by Candace Camp
Not long ago, he had spent hours at a time here, carefully preserving his collection of medieval writings. Now he merely strolled past the cabinets, drinking in the beauty of the illuminated manuscripts, the gilt and jewel-like colors of the ornate letters, the cunning drawings hidden among the curlicues. Studying these painstaking works of countless monks never failed to soothe him.
Was it faith or art that fueled their efforts?
Cynically he had always assumed that it was a love of beauty that inspired the monks, the same joy and yearning that swelled in his chest as he gazed at them. But perhaps, in the good brothers, at least, that sweet ache had been faith. James was not well enough acquainted with such things to know.
He leaned his forehead against the cool glass of a display case, the vicious pain in his head increasing. His heart began its now-familiar pounding, stuttering in that way that shot a spear of panic through him. It would pass, he knew, but deep down he could not quite suppress the fear that this time it would not.
This was the last time he would see the manuscripts. He hated to leave them, but they were too delicate to pack and cart about the countryside. And his longing for the verdant gardens and spacious rooms of Grace Hill was stronger than his love of any art. It was time to go there.
But first he had to go to bloody, benighted Canterbury. Why had he been so weak as to agree to Graeme’s urgings? But he knew the answer to that—deep down inside him there still grew a tender green shoot of hope. Futile though it would doubtless turn out to be, James was unable to ignore it.
He would seek out Laura Hinsdale’s father. And some irrepressible sense of mischief, some spark of humor that refused to leave him, made him smile, thinking of the look on Miss Hinsdale’s face when he crossed her threshold again.
chapter 2
Laura gazed at the cluttered room. She had packed most of their remaining belongings, but she had not had the heart to enter her father’s study. Now, looking at his books and papers haphazardly stacked and fallen and wedged in wherever they would go, the long scarred table on which sat beakers and dishes and various pots and jars, tears clogged her throat anew.
It was so unfair, so vastly unfair that a good, kind, intelligent man like her father, a man who had spent his life healing others, should be taken away at his young age when so many other men far less worthy than he survived. Venal, brutal men like Sid Merton.
She scowled at the thought of their landlord. He would be coming around today, wanting his money in full—no matter that her father had been in his grave less than two weeks. She had sold everything she could the past few days, but not many people wanted medical tomes or old, well-worn furniture. A doctor in the next village had purchased her father’s instruments, and she thought one of the men with whom her father had corresponded might buy some of his library, but it was scarcely enough to pay her father’s debts.
She could only hope that she could stave off Merton with it, allowing her time to try to find the rest of the money . . . though God only knew how she would manage that feat. Panic seized her as it had several times since her father’s death, flooding her chest and throat as if to choke her. What was she to do?
A heavy succession of thuds against the door of the cottage made her jump. It would be Merton. Who else would hammer so gracelessly at a house in mourning?
Laura opened the door with all the calm and dignity she could muster and faced Sid Merton. Tall and broad, he was accustomed to intimidating everyone with his size. The fact that neither Laura nor her father had allowed him to bully them had offended Merton and seemingly made him determined to prove that he was to be feared.
He started inside, but Laura neatly sidestepped him, slipping out of the house and into the yard, so that to talk to her Merton had to turn away from the door. She waited for him to speak, her face set in the calm aristocratic mask she knew he hated.
She could hear faint noises from the street in the background—the rumble of a wagon farther down the road, the swish of a broom sweeping the stoop across the street, a child’s high-pitched laughter. She hoped even Sid Merton would think twice about threatening her in public view.
“Have you got it, then? I want my money.” Merton scowled, thrusting out his hand.
“I have sold some of Papa’s things.” Laura reached into her pocket and pulled out a coin purse, opening it and pouring the contents into his outstretched palm.
“This?” He stared at the pitifully small pile in the center of his beefy hand. “This is what you’re giving me?”
