“The Duke of Pemberton,” Devlin volunteered. “His Grace dispatched it for my use. A good thing, too, since the estate has no such conveyance.”
Miss Tatum looked at him then, a suspicious glimmer in her eyes. “Yet another generous gesture from His Grace, Mr. Randolph? Could it be he is trying to buy your loyalty?”
“I hardly think so,” he replied with a sarcastic edge. “The Duke of Pemberton is one of the wealthiest men in England, Miss Tatum. He owns a great many carriages much finer than this one. I doubt he shall even miss it.”
“I see, well, that seems an ungracious remark in light of the duke’s extraordinary generosity toward you.” She turned toward the coachman. “Do you not think so, Nash?”
The coachman’s head swiveled back and forth like a rusty gate between the man who paid his wages and the inquisitive housekeeper. Devlin nodded, encouraging him to answer the damn question.
Nash shrugged. “To be honest, I cannot say His Grace is a generous man—especially toward his servants.”
Devlin shot a reproving, narrow-eyed glare at his bloody coachman. “Perhaps it depends on the servant.” When he looked back at the housekeeper, she smiled at him in a mischievous, rather disturbing manner.
She couldn’t possibly have surmised my true identity in so short a time.
More likely, Nash’s comment had validated her already poor opinion of Pemberton.
“By the by, Miss Tatum,” Devlin continued. “The Duke of Pemberton has requested Nash remain at Bellewyck for a time—to oversee the stables, such as they are.”
With a slight nod, she glanced down at the trunk. “I presume that is your luggage, Mr. Randolph?”
“Yes.” He studied her shrewd interest in the finely carved chest. Unless the woman had a proficiency at picking locks, it should be safe for the time being. “Have that Rooney fellow bring it up to my chamber straightaway. I daresay he is lurking about the grounds. I have not seen the man doing anything productive.”
She bristled. “Tom Rooney does not lurk.”
“No need for that, Mr. Randolph, sir,” Nash interrupted. “I brought it this far, I can carry it to your room.” The coachman picked up the cumbersome chest and effortlessly balanced it over one broad shoulder. “Miss Tatum, would you kindly direct me?”
“I would be happy to.”
“Not bloody likely,” Devlin snapped. Startled faces prompted him to gruffly clear his throat. “That is to say, there is something I must retrieve from my room. I will escort Nash to my chamber, Miss Tatum.” Catching the amusement on Nash’s face, Devlin leaned toward the coachman to whisper. “And afterwards I shall direct you to the stables. You will be living in the groom quarters.”
Looking back at the housekeeper, Devlin noted her curious yet calculating expression. No doubt baffled by his relationship with the coachman, she plotted how much information she could learn from Nash in private.
“Miss Tatum, since you are so impressed with the duke’s fine carriage, have it housed in a suitable manner. Not that I expect you to do anything strenuous, mind you. After all, you are just a woman.”
A contemptuous look flickered across her face, and she mumbled something that sounded like, “One, two, three.”
“What did you say?”
She smiled—the picture of innocence.
Turning once more toward the stairs, Devlin glimpsed Nash’s admiring gaze reluctantly leave the fetching, young housekeeper. He hoped it wouldn’t prove a mistake having the man about the place. Now that he thought upon it, Nash had a flirtatious reputation amongst the female Pemberton servants. As a result he’d best keep the coachman and Miss Tatum apart as much as possible. Nash could charm that harpy, Polly.
Devlin glanced back at his housekeeper. “Miss Tatum.”
“Yes, Mr. Randolph.”
“Pray do not wander off. I intend to see the accounts today. And I am in no mood to search for you.”
She made no remark. But when he started to ascend the stairs, he heard her murmur, “Four, fix, six, seven.”
Pausing, he looked over his shoulder. “Are you counting, Miss Tatum?”
Feathery long lashes blinked up at him like the wings of an exotic butterfly. “I merely commented that working with you shall be heaven, Mr. Randolph.”
