by Jo Beverley
“Is this book a gift for someone?” he asked, slitting pages.
“For myself.”
That did surprise him. “You breed stock?”
A movement, a slight rearrangement of spine and shoulders, told him she was uncomfortable with the question. Not surprising. It was hardly a conventional occupation of ladies. “It is an interest of mine, yes.”
“Sheep? Cattle?”
“Sheep and horses.”
“Racehorses?” Intriguing.
“No. Draft horses.”
Astonishing. He loved being astonished. “I have a soft spot for the mighty beasts.”
She sank into a chair, perhaps without realizing it. “I think they’re beautiful. I laugh at racehorses with their spindly legs and nervy temperament.”
“Common spirits? I don’t think you have a nervy temperament.”
“Are you saying I’m like a cart horse, sir?”
He laughed. “Only in their most admirable qualities. I know, for example, that your legs are not at all spindly.”
She pushed down her skirt, as if anxious that she might be showing her legs. She was a conundrum, his captor. He wished he could linger here a month to discover all her secrets. To keep her longer, and to test her a little, he asked about the most famous authority on animal breeding. “What do you think of Bakewell?”
“Very little, which seems to be his purpose, for he keeps his business and his methods to himself. I gather he’s doing good work with horses, but that his improved sheep are too fatty for meat.”
“Perhaps we’ll find use for mutton fat. Do you breed for meat?”
“Not primarily.”
“The new factories and mines mean there’s strong demand for it.”
“I know, but it doesn’t interest me.”
“Wool, then.”
She nodded firmly. “I’m trying to improve softness without sacrificing the sturdiness of the beasts. I’ve imported stock from Ireland, but the quality of the wool seems more dependent on the living conditions of the animals than on the breeding.”
“Good food, coarse wool. But there’s plenty of need for coarser wool, and the staple’s longer.”
“There’s also need for the fine. England is a great wool-producing nation, but we import vast quantities of the finer types. Don’t you think we should produce wool for fine shawls as well as worsteds and blankets?”
“Definitely.”
She had leaned forward in her enthusiasm, but now she stiffened. “You’re laughing at me!”
He raised a hand. “No. I’m delighted by your excitement. What about the horses? Are you using continental stock?”
“Lord—” She noticeably broke off. “Another breeder here has a Friesian stallion. I’m breeding to that with native draft stock, but I’m thinking of bringing in a stallion of my own. We need more strong horses, especially up here. Oxen are useless.”
Did she run her own estate? What of her elderly husband? Perhaps he was feeble, so she’d taken over, and was proving to be an admirably managing female.
“Are you thinking to enclose any of the property?”
Again, she nodded, in that definite way quite contrary to her flustered behavior about more intimate matters. “I think the tenants will agree. The days of strip fields and open grazing are over. Are your employer’s estates enclosed?”
“Some. He has a great many estates. As you say, it’s usually the best way. How can anyone cope with a landholding broken into little pieces scattered over a large area?”
“And with all the animals grazing together. How can anyone run a breeding program…?”
They fell into lively conversation until a chiming clock somewhere in the house caught her attention. It was sometime later that she shot to her feet as if someone had stuck a pin in her behind. “I can’t sit here talking all day! What will people think?” She even put her hand to her mask, as if fearing it might have melted away.
As perhaps, in a sense, it had. Enjoying her company, he’d felt as if he’d seen through the cloth to the features underneath. That he really knew her.
He rose, wanting to ask her to stay, but speaking from his nobler side. “Knowing people, they’ll think the worst.”
She almost flew to the door. Hand on the knob, however, she paused like a wary bird. “I’m moving elsewhere for the night.”
“Ah.” The disappointment was disturbingly sharp. “I am truly sorry about that.”
Like a bird pecking, she added, “I’m coming back. After dark. I think.”
“Do.” Against his will, he added, “Please…”
But by then she had completed her flight and the lock clicked shut. Had she heard the betraying word? He half hoped not. This was madness, and he knew it.
A marvelous kind of madness, however. A marvelous adventure. He should write it up as a book—A Gentleman’s Adventures in the Yorkshire Dales.
What was the ending, though?
No glorious triumph, alas. It ended tomorrow when he settled into his mundane tasks, and she returned to her elderly husband.
He picked up her book and opened it, treasuring the unexpected meeting of minds it represented, and the charming, enticing differences that went along with it. She shared his beliefs and aims, but was hindered by a softer heart. She wanted to look after every single person who worked on her land, even the feckless. He doubted she was ruthless enough to make notable steps in animal breeding. She wouldn’t cull the weak.
None of that made him like or admire her the less.
And was all this to end at dawn?
It must. She was married. This had only ever been a fleeting visit to a forbidden, secret place. Tomorrow he must leave. Doubtless stacks of work awaited him, and he had an appointment in Thirsk he must not miss.
He’d not pursue his mysterious lady, but he’d have to look into the matter of his abduction. On the surface, it made no sense. He’d been involved in a routine inspection of a property he might want to buy.
