by Julia London
She was weary, she was hungry, and she was in something of a snit, for the more she thought of Kendrick, the more she could not fathom how the prince could have let it fall into such disrepair. She grabbed up Molly’s reins, and stepped on a rock in the middle of the stream.
But she stepped precariously and instantly slipped off; her boots filled quickly with ice-cold water and the hem of her riding habit soaked it up. “Blast it all!” she snapped, and tugged on Molly’s reins, dragging them both through the stream and onto the other side, where her lovely boots, purchased at a premium on Bond Street in London, squished with every step.
They walked for what seemed hours, stepping over rocks, picking their way down steep slopes only to struggle up another incline. Greer slipped on one such descent and tried to stop her slide by grabbing onto a tree, and in doing so, tore her glove and put a nasty gash across the palm of her hand.
Beside her, Molly snorted and turned her head, her ears pricked in one direction. Greer paused, heard the sound of someone—or something—coming through the woods. On any other day, she would have been alarmed, but at present, she was so exhausted and hungry and exasperated that she marched around Molly, and with her hands on her hips, she peered into the dark undergrowth. “Who is there?” she demanded, and almost fainted with relief when two large wolfhounds trotted into view.
As the dogs came over to have a look at her, the prince rode into view. He’d been working somewhere—his boots were caked with mud and his buckskins stained with dirt. And Greer had never been so happy to see another living soul as she was to see the prince at that moment. Frankly, it was all she could do to keep from running to him and throwing her arms around his neck.
He reined his horse to a stop and looked down at her, then tipped his hat as if they were meeting in Hyde Park. “Miss Fairchild.”
“My lord,” she said, bobbing a quick curtsy. “I should like to inquire as to why there are no roads or posted signs in all of Wales!”
One corner of his mouth tipped up in a smile. “The forests around Llanmair are rather large. Our ancestors liked to keep them unmarked for they used the valleys and hollows to hide holy shrines and treasures from the Vikings and, later, the English,” he said as he swung gracefully off his mount. “But I assure you, there are many roads and posted signs in Wales.”
“Are we very far from Llanmair?” she asked weakly, her bravado gone, replaced by hunger.
He shook his head as he took in her appearance. She hadn’t thought of how she might look, and unthinkingly put a hand to her hair, which, until this moment, she had not realized had come lose from her coif. She didn’t dare look down—the beautiful riding habit Phoebe had made her was atrociously filthy, if not ruined. And there were at least two tears in the fabric that she knew of.
“A mile or so,” he said. He came down off his horse, and with his hand on his hip, he openly assessed her condition.
“Thank God,” Greer said, flinging her arms outward. She dropped her hands. “Ouch,” she muttered, having forgotten the gash in her hand.
The prince glanced at her hand and moved forward so suddenly that Greer instinctively stepped backward, bumping up against Molly, who let Greer know her displeasure by whimpering and butting Greer’s head with her snout.
“Molly, stop,” she said.
He raised a brow. “Molly?” he asked as he gestured for her hand.
“I…I had to call her something,” she muttered as she looked again at the gash. Her hand was caked with dried blood, which she had also managed to smear over her palm and wrist. “It’s really not as bad as it looks—”
He gave her a look that suggested he thought otherwise, and took her hand in his, turning it over, palm up. “Hmm,” was all he said as he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a kerchief. “If I may inquire,” he said as he carefully dabbed at the blood on her hand, “were you attempting to leave Llanmair?”
Greer glanced up at him, but his eyes were hidden behind his lashes as he tended her hand. Her instinct told her that she should not mention Kendrick, so she shrugged. “No,” she said defiantly. “I only wanted a bit of air.”
“You’ve come quite a long way for air,” he said. “I thought perhaps last night—”
Heat instantly flooded her face and she looked down at her palm. “No,” she said softly, quickly, and sucked in a hiss of breath as he touched a part of the gash that had come open. She lifted her gaze—his was dark, but so unflinchingly tender that she was momentarily speechless. She had the distinct impression that he’d worried about her. She had the distinct impression that he did not want her to leave Llanmair.
And it was with no small amount of consternation that she realized that she could not have left Llanmair as easily today as she might have done a week or so ago.
“Greer?” he asked, his voice low and soft. “Am I hurting you?”
God help her, but the way he said her name made her feel weak inside. Fortunately, her ravenous belly grumbled with hunger in response.
He smiled—the sort of lovely, warm, and endearing smile that always surprised her, that seemed so incongruous with his mien. But when her belly rumbled again, his smile broadened into one of amusement, and he wrapped the kerchief around her hand and secured the ends, then reached around her and took Molly’s reins. “I think there are two hungry creatures here,” he said with a slight wink for Greer. “Shall I take you back to Llanmair?”
“Please,” she said gratefully.
He stroked Molly’s nose for a moment, then put his hand on Greer’s elbow and moved her to the saddle. With his gaze on hers, he put his hands on her waist, preparing to lift her up—but he hesitated, and for a moment, she thought he meant to kiss her.
For a moment, she madly wished he would.