“Uh-huh.” Devlin eyed her doubtfully, biting back a laugh as she walked away with her little chin lifted mutinously in the air.
“She was counting,” he said with a soft chuckle.
“Aye,” Nash agreed. “That she was.”
Several hours later, after tending to the duties she’d put aside yesterday, and finding suitable quarters in the stables for Nash, an exhausted Christiana watched the steward walk to the desk in the library. When he issued another command with the wave of a long, muscular arm, she glared at his back. As fate would have it, he looked at her then and caught the mutinous expression.
“Come, come, Miss Tatum.” He snapped his long fingers. “I am nothing if not curious about your writing skill. As I recall, you made a point to comment upon the Duke of Pemberton’s fine hand when I arrived.”
Remembering Blackjack’s caution to mind her temper, Christiana made no comment. Instead, she turned and closed the library door.
The steward removed his swallow-tail coat. A white shirt and gold embroidered waistcoat emphasized the insufferable man’s fine form, from his broad shoulders to his narrow waist, slim hips, and the taut muscles of his buttocks.
‘Twas a sin for any man to be so blessedly handsome—especially this man.
She removed two cumbersome ledgers from the bookcase then placed them before Mr. Randolph on the desk.
He made a cursory glance at the books. “I think not, Miss Tatum. I want to see the ledgers for the past ten years.”
Ten years? Why did he want to see the estate books for the past ten years? She bit her tongue and moved to gather the other ledgers.
“A moment, if you please,” he said. “What is this?”
She had no choice but to return to the desk and see what he questioned. A wave of heat swept over her to be in such close proximity to him. More disturbing was the strangely exhilarating effect the dreadful man had on her.
It had to be the distinctive scent about him. A mysterious blending of sandalwood soap, freshly laundered linen, the clean air, the deep green of the forest, the spray of the sea on a moonlit night, and something indescribably, distinctly male.
He stared at her with that habitually arrogant eyebrow quirked, obviously waiting for an explanation. She cleared the annoying catch out of her throat. “Those are expenses paid during Michaelmas.”
“Indeed.”
“Yes, we hire additional labor at harvest.”
“This expense is for labor?”
“It also includes the annual Harvest Home celebration.”
“Harvest Home,” he echoed. With a mocking grin, he leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. “And just whom did you feed at this celebration? Judging by this outrageous sum, there must have been a virtual army in the fields.”
“Everyone helps.” She cringed inwardly at the defensive tone of her reply. In an effort to calm her upset and not raise his suspicions any further, she closed her eyes—counting quickly and silently to ten.
When next she opened her eyes, he looked exceedingly amused.
“The villagers close their shops and businesses,” she added.
Without comment, he continued to stare at her with an irritating smirk.
“Even fishermen from Folkestone and Deal come to work the fields. They camp out on the grange. Some bring their families.”
Again, no response.
“Harvest is hard work, Mr. Randolph. The Harvest Home supper is a traditional celebration to thank the efforts by so many laborers. It would be miserly for the estate not to provide this gesture of goodwill. I might add, Lord Bellewyck rarely did anything nice for anyone, the village included. But he sanctioned Harvest Home. He knew we could not possibly harvest
the fields without additional help. And a good harvest is necessary for the operation of the brewery.”
The insufferable steward’s gaze slowly roamed up and down her body in such an intimate way she felt her clothing stripped away. The thought not only prompted her to become more flustered, it conjured a strange, tingling sensation deep in her belly.
“Do you even know or care about tradition?”
“There is no need to rail at me for simply asking a question, Miss Tatum. I made an understandable observation, nothing more. Judging from the expense spent on this tradition, little wonder all England does not come here at Michaelmas. In any event, what pray tell does Bellewyck harvest?”
“Hops.”
She turned away from the desk then stumbled in her haste to create a greater distance from the man. Unfortunately, the beast must have seen her awkwardness for he started to chuckle, taking no pains to subdue his insulting mirth.