In his usual habit for such trips, he’d dressed simply and ridden to the area on a hired horse. He liked to find out the true situation, not the one presented by an anxious seller. He didn’t deceive anyone on these trips, though, and even used his own name. The sort of people he was interested in talking to—innkeepers, fanners’ wives, laborers, craftsmen—wouldn’t recognize the name Malloren. If they mistook it for Mallory, however, he didn’t correct them.
He’d not expected any surprises, for his local agent had looked into the property thoroughly. However, now that he thought of it, as part of his enquiries, he had been asking questions about a neighboring estate. Rawston Glebe had recently been taken over by the New Commonwealth.
As he’d said to his lady, he didn’t totally disagree with the Cotterites. They were good farmers, and they took in farm workers displaced by the changes in England. Apart from the inclusion of families, their strict communal life was almost a revival of the great medieval monasteries of this area—Jervaulx, Rievaulx, Fountains—and no one could deny that the monks had created agricultural prosperity out of harsh lands.
The only thing Brand had against the New Commonwealth was that when they took over an estate, they forced evictions on those unwilling to convert. It wasn’t right for people to be turned off their land, land they’d worked for generations. Moreover, stability and continuity bound together the English countryside. It served no good purpose to disturb things, and the Cotterites were turning the north upside down.
Of course the current tenants were allowed to stay, but only if they followed the sect’s strict teachings.
Brand didn’t much care for fashionable decadence, but there was no sin in laughter and play.
His mind slid to his mysterious lady, who seemed a stranger to laughter and play. Could she be a Cotterite? She didn’t wear their uniform, but her dress was more modest than fashionable. If there was some connection between the New Commonwealth and his abduction, might she have been part of it?
He shook his
head, unable to see George Cotter condoning unlawful sex. If Cotter wasn’t at least honest in his beliefs, Brand had lost all judgment of people.
Brand had found the man surprisingly intelligent and undoubtedly sincere. He argued passionately and cogently that land wasted on parks and pleasure gardens should be given to sober, hardworking tenants. That was hard to argue with. In fact, Brand had experienced a similar meeting of minds with Cotter as with his mysterious lady. Cotter, too, was an ardent but clear-sighted believer in agricultural improvement. As with the monasteries, he was using his disciplined followers to bring about change far faster than usual.
Faster than Brand could, having to deal with the countrymen’s stubborn adherence to ways of the past. He was often pushed to his limit by phrases such as: “What were good enough for our fathers should be good enough for us, milord.” And: “That’s not the way we’re used to doing things round here, milord.”
Commanding total obedience certainly had its appeal.
Brand shook away his wandering thoughts. His mysterious lady couldn’t possibly be part of any plan of George Cotter’s. In fact, the New Commonwealth had nothing to do with his affairs other than the fact that they owned an estate next to one he might buy for his brother.
And, of course, the fact that his brother was coming north with the King’s commission to investigate the sect for subversive tendencies.
Brand leaned back to contemplate that. Could word of Bey’s mission have spread? He was ordered to meet his brother in Thirsk tomorrow at noon, which is why his amusement here must end at dawn. No matter where this place was, it must surely be no more than six hours’ ride from Thirsk.
Bey doubtless wanted Brand’s impressions of the north and the New Commonwealth. Once done with that, Brand would have a hectic schedule to catch up with. Including, he thought with sudden interest, visits to various stockbreeding estates. Might he turn up at such an estate and come face to face with a certain mysterious lady…?
He’d like that.
Very much.
Too much.
He put down the unread book and stood to pace the confining room, fighting the knowledge that, despite her wishes, he couldn’t walk away from this. He needed to know more, if only to be sure that she suffered no harm from this adventure.
Perhaps he could convince her to trust him. Perhaps he could become a discreet friend. If her husband really was elderly and indifferent, perhaps they could—
He stopped himself. That way lay madness. A man couldn’t become obsessed with a woman whose face he’d never seen, whose name he did not know.
Clearly, he could.
A married woman, he reminded himself, making himself sit down to read the solid book.
Damn, the pages were still uncut.
Damn it all to Hades!
He grabbed the razor-sharp knife and began to slice open pages, wishing he could slice through reality as easily, slice through to a place where his mysterious lady wasn’t married, and wasn’t secretive. To a place where they could enjoy delightful conversations of all kinds, whenever they wished.
For the rest of their lives, before, during, and after delightful lovemaking.
Chapter 10
Rosamunde had halted in the corridor outside the bedroom, fighting a mad urge to rush back—not to her captive lover, but to that dazzling surprise, a man she could talk to. She’d forced her steps on, but in a daze of wonder. A man who shared her interests, who didn’t scoff at or belittle her enthusiasms.
She’d always known even Digby was humoring her. He’d raised no objection to her interest in stockbreeding, nor to her expenses, but it had always been clear that he regarded it as another man might regard his wife’s interest in buying new curtains or bonnets.
Her modest successes merited only a “That’s good, Rosie,” said as he read a newspaper or magazine.
Rosamunde had become so used to this that she’d never dreamed it could be different. She’d certainly never expected a meeting of knowledgeable minds with the charming rogue she’d taken as lover.
