Miss Willow came down next. She, Sebastian noted, made nothing like the impression Diana had. Her shopworn gown of white muslin was so precisely like the one she’d worn yesterday as to be, in fact, the very same. With the exception of that copper-on-fire hair, she was quite ordinary. Well, in all honesty, not ordinary. No one with hair that color could be called ordinary, and he had to allow she was pretty, and without the aid of fashion. Several in the crowd tipped a hat or bent a quick knee, not the least in awe of her. Though respectful, they gave gap-toothed, gnarled grins. A few lifted a hand in greeting. The manner in which the villagers greeted her bothered him. Miss Willow would not command this sort of affectionate respect if her name had been inappropriately linked to Andrew or to any other man.
The thought gave him pause. If James was right about anything, it was that privacy did not exist in Far Caister. An illicit relationship between her and his brother could not have been kept quiet. She was an old maid, nearing twenty-five, for God’s sake, who lived with her ailing mother. Andrew could not possibly have called on her without remark. The servants would know if he’d entertained her at Pennhyll, and it seemed the height of unlikelihood they had managed to conduct an affair at some other location. While he didn’t doubt Andrew’s expertise in trysting, he did doubt his brother possessed the discipline for a prolonged and secret affair with the village spinster. He had a sudden and rather unpleasant recollection of his reply to Mrs. Leveret’s inquiry. Sebastian’s belly hollowed out. Had he been hasty and done Miss Willow an unpardonable disservice? He caught a glimpse of James staring at her with frank and open lust and decided he’d only anticipated the event.
“How fortunate you are, my lord,” Diana said, “to live near so quaint a town as this.” Onlookers nodded, finding favor in the remark. Sebastian felt an undeniable shock to hear evidence that the villagers took as much or even more interest in his future wife than did he. Whatever he did for himself, he owed Far Caister a wise choice. If beauty and position were the criteria then Diana must be his countess.
James offered Miss Willow his elbow, which she accepted with the sort of smile an aged aunt saved for a favored nephew. If she had any chastity to keep, it would be despite James’s best efforts. The man was beside himself with longing and prepared for extravagance. No woman in her position could remain proof against James’s determination.
Miss Willow acted as their guide to Far Caister, stopping, of course, at every shop that caught Diana’s eye. Sebastian found himself toting up receipts for her purchases, beginning with a chapeau Diana swore was naval in its inspiration. He was obliged to suppress the opinion that he’d never allow such a contraption aboard any ship of his. Besides the hat, he doled out money for ribbons, lace, gloves and chocolate. James failed to coax Miss Willow into making any selection for herself or accepting what he purchased, with the sole exception of a single praline. Which she promptly gave to one of the children drooling at the window. Boys in fustian and homespun woolens followed as they walked past a cobbler’s. Fitzalan dug into a pocket and threw out a handful of coins. One boy caught a shilling and displayed it triumphantly. His eyes sparkled as he cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Oi! Miss Olivia. Seen the Black Earl, yet?”
She stopped, standing with hands folded and face quite serious. “Oh, indeed I have.” Sebastian ended standing behind her, tall enough to see over her head, and close enough to smell her hair and see the bare nape of her neck. Copper tendrils wound over her ears and trailed down the side of her throat. If he wanted to, he could touch her waist or caress that pale nape.
“Aye, Miss? For true?”
“Just last night he breathed upon the very sheets where I lay trying to sleep.” The boys went wide-eyed, riveted by her encounter with the infamous spirit of Pennhyll Castle. “He waved a great sword in his hands, sharp enough to take my head in one fell strike. The blood froze in my veins, I was that sure he would murder me in my bed.”
“But he didn’t, Miss Olivia,” said another boy, who must have been all of six or seven.
“My hair frightened him away.”
The boys hooted with laughter, and Sebastian heard a snort of amusement from James. He wanted to smile himself, for that matter.
“No,” said the first boy, frowning like he’d eaten a green apple. “The Black Earl wouldn’t be afraid of you, Miss.”
