’t mentioned the inheritance to anyone, but somehow the news must have reached Sarah’s ears and she had decided to set her cap at him, and make him think she genuinely cared for him. Not once had she mentioned knowing about the title.

  He’d been cut to the quick when he realised that was all she’d really cared about.

  Not long after he uncovered her deceit, the same busybody third cousin, Lady Frances, had written to Wellington, asking why the General was keeping the last Longhurst Earl captive on the battlefield when he ought to be taking up his duties at home.

  Wellington, damn his eyes, had insisted Ethan return to England and take up the reins of his estate. The moment Ethan had put things in order here, he intended to get back to what really mattered. War with the French.

  As he galloped up the drive of Longhurst Park, a grand old house with a winding drive lined with trees, his mood darkened further. The previous Earl had left the estate in a wretched mess, as evidenced by a pile of unpaid bills his man of business had presented to Ethan with the expression of a man who saw disaster looming.

  Paperwork. Ethan hated it, but he’d been battling his way through it every day since, determined to bring things into some sort of order.

  At the stables, he handed Jack over to O’Cleary. The handsome black-haired Irishman narrowed his gaze on Ethan’s face. ‘What has you so hot under the collar?’

  Ethan didn’t get hot under the collar. He never unleashed his temper on anyone. He was a big man and, out of control, could do a lot of damage. It was why he had decided to become a soldier in the first place. He gave O’Cleary a look that ought to make him shrivel in his boots, but only made the fellow glare back.

  Ethan didn’t know when it had happened, but at some point O’Cleary had become more friend than servant. They were of a similar age and Ethan respected the man’s skill with horses, but O’Cleary’s perceptiveness and frank speaking had also earned his admiration and, yes, a sort of friendship.

  Ethan sighed. ‘I met a lady on the way back. I thought she was a dairymaid or some such stealing my blackberries.’

  ‘Your blackberries, is it? Since when do you care about brambles?’

  Since a lovely young lady with lips stained red had come to his attention. ‘She was trespassing on my land.’

  ‘Ah.’ He gave Jack a pat.

  ‘Ah, what?’

  ‘Who is she, then?’

  ‘Lady Petra Davenport. She lives in Westram.’

  O’Cleary narrowed his eyes. ‘Fancy her, do you?’

  Ethan glared at him. Much as he might fancy Lady Petra in passing—what man would not when she was so excessively pretty?—he certainly had no more interest in her than that. ‘You will not speak of a lady in that manner.’

  O’Cleary’s black brows climbed into his hairline. ‘It is protective of this lady, you are?’

  As if. The lady needed no protection from him. ‘A gentleman protects all ladies.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Could O’Cleary be any more irritating? Possibly. If given the chance. ‘Are you going to let my horse stand there all day? Or are you going to see to his needs?’

  O’Cleary grinned, his blue eyes full of laughter, saluted and walked Jack off.

  Ethan stomped into the house. The memory of a pair of shapely legs had him smiling, too, until he tripped over the end of one of several rolled-up rugs. Like the rest of the house, the study was full of pieces of furniture, chairs upended on chairs, t
ables and consoles stacked willy-nilly. There were even stacks of ancient newspapers and journals on the floor, leaving little room to walk. The last Earl had been a jackdaw, collecting anything and everything. It was ridiculous.

  He groaned. He really hated the business of being an earl. He took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves and hefted the rug that had tripped him on to his shoulder and headed for the barn.

  To the devil with the paperwork, this was a task he could get his teeth into. In a few hours he might actually be able to see the floor.

  * * *

  Sitting in the front pew in St Bartholomew’s Church, Ethan was aware of the many curious gazes landing on him as the service wore on. As an officer, he was used to being watched by his men, but this was a different kind of observation. The gazes were not only assessing, they were hopeful. No doubt they were all hoping to meet him in the melee outside the church at the end of the service. He braced himself and polished up his most charming smile, despite that he’d prefer to go straight home.

  It would not be neighbourly. And while he had no intention of staying any longer than necessary, in the army one learned to adapt to local customs.

  Naturally, he’d received a call from the Vicar the day after he had arrived at Longhurst. The worthy fellow had made it very clear it was an earl’s duty to set a good example for the villagers by attending church every Sunday. Naturally, Ethan agreed. It had been no different in the army. Officers were required to set a good example in all things.

  The Vicar had beamed at his assent and further pronounced that, as Earl, he would, of course, want to subscribe to the front pew that had been a tradition in his family for many years. A not-unreasonable request. Unfortunately, Ethan discovered he not only had to pay this year’s subscription but also that of the previous fifteen years, since his dear departed predecessor had refused to have anything to do with St Bartholomew’s.

  He really did despise the former Earl.

  Of course, he’d paid up with as much good grace as he could muster. It was what one did, despite the fact that the payment ate a large chunk of his army pay, making another visit to his man of business in Sevenoaks mandatory. While he had absolutely no hope of discovering a nice little nest egg hidden among the Earl’s papers, there were still a few tenants left on the estate and he needed to know what rents had been paid and what required collecting.