But he pressed his lips together, and lifted her up and put her on the saddle, his gaze never leaving hers. And when he was certain she was seated, his hand drifted to her knee, then slid off, and he turned, silently walked back to his horse, and swung up. With one last look at her, he turned his mount around and headed back for Llanmair.
Molly was no fool. She quickly followed, crashing through the underbrush in an effort to catch up.
When they reached Llanmair, Rhodrick was rather proud of his staff—none of them stared or otherwise indicated they thought anything was amiss with Greer’s appearance. And she, being the proud woman that she was, refused to acknowledge that she looked a fright. She lifted her chin and walked into the castle, ignoring the squeak of her boots and the state of her hair and clothing.
In the foyer, she paused. “Thank you,” she said. “I am quite certain I would have found my way back eventually, but I fear it might have taken as long as a week.”
He smiled.
She did, too. And then she turned and walked up the stairs, that peculiar squeaking marking her progress toward her suite of rooms.
Rhodrick asked Mrs. Bowen to send up a hot bath to her, as well as some of Mrs. Jernigan’s healing herbs for Greer’s hand. He could not bear the thought of her losing her ability to play the pianoforte, and while he thought it a shallow wound, he would take no chances.
He retreated to his study with Cain and Abel to work until supper. But with every sound, every creak of the old castle, he lifted his head, half expecting to see her.
Where had she gone today? Had she left with the intention of running away and become lost? Or had she ridden out for air, as she said? Riding for air in a forest with no trails seemed rather odd to him, and it left him with a sour feeling of distrust.
Was it possible she had met Percy?
Ridiculous. Percy was miles from Llanmair now. Or was he? They might have arranged before he left to meet. Rhodrick had not accompanied Percy up to the room where Greer was held the day he’d had the bounder escorted from Wales. He might very well have played on Rhodrick’s belief he would take the money and go, while in truth, he and Greer had concocted another scheme.
If they had, it was working beau
tifully, for he had all but abandoned his distrust of her. Bloody hell, but he really could not abide what was happening to him, this obsession he’d developed for her. Yet, he could no longer deny that he was indeed quite attracted to her, and with an intensity that surprised him.
He harbored no illusions about his chances of ever possessing her.
For one thing, she could very well be a swindler. For another, if she was not a swindler, she could very well be one of London’s brightest debutantes, which caused him a different sort of consternation. She talked so happily of society and the events she attended there that it was clear to him that she thrived in the haute ton. It was just as clear to him that she would never survive here, in a remote corner of Wales, in a limited and rather stodgy society.
A woman like Greer should be in London. She was witty and beautiful and vivacious. He could not imagine her living here.
For another thing, he was too old for her, by ten years or more, and rather ugly at that. Nor was he particularly suave. He was no match for a woman accustomed to the bright lights and fawning dandies of London.
He hated himself for being so weak—good God, the woman scarcely even realized her power of seduction. It seemed to take nothing more than a smile, or a laugh, and he was succumbing to her charm, taking indefensible liberties with her in the foyer. Such lack of resistance made him feel abominably coarse, particularly when there was no point in it. He didn’t expect she could ever come to like him, really, much less love him.
Nevertheless, he could feel the dread building in him, the debilitating anticipation of her departure, and the stretch of emptiness that would surely follow. If nothing else, Greer Fairchild brought something fresh to each and every day, and this old castle would feel ancient and musty and dead when she was gone.
He tried to work, but he could not—the debate about what she’d been doing today continued to roar in his mind—and at last he gave in, retreating to his chambers to dress for supper.
He emerged an hour later, washed and dressed, and made his way to the dining room, walking through the portrait gallery and past the conservatory.
He had not expected to see her before supper, but there she was, at her writing desk, her head bent over a piece of vellum, her pen moving violently along, her cleanly bandaged hand holding the vellum.
He paused, wondering if he might interrupt, but then she sighed and paused in her writing and happened to glance up. “My lord!” she said with a start, rising from the table, and quickly hid her letter.
Rhodrick looked at the letter she had shoved behind some books she’d apparently borrowed. She smiled sheepishly. “I was writing my cousins. I write them every day.”
That only served to remind him that her cousins should have received her first letter by now. He couldn’t bear the thought of receiving affirmation of her identity, that she didn’t belong here, and worse, that she would be leaving his life. “How is your hand?” he asked, ignoring the offending letter.
Greer held up the heavily bandaged appendage and grinned. “It is really quite all right, although Mrs. Bowen was insistent that she clean and bandage it properly. I assured her it was hardly worth bandaging at all, but she’d gone to the trouble of having Mrs. Jernigan prepare a poultice.”
“It will help you heal quickly,” he opined. “And for that I am grateful to Mrs. Jernigan. I should not like the world to be deprived of your music for very long.”
“The world should not be deprived of very much,” she said with a gracious smile, and walked around the table. The gown she wore skimmed over her figure and looked to be very light, a stark contrast to her black hair and blue eyes. Whatever the color, he thought she looked beautiful, every inch a princess. But for some reason, her regal appearance made him think of her somewhat less regal—and entirely provocative—image last night, in the foyer.