“I don’t see why not.” She touched her head. “I assure you, with this hair, I’m frightful, indeed.”
“He’s a ghost, Miss. He’d not be frightened by the color of your hair.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I reckon a ghost don’t see color.”
“We know what it means, don’t we?” asked another. “When a woman sees the Black Earl.” The boys nodded to each other.
“What does it mean?” Diana asked.
Jesus. Diana was as bad as those ragamuffin boys, worse because she ought to know better.
“Nonsense,” said Miss Willow.
The eldest boy’s eyes glazed with admiration when he looked at Diana. “Why, milady, when a lady sees the Black Earl, it means she’s to marry the master, that’s what.”
James dissolved into laughter.
“You are bold as brass.” A laughing Miss Willow shook a finger at the lad. “As brass. Go on, all of you. Lord Fitzalan hasn’t any more coins for you today.”
“Did you really see the Black Earl?” Diana studied Olivia, waiting, it seemed, with baited breath. Sebastian, doing the same, saw James watching as well.
Miss Willow sighed, sounding for all the world like a governess whose patience has just been stretched past its limit. “Miss Royce, there’s no such thing as ghosts.” She put her hands on her hips which brought the fabric of her cloak in tight. Small woman, she was, but curved where a man liked to hold on. Another salacious thought entered his head, which was what a damn shame it was for any woman to have a figure like hers and no man to enjoy it.
Diana’s mouth turned down. “Then why did you say you’d seen the Black Earl?”
“Because they wanted me to,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Boys live for such terror.”
James laughed. “I’m sure they’re disappointed the ghost didn’t lop off your head.”
“Undoubtedly, my lord.” She smiled, an enchanting, uninhibited grin. “Shall we visit the churchyard?” With a glance at the sky, she said, “We’ve time, I think, before it snows.”
The church stood at the eastern edge of the village, built of the same dappled stone as the rest of Far Caister. A pointed arch over the door and a round stained-glass window above pronounced its ancient lineage. “Our church was built in 1072. It’s a matter of some local pride that William The Conqueror attended services. Others insist King Arthur himself heard mass here. The earls of Tiern-Cope have a pew, and there’s a lovely statue of the sixth earl and his wife. In the Black Earl’s day, however, the family attended services in the chapel at Pennhyll.”
She walked toward the churchyard and unlocked the gate. “Behind is the graveyard and though ’tis a sad place, the view is worth admiring for beyond that one sees nothing but snow-covered fields and in the distance, Pennhyll. In the spring there’s green that breaks your heart.” She walked through the gate. “The church, as it happens, stands on the only ground not owned by the earls.” A smile played around her mouth. “Just as we Far Caisterians cannot forget Who made us, neither can we forget to whom we must pay the rents.”
“Don’t be impertinent,” Sebastian said as he passed her.
“Was I?” she murmured. “My apologies. My lord.”
Diana had her arm wrapped around his as they walked, too near his wound so that he must breathe quietly against the ache in his side. They’d kept a moderate pace so far, but he wasn’t used to so much activity. He disengaged enough that Diana’s hand didn’t constantly brush his tender ribs. James and Miss Willow pulled ahead. With Diana clinging to him and waiting, he was sure, for conversation in the form of compliments leading to a declaration, he co
uld think of little except he would be glad when he was married, if only to be done with this nonsense of romance and courting. He would marry, do his duty by his title and return to the sea and Diana would adjust to his neglect. But whenever he tried to imagine his wedding night he couldn’t think of anything to do with pleasure.
He faced her. “You have lovely eyes, Miss Royce.” He despised himself for saying so and came close to despising Diana for her pleasure when every woman on earth had eyes in her head. One pair of eyes was much like any other. What a ridiculous business this was. He looked at Diana. A lovely girl, and that was the trouble. Diana was still a girl. “Miss Royce?”
