Watching him, Donovan had taken perverse pleasure in undoing a part of what his father had done; yet he knew as he sank the shovel under another pile of manure that he’d just as much been affected by the miners’ misery …
“But don’t get yourself too affected,” Donovan muttered to himself, straightening just as Henry Gilbert suddenly reappeared at the entrance to the stable. Breathing hard, the agent gaped at him, then over his shoulder, and, clearly making up his mind, almost barreled straight into Donovan in his haste to reach the nearest stall—the same one where Donovan had just dumped a full shovelful of manure. “What the—?”
“She’s coming right for the stable, my lord! Oh, cover me up, I’m begging you! She’s seen me and she’s got that look on her face—fit to kill, God help me!”
“Who’s fit to kill?” Donovan demanded, but he got no answer as Gilbert burrowed like a frightened mole into the filthy straw and horse dung.
Cursing, Donovan dropped the shovel and went to the stable doors just in time to see the most curious sight—an auburn-haired wench riding recklessly toward the entrance atop a black and white pony with the rolling gait of a foundering ship, her plain brown cloak flying like a sail behind her, her legs so long and the stout little pony so squat that the stirrups were bouncing uselessly, the irate rider’s feet skimming the ground.
For Donovan could see that the young woman was furious. As if he weren’t standing there, she dismounted at a run and swept past him into the stable, dark eyes ablaze, her face flushed pink with indignation.
“Where are you, Henry Gilbert? I saw you run in here, you sniveling rat! You’ll not hide from me again!”
Donovan watched in bemused silence as she crisscrossed from stall to stall, kicking at the straw. A jilted mistress? Some local chit found herself in the family way and left to fend for herself? If so, Gilbert had clearly scorned the wrong woman. As she reached the last of the stalls, not having found her quarry, she lunged for a pitchfork resting in a corner.
“Come out now and face me like a man, you worm! If you can have a hand in taking the food from a babe’s mouth, then you can answer for it too!” With that, she jabbed at the straw in the closest stall, then the next, drawing nearer and nearer to where poor Gilbert lay huddled.
“I’d suggest you show yourself, Gilbert,” Donovan advised dryly, thinking that whatever the man had done to inspire such wrath, he probably deserved it. “She’s got a pitchfork—”
“Yes, I do, and I certainly don’t need your help, thank you very much!” Corisande said in exasperation, whirling upon the resonant male voice that had sounded behind her. She could see a tall strapping shape in the shadows, but the morning sunlight was so bright coming in from the stable doors that she couldn’t make out the man’s face. “Just go about your work, whoever you are, and I’ll tend to my own business!”
She did, too, turning back to the stalls with a vengeance and stabbing the pitchfork into another heaping pile of straw as the horses added their nervous whinnying to the fray. But just as she came to the last partition, the pitchfork poised above a suspicious-looking lump that bore the rounded leather point of a man’s boot at one end, Corisande’s weapon was wrested from her so suddenly that she fell backward, crying out as a steely masculine arm clamped around her waist.
“I think that’s enough, Miss—”
“Easton. Corisande Easton!” came Gilbert’s muffled voice. “The parson’s daughter, God help us!”
“And God help you if you don’t release me!” Corisande shouted at her assailant, wriggling and flailing her arms. But she shrieked full voice when she was swept off her feet into the air, her captor carrying her with long strides outside into the sunshine. Only then did she get a good look at his face, and his expression silenced her, the stranger scowling so deeply that she wondered with a rush of apprehension what he intended to do with her.
She’d never seen him before, of that she was certain. The man was as swarthy and dark as a Gypsy, his wildly unkempt hair long at the neck and jet-black against the white of his shirt. So was the thick springy hair beneath her splayed fingers, the man’s massive chest as hard as stone and damp with sweat …
“Oh … oh, my!” In horror, Corisande snatched away her hand, her widened gaze jumping from her captor’s half unbuttoned shirt to eyes even darker than her own, so dark, in fact, that they appeared almost pitch-black.