Incensed, she put her hands on her hips, unable to hold back her temper a moment longer. “Permit me to enlighten you, Mr. Randolph, since you are clearly ignorant on the subject.”
She ignored the abrupt end to his levity, as well as the dark look that flashed in his now stormy eyes. “It should be obvious—even to you—that we do not have enough staff to harvest the hops ourselves.”
“Sounds rather suspicious.” He directed a now sober mien to the ledgers. “A great deal of expense and very little profit in return. There are other areas of Kent suitable for the growing of hops, Miss Tatum. I saw any number of them on my journey to Bellewyck. It might be wise to purchase hops from such a farm. If nothing else, it would be less costly than growing hops at the abbey and hiring a fool’s army to harvest it.”
How dare he come here and criticize the way they did things.
Buy hops from another farm indeed.
“Mr. Randolph, I find it just as suspicious you know nothing about the operation of a brewery, yet have been hired to manage an estate that produces ale. Then again, I understand you do not care for ale. Perhaps if we made wine, you might show more interest?”
He stood. “My preference in drink is irrelevant, Miss Tatum. And whether or not I am familiar with brewing ale has nothing to do with my ability to manage this estate. It is a matter of business acumen.”
“Hah. I know not what type acumen you possess, but ‘tis obvious your qualifications for this estate are sorely lacking. Indeed, I suggest you peruse Bellewyck’s informative, albeit limited, library on the subject of ale-making. There are a number of tomes you might find enlightening.”
Having spoken her piece, Christiana turned and walked toward the door.
“You have not been dismissed, Miss Tatum.”
She stopped, her back stiff, and slowly faced him. “Contrary to what you think, Mr. Randolph, I have duties to perform as housekeeper of this self-sufficient estate. Those duties do not include being at your beck and call all day. Neither do they require my tutoring you in the brewing of ale or the cultivation of hops.”
A moment later she was running down the ancient hall toward the stairs. Suddenly, a powerful hand grabbed her from behind, and pulled her into a darkened archway between two massive stone columns. Fingers bit into her arms as she struggled to break free.
“Let me go.”
“Not until we understand one another.” Mr. Randolph spoke in a heated whisper. “By God, I will not tolerate impertinence.”
She could barely see his face, which made matters worse. It simply wasn’t fair for this man to appear at Bellewyck Abbey now, the image of a maiden’s knight in shining armor. Ah, but he was no knight. For certain, he had not come to rescue her. No, Mr. Randolph was here to laugh at her, to find fault with everything she’d tried to do at the abbey.
Couldn’t he see she was more than a housekeeper with calluses on her hands?
Everything she’d done had been for the good of the abbey and its people. And she was tired. Tired of fighting battles everywhere she turned. Tired of struggling to keep those she loved alive. Tired of worrying how much longer she could keep her own death at bay.
Bellewyck Abbey was her home—one earned through blood and tears.
No one had the right to come here and tell her what to do.
Not now. And not this man.
“I am not impertinent,” she argued between clenched teeth, struggling anew.
“Stand still, damn you!”
The thunder of his voice instantly made her freeze like a block of ice. All too late she realized her constant attempts to break free had brought their bodies in closer contact. He towered over her, holding her tight against his broad chest, imprisoned within solid, muscular arms. And it was that nearness—his heated breath upon her skin, his voice that could be strong as iron yet seductive as a caress of velvet, his enticing, captivating scent, and the masculine prowess he so easily wielded that proved more alarming than anything she’d experienced in her life.
Somewhere in the back of her mind she latched onto one thought that had always been a guiding source of strength. When a man knew he had power over a woman, her thoughts, hopes, and very identity would be lost. For certain, she would never be taken seriously—either as an ally or adversary.
Mr. Randolph was stronger physically, but defiance to his authority must not waver.
She had to be smart. She had to be strong. And she must not show fear.
Then again, what she felt at this moment wasn’t fear. No, this was something far more disturbing, something over which she had no control. A person could control, even conquer their fear. Much as she’d conquered her childhood fear of darkness. But now, she had the strangest sensation that what this man provoked in her was something she would never conquer.