“My lord?” She seemed to be waiting for him to continue in a similar vein, but he could not utter even one more insipid word. Let the woman earn her compliments, by God. He thought about going down on one knee, but the snow made him think the better of that.
“Miss Royce.” Will you marry me? Four simple words, stuck in his throat. She tilted her head. “Miss Royce. You are a lovely girl.”
“Thank you.” Her lips parted, and she smiled so that he almost thought he wasn’t making a mistake.
“I think we’ll get on. Don’t you?”
“Oh, yes. You aren’t half as strict as James is with me. He’s constantly scolding me. You never do.”
“Splendid.”
She smiled. He ought to kiss her. What if he couldn’t kiss her? Damned if he could do it. While the silence continued, the first flakes of snow fell to the ground. “Come, Miss Royce.” He took her arm, using care to arrange her against his uninjured side. “Shall we return?”
“Yes, do let’s.” She glanced to where her brother and Miss Willow stood about fifty paces north of the churchyard gate, near a row of headstones darkening in the melting snowfall. Surprisingly, James had backed away, leaving the object of his lust alone. “James, do come along. Miss Willow.” She waved to catch Olivia’s attention. James left off staring at Miss Willow and walked to Diana. Miss Willow, however, remained before a gravestone less grey than most. After the serene brunette of Diana, that flame hair was a jarring sight.
“Miss Willow,” Sebastian said. When she did not move, he took several steps toward her and called again with more than a flash of irritation. “Come along.”
“Leave her be,” James said.
“I don’t mean to stand here in the snow whilst she dawdles and your sister catches her death.”
She brushed the gathering snow from the top of the marker, and that was the last straw. He left James with his sister and closed the distance to her. Instead of feeling relieved that he and Diana had arrived at an understanding, he felt tense. “All the reflection in the world cannot bring back the occupant, no matter how poignant the epitaph or deeply felt your sympathy.”
She traced the engraved letters on the stone. His eye followed. Roger Cathcart Willow and Tobias Kingsley Willow. Her father and brother. “I miss them,” she said, twisting a bit to look at him. Her eyes were an unusual color, pale brown, like honey raised to the sunlight. He had never, ever, seen a woman look like that, as if she’d lost everything that mattered. He understood the desolation far too well. “Sometimes,” she said, “I wish I had died, too.”
“That,” he said, “is foolish.”
“Who would have taken care of Mama?”
He held out a hand to help her back to the walk. His fingers tightened around her hand as she stepped over the now icy ground. He pulled too hard, because she ended up just inches from him, stumbling and then losing her balance. He caught her around the waist. Their eyes met.
His insides reacted like a ship teetering on an ocean swell, poised for the wrenching drop to the trough. When she didn’t look away, the thrill of descent ripped through him, pure and primal. Even if he could have, he didn’t want to look anywhere but at her. Her eyes went right through him, grabbed his soul in both hands and shook it hard. Straight nose quite narrow at the bridge, a chin just short of pointed, round cheeks curved like satin over a woman’s hips. Red hair thick with curls framed her face. A corkscrew tendril fell over her forehead. Extravagant hair. Unseemly in color and appearance. Jesus, but a man wanted to bury his fingers in that hair just to see if it would burn.
Whether she understood the reaction behind his scrutiny or for some other reason, her cheeks flushed pink. She looked away. “All these years, and I miss them still.”
“Come,” he said. “We’ll be frozen if you don’t come out of the weather.” He turned and walked toward the gate without waiting to see if she followed. Diana drew her hood over her head when he reached her. She pointed to the walkway and waved.
“There are Miss Cage and her father. Miss Cage and I are planning the seance. You can’t imagine how much we have to do before St. Agnes’ Eve. Do let’s go, my lord. My coat and muff will be ruined, and James will refuse to buy me another one. He never lets me buy anything.”
Miss Willow walked past, and James tried to take her arm, but she had her hands deep in the pockets of her cloak and appeared not to notice his attempted gallantry. She stopped at the gate, waiting for them. Sebastian wanted to laugh at James’s disgruntlement. He had the look of a fellow turned down flat, he did.