And they were trained full upon her, his quizzical scrutiny making her squirm, his scowl now but half as deep. With a near physical jolt, she realized how incredibly handsome he was, his stunning, lean-cut features the stuff of women’s dreams. She began to wriggle in earnest, feeling more uncomfortable and strange and altogether unsettled than she could recall in her life. Even her skin felt odd, her cheeks blistering hot, and here it was a cool spring day!
“Please … let me down,” she croaked, becoming even more discomfited that her voice—her voice, for heaven’s sake!—had failed her.
To her utter relief, her captor obliged, and the feel of solid ground helped to calm her racing heart. At least until she realized his hands still encircled her waist, strong hands, too, and massive like the rest of the man.
She was considered tall by most standards—at five feet and nine she had Lindsay beat by three inches—and almost embarrassingly long-limbed, but now she was experiencing the rare sensation of looking up at a man instead of almost eye to eye. He was still staring at her, too, his hands a disconcerting heaviness at her waist, and … and, why the devil was he still holding on to her?
“If you don’t mind, sir,” she began stiffly, grateful that her normal speaking voice had returned as well as a healthy dose of indignation. “Kindly release me this very instant. I’ve no idea what you’re thinking, but—”
“I was thinking that it’s unlikely you’re Gilbert’s mistress as I first imagined, though if so, it wouldn’t be the first time a parson’s daughter has gone awry.”
Chapter 5
Donovan wasn’t surprised at the reaction his blunt comment received, the young woman’s mouth falling open in shock.
A very nice mouth, too, her lips generous and full, and probably never been kissed, considering how her cheeks had flamed bright red when she realized her hand rested upon his bared chest. Probably never been this close to a man, either, which confirmed his instinct that the chit was a raw innocent. He wondered at the semicircular scar on her right cheek, though, marring what otherwise was quite a pretty face and yet which made her features oddly more interesting.
He felt an interesting womanly figure beneath his hands, too, though he’d never have guessed her waist could be so slim beneath her dowdy pea-green dress. And with her hair falling from its lopsided bun, she looked a perfect ragamuffin, this woman whom he could feel was tensing like a coiled spring.
“Henry Gilbert’s mistress?” came her incredulous hiss, her lovely brown eyes—shot through with glints of bottle-green, he suddenly noticed—narrowing at him ominously. “You thought that … that spineless, gutless, callous-hearted, miserable—”
“Gilbert has his faults, I admit,” Donovan cut in, noting as well that his infuriated captive’s hands had balled into tight fists. “But that doesn’t mean I want to see him pierced full of holes by some wild-tempered parson’s daughter waving a pitchfork. If you’ve a complaint, Miss …”
“Easton! Didn’t you hear the man? Corisande Easton!”
Donovan winced, his ears ringing at her shouting. “Very well, Miss Easton. As I was saying, if you’ve a complaint—and I’ve no doubt that you do—we’ll settle it now and be done with the matter. That is, of course, if you promise to leave my agent in peace. He’s probably suffocating under all that hay, but I don’t intend to release you until I’ve your word—Miss Easton, did you hear me?”
Oh, yes, Corisande had heard him, but she could only stare at him in mute disbelief.
His agent? He had said that, hadn’t he? Her eyes swept over him, from the fine white lawn of his shirt and
the snug fit of his buckskin breeches to his dusty black riding boots. No telling white neckcloth, but a gentleman’s dress all the same. And his expression reflecting pure arrogance, his overbearing tone, clearly that of a man accustomed to giving orders and having them instantly obeyed. Good God, why hadn’t she noticed?
“Miss Easton.” His big hands moved from her waist to her shoulders, and he gave her a firm shake as if she were a drooling idiot. “Are you listening to me, young wo—”
“You’re the bloody Duke of Arundale, aren’t you?” Knocking away his hands, Corisande couldn’t help herself as three long years of frustration and anger burst inside her. She began to shriek like a fishwife. “You’ve finally come to see your precious mine, have you? To count your precious money while the poor tinners and their families are half starving around you! Well, I hope your greedy father rots in hell for all he’s done, and the same goes for you and your rat of an agent!”