He gripped his hands tightly behind his back. “You seem to have recovered from your journey.”
“Yes,” she said. “It is astounding what a hot bath will do for one’s ill humor.”
And now he would add an image of Greer naked in her bath to the many images of her he was constantly trying to banish from his mind’s eye. He glanced at the rug at his feet. “Perhaps the next time you go out, you will carry a bit of food for you and Molly.”
She snorted, but her eyes were sparkling. “Molly will be much happier, I assure you. But I insist, sir, that as prince of this region, you really must install some badly needed roads.”
“A road to nowhere is not worth the expense of building it.”
“But how can one possibly know if a road leads to nowhere if you don’t at least see where it goes?”
He couldn’t help but smile at her logic. “Was that your destination today? Nowhere?”
She smiled and folded her arms across her middle. “I was out taking the air. Just as I said.”
Rhodrick smiled, too. “There is fresh air to be had in the general vicinity of Llanmair, particularly in the gardens. Or, if you prefer, on the road to Rhayader. But the forest, it would seem, is rather dense for your air taking.”
She laughed. “You still don’t trust me in the least.”
“I don’t,” he said congenially, and held out his arm. “Shall we dine?”
“Please,” she said, gliding forward. “I am famished.”
“What of your letter?” he asked.
She glanced back at the desk. “I’ll finish it later.”
She was not exaggerating about being famished. In the dining room, Rhodrick watched with some amusement as Greer unabashedly cleaned her plate of each course that was served to her. By the end of the meal, she had forgotten her ladylike posture and was leaning back against the high-backed chair, one arm at her side, the other draped over her middle, smiling with satisfaction. “On my word, I’ve never dined as well as this,” she said with a sated sigh. “What did you call the first dish?”
“Caws pobi. Welsh rarebit.”
“It was delicious. Thank you.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgment as the footmen moved to take away their plates and Ifan refreshed her dessert wine.
Greer sat up, sipped the dessert wine, then glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Will you indulge me, my lord? I should like to make some slight changes to my sitting room.”
That surprised him. He had been married long enough to know that a woman intent on changing the décor of a room was not planning on fleeing. “Why?” he asked suspiciously.
“Because. It’s rather…cheerless,” she said apologetically. “Quite a lot of grays and browns. I thought perhaps it might be made cheerier with a bit of color. Mrs. Bowen informed me there were some bolts of cloth in the stores, and as it appears that I shall be here for a time…” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “That is, until the letter arrives, which I fear is at least a month away, what with all the rain we’ve had.”
The sudden change in her was suspicious. First, her absence all day, and then the letter writing, and now the desire to settle in.
“Mrs. Bowen rather thought you’d not know of the fabric,” she continued uncertainly. “She said you rarely go below.”
He glanced at the port Ifan put before him. “Perhaps we might have a look.”
“How splendid!” she cried with delight. “It is probably time you swept down from your castle perch. I thought the green room could be made into a perfectly serviceable salon with a bit of color and comfortable seating. It’s so warm with its western light.”
He had no idea which was the green room and looked at her blankly. “The green room,” she said. “As green as your—” She blushed and dropped her gaze. “Your waistcoat,” she finished.
“The green room,” he said, trying to determine to which room she referred.
She looked up and blinked with surprise. “The green room. Dear lord, a master of such a castle with no notion of what he’s got! Perhaps we should have a look in there as well.”
“All right,”
he said agreeably. “I shall look.”
“Marvelous!” she said, clearly pleased. “Shall I meet you in the green room after you’ve had your port?”
He nodded.
“Then if you will excuse me,” she said, as a footman hurried to remove her chair. With another bone-melting smile, she glided out of the room, her hips swaying alluringly when she walked.
He waited until the door had closed behind her, then looked at Ifan. “Which is the green room?” he asked.
“The small receiving nursery across from the mistress’s sitting room, my lord.”
“Thank you,” Rhodrick said, and sipped his port.
Twenty
A quarter of an hour later, Rhodrick stood with his back to the smooth mahogany door of the green room, brows furrowed in concentration. He would never have believed he might be persuaded to discuss a room’s particular furnishings, but here he was, looking at one large settee, a console, and a lamp.
Frankly, he could not imagine what more the room might possibly need, but Greer suddenly gave him a nod and strode into the middle of the room, turned fully about, and said, “Two divans are needed here.” She indicated with her hands where they would go. “Facing opposite one another to invite conversation.”
“Of course,” he said, as if that was a perfectly natural conclusion.
“And I might add that the paint, my lord, is so dismal. I hope you won’t mind me saying, but it is a rather dreadful shade of green. Far too dark and ominous for a cheerful sitting room. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I—”
“And really, the hearth should be replaced. No one likes to cast their gaze upon gargoyles when they are conversing about the latest news from town,” she said, pointing to the intricately carved figures in the marble hearth.
“Actually, I think those are hawks,” he said, walking forward to stand beside her as they studied the hearth. “I confess to ignorance, Miss Fairchild. What do people like to cast their gaze upon when conversing about the latest news from town?” he asked.