Laura reached into her other pocket, withdrawing two paper pound notes, and laid them on top of the coins. “And this. It’s all I’ve been able to get so far, but I’m sure I’ll manage more if you will but give me a little time.”
“That’s not even half what you owe me. And that’s only for the note your father signed. You’re also behind in your rent. Four weeks behind.” He held up his other hand, fingers spread and thumb tucked in, to demonstrate.
“Yes. I am aware how many four is,” Laura retorted. “But—”
“Are you mocking me?” He took a long step forward, looming over her. “D’ya think this is a joke?”
“Believe me, I find nothing humorous in my situation.”
“You think I should just let you stay here for free?”
“I’m not asking for that.” Laura’s hand curled her fingers into her skirts, struggling to maintain her calm. “But my father passed quite recently, as you know. It will take a bit of time for me to settle his affairs. I’ll find a way to pay you the rest if you would only—”
“Oh, I could let you stay here.” Merton smiled in a way that sent a shiver of dread down her spine. He reached out to wrap his thick fingers around her wrist. “If you were a bit nicer to me, maybe.”
Laura stiffened, fury coursing through her. Behind her she heard the jingle of horses in harness and the roll of wheels, but she paid no attention. “I’d sooner go to debtors’ prison than be ‘nice’ to you.”
“Fine by me.” He yanked her forward, and she slammed against his broad chest. Jerking her arm up behind her back, he bent over her. “I like a bit of a fight.”
“Stop!” Laura wedged her other arm between them and pushed with all her strength, turning her head aside. A sharp pain shot up her twisted arm. “Let go of me!”
Behind them a man loudly cleared his voice. “I beg your pardon.”
Merton straightened to glare over Laura’s head at the man who had dared interrupt him. His grip slackened enough for Laura to turn, easing the pain in her shoulder, and edge away from Merton.
A tall, thin man, his face shadowed by a hat, stood at the edge of their yard, a team of horses and a carriage behind him. His pose was studiedly careless, weight on one leg and a hand resting lightly on the head of a gold-knobbed cane. In a cool, faintly bored voice, steeped in aristocratic hauteur, he went on, “It appears your suit is unwelcome to the lady.”
“What business is it of yours?” Merton snarled.
“Well, you see, I have come to speak with her father.” He swept off his hat and sketched a bow to Laura. “Good afternoon, Miss Hinsdale. I hope I have not arrived at an inopportune time.”
“James de Vere?” Laura stared. Graeme’s cousin was the last person she expected to see in her yard. He looked older and thinner than the last time she’d seen him, when he’d come to inform her that she must give up the man she loved. But he was just as coldly handsome, his tone as supercilious. It was humiliating that he of all people should find her grappling with Sid Merton in front of her house. Even more humiliating, given her current situation, she must hope for his help.
Beside her, Merton let out a short, harsh laugh. “I wish you luck with that.”
Sir James’s brows lifted faintly at the words, but he ignored Merton, saying, “If you would be so kind, Miss Hinsdale, I would appreciate a bit of your time. If, of course, you are not otherwise occupied.”
“I am perfectly free.” Laura took another step a
way, jerking her arm as hard as she could. Merton’s grip did not loosen.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Merton growled.
James turned a disdainful gaze on him. “You, my good man, are becoming tiresome.”
“Tiresome!” Merton gaped at him.
“Time you left, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t think.” Merton tossed back James’s words in a smug, singsong mockery.
“Mm. Clearly.”
The large man flushed with anger. Naturally, Sir James would come to one’s rescue in an irritating manner. Even the way he stood was insulting, too certain he would have his way to bother bracing for a fight. His arrogance would probably cow many men, but Sid Merton was a bully used to relying on his size and his fists to get what he wanted. It would take more than a haughty attitude to intimidate him.
“Sir James . . .” Laura began in a conciliatory fashion, hoping she could convey to him the need to tread lightly.
Both men ignored her.
“You’re the one who’s leaving.” Merton scowled menacingly, his free hand knotting into a fist.
