The Charmer

by CJ Archer

Orlando nodded a greeting to the man standing near the stable entrance. The stranger nodded back without taking his cool gray gaze off Orlando.

  "My name's Holt," Orlando said. "I'm the gardener at Stoneleigh across the way."

  "Monk," the stranger said.

  "That a name or a description?"

  "Whatever you want it to be." He sounded bored, as if he'd heard the jest a thousand times and given the same response. He was a tall, lean man with brown hair and the sort of face women looked twice at if he passed them. His clothes were that of a country gentleman, well-tailored to his broad-shouldered frame but not as ostentatious as Lynden. The ruff was small and there was no lace in sight.

  "So why does the gardener at Stoneleigh want to speak to me? I wouldn't know an apple tree from a cherry, so I doubt it's for advice." Monk smiled and Orlando smiled back, despite his unease. Monk's stance was deceptively casual. Most observers would think him simply a man enjoying a conversation with another, but Orlando knew differently. One hand rested on his hip near the sword strapped there, his other was at his side, the fingers flexed. He stood with his weight evenly balanced on both feet, blocking the exit.

  So Monk was defensive and prepared to fight. That meant he had something to hide.

  Orlando held up his hands. Perhaps it was foolish to take them away from the dagger tucked into his belt, but he was playing the role of a simple, unthreatening gardener. "My apologies, it's nothing personal, but I was told by Milner at The Plough that you and I were the only strangers to come to the village lately."

  "So?"

  The swish of the broom behind him stilled. The lad was listening too. "There was an intruder at Stoneleigh last night," Orlando said.

  The stable boy gasped then swore softly. Monk blinked and a small line appeared between his brows. "And you think I am that intruder."

  Orlando shrugged one shoulder. "As strangers passing through, we are always the first to be accused of such crimes. It was not me, however."

  "Why not report it to Lord Lynden? He is the justice of the peace, is he not?"

  "Aye," the lad said, "he is."

  "Lady Lynden plans on doing just that," Orlando said. "Perhaps she has already been here."

  "Perhaps she has," Monk said. "I've been out riding, so I wouldn't know."

  "If Lord Lynden or one of the servants can vouch for your whereabouts then all is well. One of the maids perhaps? It was late at night."

  The gray eyes turned as cold and hard as flint. "Lord Lynden will tell you I was with him. We were up late talking. The servants were all asleep. Ask him."

  "No need," Orlando said cheerfully. "I'm sure he'll say the same thing." Whether it was true or not didn't matter. Lynden would vouch for Monk, or Monk wouldn't have spoken with such certainty. "So what is the nature of your business here at Sutton Hall?"

  That got a bigger reaction from Monk than anything so far. He actually laughed and looked genuinely amused. "You're asking me what my business here is?"

  "There are few servants at Stoneleigh and none of them are young. Mr. Farley is aged and Lady Lynden is unwed. I've taken it upon myself to find out what I can about the intruder."

  "Think yourself her champion, do you?" Monk's laughter vanished, replaced with a sneering lift of his top lip. "I hear she's very beautiful."

  Could Orlando hit him before the other man drew his sword? He would like to thump that smirk off his face.

  "Your business here...?" Orlando prompted.

  "Is not your business, Mr. Holt. It's between Lord Lynden and myself. Now, I suggest you return to your lovely mistress before she discards you in favor of another...gardener."

  Orlando smiled when all he felt was a simmering anger welling inside. "You sound like a man who's suffered at the hands of a beautiful woman before. But don't fear on my account," he said lightly, "I've never been discarded in favor of another. I think you'll find it's always the other way around."

  He touched the brim of his hat in farewell and pushed past Monk. Most men would step in front of him at such a juncture or give a challenging punch to his shoulder, but Monk did not. Orlando may have only spoken to him briefly, but he already knew Monk was not so petty as that.

  Orlando did, however, feel the intense gray gaze slicing into his back like needles of ice.