Diana held out her arm to her brother. “Come along, James. Miss Cage and I are in the most dire need of your expertise. Planning a party is ever so much work.” Her eyes sparkled. “I simply adore parties. Dear James, please. My boots will be ruined. Absolutely ruined, I’m sure.”
James gave him a look and shrugged. Diana waved to Miss Cage again. Miss Cage. Miss Cage. Have you got…”
He hoped Diana was enjoying herself, because his wife-to-be wasn’t going to have many opportunities to plan parties after they were married. Diana and James, unaware for the moment that he and Miss Willow weren’t right behind them, turned the corner for the safety of the walkway, and Sebastian found himself alone with Olivia Willow.
Chapter Six
He was alone with Olivia Willow exactly as James had hoped to find himself. Her eyes, fixed on him like pools of warm honey, lent an already pretty face deeper interest. When she didn’t pretend to be unintelligent, her eyes fascinated. He wondered how she’d look with her hair spilling over a pillow and him staring into her face from just a few inches above. The image had a predictable result that made him glad for the length of his greatcoat as much as for the fact that he’d buttoned it against the cold.
Despite his private thoughts, at this precise moment, the mood was decidedly different from what James had intended, and he meant to make well sure it stayed that way. Miss Willow’s intentions were similar because she nodded before heading past him. She made a surprised sound when he grabbed her arm and halted her mid-step. Though he was in the main in control of himself, he felt a spark of arousal the moment he touched her. With an irritating poise, she faced him.
Red hair tumbled down her forehead and along one side of her cheek. Curls twisted in the breeze and sparkled with flakes of snow. Her chin was level with his chest. She made him feel brutish, clumsy and out-sized. Though a large man, he was none of those things and certainly able to make love to a small woman without injuring her.
“You are far too self-possessed,” he told her. He forced his voice flat and dry as dust so there could be no question of his complete dispassion toward her.
She stared to one side, hiding her eyes from him. “A great fault, I am sure.”
“It is.” Damn her for agreeing with him. Damn her for having herself so firmly in hand that he wanted to shake her out of her control.
“My former employer,” she said, staring now at his cravat, “Admiral Bunker, often said that the man who commands a ship of the line must be straightforward and brook no nonsense. That he must be quick to think and to say what is on his mind.” She looked into his eyes. “You, sir, have all those qualities and more. I have nothing but admiration for your record of success. The Achilles, the Resplendent, the Courageous. You’ve served your country ably and made all who kno
w you and know of you proud to be English.” A light flickered behind her eyes and he, who had never cared to hear his praises sung, wanted more. He wanted to hear more of that admiration in her voice. “But, I hope you will permit me to tell you that when a man finds himself in gentle society, among young ladies such as Miss Royce, who have been brought up with immense delicacy and consideration, he must temper his words and his manner, however sorely it goes against his nature.”
“If you mean to criticize, say it outright.”
“You will not win Miss Royce’s heart if you persist in such brutal honesty as you have just shown to me.”
“I cannot afford to make a mistake about you.”
“And you can about your future wife?”
“My future wife is no concern of yours.” He used the dry voice again because she’d scored a hit with that last remark.
“You are correct, my lord.”
He let go of her, but he did not change the distance between them. In full despite of his desires and of James’s belief that Miss Willow would prove no better than she ought to be, Sebastian failed to see in her anything but what she appeared to be; a spinster of irreproachable reputation and declining fortune. She stood before him, gloved hands clasped as prim and proper as any gentlewoman of unremarkable past. There was not now any attempt to pretend less intelligence than she in truth possessed.
“Why did you come back to Far Caister?” he said.
“My mother is not well.” He liked the sound of her voice. A deliberate tone, an alto that settled on the ears like velvet over a bed.
“Tell me what you recall of my brother’s death.” All that he needed was in her head; how and why his brother had died and the identity of the man responsible.
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