“I think not. For the last time, release Miss Hinsdale and go.”
Merton let out a scornful laugh, making a show of looking the other man up and down. “You think you’re going to make me?”
“No.” James smiled thinly. He snapped his fingers, and the largest dog Laura had ever seen jumped out of the open carriage door. “He is.”
chapter 3
There was a dead silence as both Laura and Merton gaped at the dog. The top of his square head was level with James’s waist—and James was a tall man. The animal’s muscular body was a mottled combination of black and yellowish tan, but the muzzle and face were entirely black, as if he wore a mask, and it rendered his eyes barely visible, giving him an even more sinister appearance.
James flicked his hand toward Laura. “Guard her.”
The dog stalked over—he was even more terrifying at close range—and took up a stance beside Laura, fixing Merton with his unswerving gaze. Color drained from the big man’s face and he dropped Laura’s arm. Shooting her a final vicious look, Merton whirled and strode away, not glancing in Sir James’s direction.
Laura’s stunned gaze followed him for a moment, then went to James. Gratitude mingled awkwardly with her years-old dislike. “I, um, thank you.”
Sir James gave a careless shrug and strolled toward her. As he drew close, she could see that purplish shadows were smudged beneath his eyes and his face was etched with lines of weariness. “I could hardly allow the churl to accost you. And he was annoying me.”
Obviously Sir James accepted gratitude as gracelessly as he did everything else. Laura looked down at the dog. Her gaze hadn’t very far to go. The animal regarded her gravely, the thick wrinkles above his eyes giving him a worried look.
“And thank you,” she told the dog. He accepted the compliment better than his master, giving a single wag of his tail as he continued to study her. Laura was someone who generally liked dogs, but this one made her a trifle wary. “May I pet him?”
“You’re wise to ask.” James might look older and more worn, but his voice was the same, delivering whatever he said in a cool, faintly ironic tone, dipping now and then into ice but never warming. She remembered it well; their last conversation had lingered in her thoughts for a long time. “But, yes, you may touch him. He’s not likely to bite your hand off.”
“Not likely? That’s reassuring.” She stroked her hand across the wrinkled head. He allowed her caress without losing any of his dignity—no tail-beating, rear-end-wiggling, hand-licking response from him. His calm steady gaze was a trifle unnerving. “Trust you to have a pet that terrifies people.”
She thought the noise James made was a chuckle. “Trust you not to back away from him.”
Had he just given her a compliment? It seemed unlikely. “What’s his name?”
“Demosthenes.”
“Demosthenes?” Her eyes flicked up to his. “The orator?”
“And seeker of truth.” James gave her a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes; it was the only kind she had ever seen on his face. “He has a knack for pulling the truth out of people.”
“Mm. I imagine he can be very persuasive.” Laura smiled.
James shifted and cleared his throat. “Miss Hinsdale . . . as I told that oaf, I’ve come to see your father. Is Dr. Hinsdale in?”
Unexpectedly, tears filled Laura’s eyes. She had not cried for a few days, but somehow now, at his casual mention of her father’s name, she was pierced all anew. She could see James’s eyes widen slightly, his faint but unmistakable pulling back.
“What—” he began, but left the sentence dangling.
“Papa died two weeks ago,” she told him baldly. No need to couch things in a genteel manner with this man.
Despair gazed back at her for an instant before the mask descended once again on James’s face. “I see.” His hand tightened on the head of his cane and he appeared to lean on it now rather than use it as a whim of fashion. “Well, that’s that, then.” He glanced away. “My condolences.” Then, awkwardly, “I am sorry, Laura.”
“Thank you.” The use of her given name startled her; he had not addressed her so since they were children. Though he was Graeme’s cousin, he had never been Laura’s friend. But there was a genuineness to his brief statement that unexpectedly touched her. “Would you like to come in?”
He looked as if he needed to sit down.
“Oh. Well.” James’s face was tinged with an uncertainty she had never seen in him. “Yes, thank you.”