The power of his taut, muscled body shifted to trap her between him and the cold, stone column at her back. He was fire, and she instinctively neared his mysterious heat. Her body trembled with an awakening she found confusing and exciting.
Rhythmic pulsing deep inside the core of her womanhood compelled her to shamelessly arch toward him rather than pull back. Dizzy with a multitude of rising sensations, her breathing sounded as if she’d just scaled a cliff off Dover. Closing her eyes, she sought some measure of composure.
‘Twas then she realized his breathing sounded just as labored. He groaned, angling his hips in such a way as to press the hard ridge of his arousal against her. Even through the layers of her clothing, the gesture communicated in no uncertain terms that he desired her as a man desires a woman. One of his large hands lowered to cup her bottom and lifted her ever so slightly in closer contact with his body. A small, involuntary, whimper escaped her throat.
What is happening to me? This man could be a spy for Pemberton. And I will be no man’s whore.
With renewed strength and a cry of outrage, she struggled anew. “Release me, you pompous, arrogant wretch.”
“Wretch, am I?” A low, seductive laugh reverberated through the darkened hall. He lowered his head, his mouth a hairsbreadth from her lips. “Has anyone ever said you have a tongue like a viper, and the stubborn disposition of a jackass? I have a good mind to send you packing.”
“Do it then.” She answered savagely, desperate to break free of his embrace again. “I should like nothing better than to never see you again—or suffer your arrogance a moment longer.”
He sighed then pulled back although he seemed unwilling to release her.
“If it were possible for me to leave this night, I would. Has it not occurred to you that I may be able to improve your lot and that of the other servants? You help yourself when you cooperate with me. Fight me and you only make matters difficult for everyone else.”
“You do not want to be here?”
“No.”
“But, then, why have you come to Bellewyck Abbey?”
“I had no choice.”
“I do not understand.”
“For God’s sake, there is nothing for you to understand. You can wish me to hell and back, but it will not
change a thing between us. I have a job to do, and so do you. As such, I suggest we at least try to be civil toward one another.”
Devlin fought to concentrate on anything but the woman in his arms, or the intimacy of their situation. But his senses were too finely attuned in the shadows of the ancient nave. Of its own accord, his hand slid to her waist. She wore a half corset—so much easier to remove—the thought further inflamed his lust.
As if burned by an iron poker, he quickly moved his hand only to have it, quite by accident, brush beneath the swell of an enticing breast. He longed to capture its weight in his palm, but raised his hand instead to touch the delicate curve of her cheek.
He swallowed hard, desperate to kiss her.
Just one brief taste, he vowed to himself.
He’d almost touched the soft petals of her rosebud mouth when she suddenly turned her face away, preferring the cold touch of the stone column to the heat of his kiss or the touch of his hand. Though disturbed by her rebuke, he admired her restraint.
“You smell of soap and flowers—and something else.” His voice sounded rough, still strained by lust. “I cannot place it.”
“Lemon,” she responded in a now breathless whisper. “It—it works best to remove soot and the smell of ash.”
At once, the image of his housekeeper bathing her creamy skin with lemon juice assailed Devlin. What he wouldn’t give to see such a sight. To watch her bathe before the amber glow of firelight abovestairs in his bedchamber. He’d approach slowly, lift her from the bath, and lay her down upon his bed, sipping the drops of moisture from her pale skin. Her feminine sighs would fuel his desire to fever pitch, but his lovemaking would not be hurried. He’d patiently coax and seduce until she joined him in an erotic dance building in tempo and intensity until they soared together beyond the confines of all earthly restraint.
Devlin swore under his breath. He’d never been a man ruled by lust. Neither did he have affairs with unmarried women or servants of his household. It made no sense whatsoever that he should desire this perplexing, infuriating, impertinent servant with such intensity.
He had to control himself and concentrate on the only reason for being here.
THE SENSE OF HONOR Page 8