“Miss Easton, I’m not—”
“You’re a blight on humanity, is what you are, Your Grace.” Corisande cut him off, so furious now that she shoved him with the flat of her hands, to no effect. The big lout was as solid and immovable as a boulder and scowling again, too, but by God, she would have her say!
“I suppose you’re planning to give that bastard Jack Pascoe an extra month’s wage for saving you so much money over the years, aren’t you?” she accused, glaring at him.
“Actually—”
“Did it ever occur to you to consider the suffering that man has caused since Gilbert hired him to manage your mine? The crushed hopes? The tears? He’s cut wages, a bit here and a bit there—with your father’s blessing and now yours, no doubt—so many times that I’ve lost count! And the men’s pay was never enough to afford them more than a dirt floor hut at the start! Now you’ve cut the wages so low that there’s scarcely coin to keep the thatch roofs over their heads, let alone broth on the table—”
“Dammit, woman, if you don’t cease your shouting, I’ll soon be deaf—”
“Deaf and lucky, too, if you manage to squeak by the gates of heaven with all the terrible sins on your head! But you’ve a chance to make things right, if you’ve got a shred of decency at all, starting with dismissing Jack Pascoe this very day and raising the men’s wages. I can’t believe a man would want to journey through life known as a cruel, tightfisted tyrant when instead he could earn himself some respect—”
“For the last time, Miss Easton,” Donovan interrupted, having to half shout himself to be heard over her harangue, “I’m trying to tell you that I’m not the bloody Duke of Arundale, as you so delicately put it—surely language one doesn’t often hear from a vicar’s daughter.” He gave a dry snort. “But then, I’ve never seen any vicar’s daughter like you.”
To his surprise, she had no reply to that sarcastic remark, instead blinking at him as if he’d just knocked the wind right out of her sails.
“You—you’re not the duke?”
“No. My brother, Nigel, wears the title, and he can damned well have it. I only wish he’d been here to enjoy your tirade rather than me.”
She immediately bristled, and Donovan braced for the worst. “Oh, so you think I’m just airing my lungs, do you, Lord … ?”
“Donovan Trent.”
“Well, then, Lord Donovan, everything I’ve said applies to you as much as your titled brother! You’re all one and the same as far as I’m concerned. Blackguards, scoundrels, villains of the worst degree to deny food to hungry children and pregnant women! Despoilers, base criminals…”
While her vehement list grew longer, Donovan felt his own temper boiling because she’d lumped him together with his late father and Nigel. Hell and damnation, he’d been at war in Spain these past years, with no knowledge of his family’s actions!
What was worse, the chit had tried, judged, and executed him before he’d been able to get in a single good word for himself. Wouldn’t her face flare red if she knew he’d already called for the changes she demanded, though he’d be damned if he was going to explain himself to her now, the untidy baggage.
It was obvious she cared passionately for her cause to berate him up and down like a veritable harpy, but let her find out for herself that the Trents of Dorset weren’t all cut from the same wretched cloth—yet, hell, she’d probably still distrust his motives anyway, given who he was. But what in blazes did he care what Miss Corisande Easton thought of him? As soon as he found a way out of his current predicament, he’d be gone from Cornwall so fast that …
Donovan didn’t finish the thought, his eyes sweeping over the incensed young woman standing before him as if seeing her for the very first time.
By God, of course! It could work, though it irritated the hell out of him that he’d have to go to such lengths to gain his inheritance, damn his father’s soul. But he’d do anything if it would help him find Paloma. Why not use this situation to his benefit? This woman wasn’t gentry, but a country-bred parson’s daughter couldn’t be said not to come from good family, oh, no, indeed.
“… uncaring, selfish creatures who should crawl under the nearest rock for shame of everything they’ve done! Better yet, you deserve every curse that could befall a household. Fire, pestilence, the pox—”
“Are you betrothed, Miss Easton?”