Now, out in the garden, she admitted that everyone might be right in their warnings, though profoundly wrong as well. They feared she was in danger of falling in love with a handsome rogue. If she fell in love with Brand Malloren, however, it would be as much with his company as his body. More, in fact. She was too practical to toss her life away for physical delights. But for companionship—for respect, shared interests and laughter… Those were treasures that could last a lifetime, and were precious beyond all.
Nearly all.
Vows, duties, and responsibilities must come first.
By the stone arch that led into the kitchen garden, she paused to wonder at herself. Here she went again, weaving ridiculous dreams. There was no meeting ground for them.
Not one scrap.
Except that there was, and they had found it, and she liked him so very, very much.
Standing straighter, she swallowed folly. This was no good, no good at all. He was leaving tomorrow, and for now she had beans and blackberries to pick.
She’d asked Jessie if she needed anything from the garden, and the maid had asked for the beans. Walking to Arradale earlier, Rosamunde had spotted a laden thicket of brambles. Afraid to go upstairs to change or get her cap—afraid she’d weaken—she’d protected her cream colored dress with a kitchen smock, and borrowed a mob cap from Jessie to shield her face.
From the sun, she told herself. It was time to get over this obsession with hiding from strangers, for Diana’s sake if not for her own.
She picked the beans and left them in one basket, ready to collect on her return. Then she went to fight the brambles. Alone in a quiet corner of the estate, however, she found herself fighting insanity as much as thorns.
Even if she were pretty and single, Lord Brand Malloren would never be for her. Never! She might be cousin to the Countess of Arradale, but that was the result of a wild mismatch between the old earl’s younger son and the pretty daughter of a local gentleman farmer.
It didn’t raise the family up high. The Ellingtons were still just solid farming stock. Her own marriage to Sir Digby Overton was more than she’d normally have looked for.
Nor did her friendship with Diana make her a suitable match for a marquess’s son. Certainly, if she wished, she could move in high circles, and perhaps attract a husband there, even with her blemished face. She’d not expect a noble suitor, however. Her portion had been a mere thousand pounds. A man like Brand Malloren could expect ten times that.
She was so distracted that thorns caught her smock and her flesh, digging deep, so by the time she’d freed herself, blood mixed with the purple stains on her fingers. She licked the wounds clean, tasting the mixture of blood and juice, and the salt of tears.
She sucked in a deep breath. Stop it, Rosa! Stop it right now. If heaven is kind, you are carrying a child that will be Sir Digby Overton’s heir. Your duty is to the child, your husband, and the estate. Once Brand Malloren leaves, you will not think of him again.
Ever.
Firm in that resolution, she picked the last of the ripe berries and headed back to the dower house.
Firm?
If she were really firm, she wouldn’t keep her tryst tonight. She paused in what she and Diana called their faery glade, a concealed spot in the wilderness where a little stream tumbled over rocks, surrounded by wildflowers. They’d always thought faeries must live here, and had whispered wishes into the chuckling water.
They’d come here once to wish that Rosamunde’s scars would heal to smooth skin. Childish folly.
Cleaning her stained and scratched hands in the cold water, Rosamunde wished for the mature strength to do right. She had as much success at washing away her wicked hunger as she did at washing away the stains.
It was beyond her to give up her one last night.
Then she looked at her purple fingers and groaned. A fine wicked woman she was turning out to be! Was she going to have to go to him masked
and gloved? The stains would fade in a day or two, but for the moment she was an uncorrectable disaster. Her mouth and chin were probably stained, too, since she’d sampled the sweet, juicy fruit.
At least stains on her mouth and chin wouldn’t matter. The mask would hide them. The mask that prevented kisses.
She did so long to kiss him, and to be kissed back.
Oh, but like a child, she wished for impossible things. She wanted to be a beautiful woman. A seductive woman, even, the sort men longed for on sight. But even without scars, she wouldn’t be. She had freckles from being in the sun, and since it didn’t matter, she’d never pampered her skin with creams.
Didn’t crushed strawberries get rid of sunburn and freckles? She eyed the blackberries, then laughed at herself. The only good they would do would be to cover her freckles with purple splotches. He’d probably think she had the plague!
Oh, but it was a seductive dream, suitable for a faery glade. Flawless skin, softened by years of creams. This other Rosamunde’s hair would know only rainwater, rainwater in which rosemary had been steeped to bring out the rich colors. For the final rinse some extra perfume, perhaps. She already used gillyflower in her hair rinse, but a seductress would have heavier weapons than that. Rose? Carnation? Mignonette?
And clothes. Smooth, exquisite silken clothes such as Diana wore, with embroidery even on the layers that people would not, should not see.
She remembered being stripped by her captive lover and hid her face in her hands. What had she been thinking of? Her corset was four years old and mended in places. Her shift and petticoat were of plainest, practical style.
Pitiable.
Pitiable.
Could she bear to be taken again out of pity?
She uncovered her face to look up through green leaves to the fathomless blue sky. In truth, yes. In truth, she’d be taken any way it had to be.
She leaped to her feet and fled the place of foolish wishes, trying to escape wicked desires and deep mortification. As she emerged from the wilderness, someone called. Jerking out of her panicked thoughts, Rosamunde saw Diana waving and hurrying along the path to her.