Dangerous to Kiss (51 page)

If you loved
DANGEROUS TO KISS
,
don’t miss

Y
OU
O
NLY
L
OVE
T
WICE

by award-winning author
Elizabeth Thornton

On sale now

Read on for a preview of this spectacular
historical romance …

Jessica Hayward.
She paused to savor the sound of her name, then went back to kneading the dough for the day’s bread. She still found it hard to believe. She didn’t feel like a stray anymore. She was a real person, Jessica Hayward, and she’d come home.

Not that Hawkshill Manor belonged to her. It had been sold to Lord Dundas to pay off unpaid taxes. It was no great matter. The house didn’t feel like home. There was no sense of welcome. It was only a redbrick building, and “manor” was too grand a word for the six rooms on the ground floor and the equal number of bedrooms on the floor above. From the numerous outhouses, one could tell that Hawkshill had once been a working farm, but that was before it had fallen into decay. And a working farm it would become again if the Sisters of Charity had anything to do with it. It was a dream the mother superior had long cherished—to train the older boys in the orphanage for a trade, and everything had fallen out, so she’d said, as though it had been ordained.

Ordained.
Jessica couldn’t help smiling. All that meant was that when Father Howie had made inquiries on her behalf, he’d discovered that Hawkshill had lain empty for three years and could be rented for a song. The landlord obviously had no interest in the place. He spent most of his time in London or at his estate in
Hertfordshire. According to his attorney, there was every chance his lordship could be persuaded to waive the rent if he thought it was in a good cause. Lord Dundas was known to be a very generous man.

And so here they were on a scouting expedition, she and Sisters Dolores and Elvira, along with old Joseph, the burly former pugilist turned convent doorman who was now their watchdog.
Sweet.
That’s what it was. The Reverend Mother and Father Howie wouldn’t allow her to return to Hawkshill by herself, and when they’d seen that nothing could dissuade her, they’d found a way to satisfy her wishes as well as their own. There was one thing, however, on which she would not give way. She was no longer Sister Martha, no longer in the garb of a novice. Deep down, she’d always suspected she had no vocation, and after all the half-truths and evasions she’d told, she was convinced of it. She was plain Miss Jessica Hayward now, and dressed in the cast-off clothing of some anonymous benefactor’s daughter, to suit her new station in life.

Her new station in life. She absently dipped one hand into the crock of flour by her elbow, rubbed her hands together, and began to divide the dough into three equal parts. She would not have been human if she hadn’t been avidly curious to know all about herself and the life she’d once had. All that Father Howie had discovered was that she had no living relatives, no kin to go to. Whether she had friends or not remained to be seen.

She had one friend, Mr. Charles Wilde. Yesterday, he’d stopped her in Sheep Street and had seemed really pleased to see her. It had been an awkward moment for her. She didn’t want anyone to know she’d lost her
memory. Though she knew she was being irrational, she couldn’t help what she was feeling. She was ashamed, fearful. She didn’t want fingers pointing at her or people whispering behind her back, saying that she was odd. What she wanted more than anything was to be treated as an ordinary girl.

Oh yes, just an ordinary girl! If they ever got to know of her Voice, they would do to her what they’d done to Joan of Arc.

Time and enough to think of that later. For the present, it was her job to bake the bread. And when she’d finished with that, there were strawberry tarts to make. In fact, there was no end of work to keep her busy. The house looked well enough from the outside, but inside it was a shambles. The day before, after they arrived, they’d done no more than clean out the kitchen and one of the bedrooms. When Sisters Dolores and Elvira returned from Stratford, where they’d gone to fetch supplies, they were going to tackle the rest of the house, with Joseph doing most of the heavy work. Meanwhile, he was out searching for firewood and she had bread, scones, and pies to make.

She worked quickly now, patting the dough into three loaves and covering them with a damp cloth before setting them aside. There were no eggs to be had, so she used milk to brush the surface of the scones she’d just made, and grasping the long wooden panel at the side of the fireplace, she eased them into the brick oven. The heat from the fire was scorching hot, and when the scones were in place, she shut the door with a snap and swiftly stepped back. It took only a few moments to set out the ingredients for her strawberry tarts.

She straightened and stretched her spine. The table was too low for comfort, and if she were going to do most of the cooking, which seemed likely, one of the first things they would have to do was replace it or she would end up with a permanent backache. To ease her aching muscles, she took a few paces around the kitchen, then wandered into the breakfast room and into the front hall.

There was a long cracked pier glass between two doors, and though she always avoided looking at herself when the Sisters were there, she had to admit that nothing in the house fascinated her half as much as that looking glass. There were no mirrors in the convent that were bigger than a thumbnail. Until now, she’d never seen more than pieces of her face at one time.