Startled, Corisande stopped in mid-sentence and gaped at the man. She’d been expecting some reply, her heated attack clearly riling him as his swarthy face had grown darker. But this? “I—I don’t see that your having the pox has anything to do with my being betrothed. Or that my personal affairs are any of your business.”
“That’s what we’re discussing now, Miss Easton. Business. A business arrangement, to be exact.” To her amazement, he took her by the elbow and half pulled her along with him until, some forty feet from the stable, he seemed satisfied and stopped beneath a tall, stately elm to face her, keeping his voice very low. “Are you betrothed or not?”
She felt her face burning as with fever, why, she wasn’t sure. She really shouldn’t answer—didn’t have to answer. But for some strange reason, she slowly shook her head.
“Can’t say that I’m surprised,” came his wry response, which only made Corisande bristle again.
“If you mean to insult me, my lord—”
“No, I mean to ask you if you’d be my wife.”
She gulped, flushing now all the way down to her toes. But before she could say a word, he continued, his tone very matter-of-fact and more than a little brusque.
“It’s merely a business arrangement, Miss Easton. Nothing more, I assure you, and one I believe you’d be a fool to refuse. A very temporary marriage in exchange for the improved well-being of the miners and their families—”
“Not miners,” she interrupted stiffly, finding it difficult to believe a thing she was hearing. It was all so incredible, how could she? “We call them tinners here.”
“Very well, tinners. As I was saying, a temporary marriage that will be annulled no more than a few weeks after the wedding, my father’s will stipulating that I cannot receive my inheritance until I’ve taken a bride. But I don’t want a bride, and I don’t want to be married—especially if I’m being forced into it. I’m only complying because I need the money. That’s why I’m here in Cornwall.” Donovan waved his arm in disgust at the house and surrounding estate. “Do you think I’d have come to this ramshackle place for any other reason? Now, you want my help for the tinners, and I need a bride. You look intelligent enough to recognize a mutually profitable situation, Miss Easton. What is your answer?”
Corisande met his eyes, which had become as black as midnight in this shaded spot. “Truthfully, my lord, you’re the last man on God’s earth I’d consent to wed, or ever trust for that matter. Don’t count on me to help you win your bloody inheritance.”
With that, she wrenched away her arm and turned, gasping when she was suddenly pulled back to face him.
“So your concern for the tinners and their hungry fa
milies is merely skin-deep, I see.”
“Not at all,” she answered tightly, lifting her chin. “I simply don’t believe that you’re a man of your word. That you won’t lend help simply out of charity for those less fortunate than yourself is perfect proof of your gross lack of character. How do I know that your promised support for the tinners wouldn’t be just as temporary?”
“My inheritance includes the controlling share of Arundale’s Kitchen, Miss Easton. Therefore anything I say to be done, will be done. But since you’re so distrustful of my word, I’ll have a legal document drawn up that would ensure that the tinners continue to be paid fairly.”
“That is all well and good, sir, but as you said, your word means little to me. Perhaps if I saw that you truly intend to help the tinners … oh!”
Corisande’s heart flew to her throat as Donovan grabbed her by the hand and began to stride toward the stable, making her run to keep up with him. But he let go of her as soon as they were inside the doors, the stable quiet but for the low nickering of the horses and a faint wheezing coming from one of the stalls. She watched wide-eyed as Donovan reached into the dirty straw and pulled Henry Gilbert out by the seat of his pants, the agent coughing and sputtering as he gulped fresh air.
“Is—is she gone, my lord? God bless me, that was a close call—” Henry Gilbert didn’t finish, gaping at Corisande with teary, bloodshot eyes—the manure smell emanating from the man so ripe that she felt her own eyes begin to water. “But—but she’s still here, my lord! Right there, standing right behind you!”
“Get on your horse, Gilbert,” Donovan ordered, hoping that the agent wouldn’t say too much and give everything away. Later he’d speak to the man about keeping his mouth shut, but right now it was impossible with Corisande only a few feet away. “Don’t worry about Miss Easton or her pitchfork. I want you to ride to the mine and dismiss Jack Pascoe at once, then hire on a man the tinners trust.”
Secrets of Midnight Page 4