He followed her into the house, pausing at the doorway. “Perhaps you’d rather Dem not enter.”
“Why?” She looked over at the dog. “He was my rescuer, after all.”
“He is also rather large, and he has a deplorable tendency to, um, salivate.”
As if to demonstrate, Dem shook himself vigorously, sending slobber flying from his drooping jowls. Laura laughed. Somehow it made the impassive dog less intimidating.
“I see what you mean. Still, he deserves a treat, don’t you think? I suspect we can handle a bit of a shower.”
Both man and dog trailed after her as she went into the kitchen. Filling a large bowl with water, she set it down on the floor. While Demosthenes lapped up water, she fished through a pan on the stove, coming up with a bone, which she placed on a plate beside the dog.
“You have made a friend for life.”
At James’s words, Laura turned toward him. He stood in the doorway, still perfectly straight, but there was something unutterably weary in his face. He was ill; that would be why he had come to see her father. It must be something dire to have led him here. Not, of course, that he would deign to tell her. She gestured toward the kitchen table.
“Won’t you sit down? Or perhaps you’d rather sit in the parlor.” Sir James was not the sort of man who visited in the kitchen.
“This is fine.”
“Would you care for tea?” She moved to the stove to heat the kettle without waiting for an answer.
“Thank you, no,” he replied, but when she set the cups down on the table a few minutes later, he took a sip.
It was exceedingly strange to be sitting at the kitchen table with Sir James de Vere, sharing tea. Laura cast about for something to say. “I’m sorry you came all this way. Can I help you, perhaps, or . . .” Laura trailed off.
“Thank you, no,” he said again, with as little emotion as he had earlier rejected her offer of tea. “It was a professional matter. Graeme suggested it. Clearly, he was not aware of your father’s passing.”
“No.” Laura shook her head. “I haven’t written his mother yet. It must be such a happy time at Lydcombe Hall, with the new baby. I hated to bring up anything sad.”
“I am sure Aunt Mirabelle would want to know, however. And Graeme.”
“Yes, she’s always been very kind to me. She and my mother were close friends.”
“I remember. I shall tell them, if you wish, when I reach Grace Hill.”
“Thank you. Pray tell her that I will write soon.”
Another silence fell. The dog’s crunching of the bone seemed inordinately loud.
“What sort of dog is he?” Laura dredged up another topic.
“A mastiff. He’s a good watchdog, though not as fierce as he looks.”
“I would think his appearance would suffice.”
James smiled faintly. “Generally.” He glanced around at the emptied cabinets and filled boxes. “What will you do now?”
“I haven’t decided. Perhaps I’ll go to my father’s relatives.” Laura could not entirely keep her distaste for that idea from coloring her voice, so she forced a smile to negate it.
“I am sure Aunt Mirabelle would be happy for you to visit, um . . .” He cleared his throat. Laura suspected he had belatedly realized the awkwardness of Laura’s presence in the house of the man who had once loved her.
“Yes, Lady Montclair is very kind, but the situation is—it hardly seems the time to intrude upon them. The new baby . . .”
“Of course. Well, I . . .” He pushed up from the table. “I should go.”
She stood up, as well, relieved to be rid of him—though she would rather miss the reassuring presence of the enormous dog stretched out on her kitchen floor, gnawing at the soup bone. For a moment her home felt warm again, as it had on so many nights when she sat with her father in this very room, talking about his research or an unusual medical case.
James hesitated. “About that fellow . . . will he return?”
“I feel sure he learned his lesson.” That was a lie. Merton would doubtless be back tomorrow; he wouldn’t give up the money her father owed him. But she wasn’t about to reveal all the miserable details of her life to James de Vere. She would simply have to manage to stay out of Merton’s clutches.
“But . . .” From the way he frowned, she suspected James didn’t believe her. He would probably also guess that the man had been hounding her for money. He had seen the small cottage and its rather shabby furniture. It made her cringe to imagine what his thoughts were.