The girl in the looking glass stared solemnly back at her. Jessica moved closer and traced the reflection of her eyes, her brows, her nose, her chin. She smiled, she frowned, she turned this way and that to get a better look at herself. Though she was by no means sure, she thought her best feature might be her hair. It was the color of honey and the curl could only be tamed when she did it in a long plait, as now. Her figure—she removed her apron and set it on a bench—she thought was too thin. The high-waisted spotted muslin hung on her loosely. She pinched it between her fingers to get a smoother fit. That was better. She wondered if that nice young man she’d met on Sheep Street thought she was pretty.

No sooner had the thought occurred to her than she gasped and jumped back. This was vanity! She shouldn’t be thinking these thoughts! The mother superior was
right. Idleness was an invention of the devil. She should get back to work.

She was reaching for her apron when she heard the clatter of a horse’s hooves on the approach to the house. Her heart gave a leap. It might be that nice Mr. Wilde, coming to call, or a friend who had heard from him that she was back in Hawkshill. Nerves fluttered in the pit of her stomach. Breathing deeply, she opened the door and stepped onto the porch.

When she saw the horse and rider, she felt a shiver of alarm. The man on the horse looked as though he might have stolen it. The horse was a magnificent beast—black glossy coat, streaming mane, muscles that moved and rippled as it climbed the slope. Its rider was the opposite. He slouched in the saddle. His clothes were disheveled; his hair uncombed; his face unshaven. But it was his expression that alarmed her more than anything. His brows were down and his jaw was tensed. This was definitely not a friendly visit.

Her mind made a lightning connection. He must be one of those gypsies or tinkers—“those thieving rogues” as Sister Dolores called them—who had encamped in Hawkshill while it had lain empty. It was their mess she and the sisters were now forced to clean up. Joseph had warned her they might return and had prepared her for that eventuality. This called for a show of strength.

Swinging around, she darted into the hall and snatched up the old blunderbuss that lay, primed and ready, behind the door. Then she walked out of the house to face the intruder. A show of strength, that’s all the blunderbuss was. She wasn’t supposed to aim it at
anyone. If worse came to worst, she was to fire it into the air and that would bring Joseph to her.

The stranger reined in a few yards away. He didn’t dismount, but sat at his ease, eyes narrowed on her speculatively, as a panther might eye a rabbit that had suddenly turned on its hunter.

He spoke first. “I swore I wouldn’t come here. Curiosity got the better of me, that and an irresistible urge to welcome my new tenants.”

His meaning hardly registered. She was puzzling over the sneer behind the words and the insolent twist to his mouth. He was angry about something, and she couldn’t think what. She hadn’t done anything. He was the one who was trespassing.

He leaned forward in the saddle and gave her the same insolent smile. “Didn’t my attorney tell you? I own Hawkshill now.”

“You
own Hawkshill?” She could hardly credit it. This was their landlord, this unkempt, disreputable looking wild man? She shook her head.

“Oh, it’s perfectly true. Ask my attorney if you don’t believe me. I, Lucas Wilde, am the owner of Hawkshill.”

Wilde?
That was the name of the young man she’d met in Sheep Street. They must be related. “You are Lord Dundas?” she asked incredulously.

“Aye, a lord now, Miss Hayward, and rich enough to buy and sell my neighbors ten times over.” He edged his horse forward. “But life is full of these little ironies, don’t you think?”

He might look like a gypsy but he spoke like a gentleman. Lord Dundas. It must be true. Now she under
stood the condition of the house. It was just like its owner.

The conviction that he was telling the truth hardly reassured her. From the look of him, she would have said that he’d been drinking.

She’d dealt with drunkards before, when she and the sisters had combed the stews of London for abandoned children. But on those occasions, she’d been dressed in her nun’s habit. Even the most ramshackle dock worker showed respect for the Sisters of Charity. She wasn’t wearing her habit now.

She eyed him warily. He was their landlord and she didn’t want to get his back up. At the same time, she knew that drink made a man unpredictable.

As a subtle reminder that she wasn’t as defenseless as he might think, she inched the gun into the crook of one arm.

His response was a low rumble of laughter. “Careful,” he said, “you might hurt someone with that thing,” and without taking his eyes off her, he slowly dismounted and tethered his horse to the hitching post.

She backed up a step, giving herself room to maneuver in case she had to get off a shot to summon Joseph. “The sisters aren’t here,” she said, “only our man, Joseph.” The reference to Joseph was another subtle reminder that she wasn’t as defenseless as he might think. “And I have no authority to act for the sisters.”

He arched one brow. “Yes, I heard about the nuns, but I can hardly believe the story I was told. Why don’t you explain it to me in your own words?”

“There’s not much to tell. We’re going to bring some of our boys from the orphanage here, to teach them how
to run a farm, you know, so that they will have a chance of improving their lot when they leave here.”

“Just you and the nuns?”

“Oh no. We’ll hire people to help us.”

He laughed harshly. “And you expect me to believe that?”

When he took another step toward her, it flashed through her mind that he was far more dangerous than she’d realized. Now that he was only a pace away, she saw things she hadn’t noticed before. He was in the grip of some powerful emotion he could hardly control. He stood there, staring at her, jaw clenched, hands fisting and unfisting at his sides.

She heard the catch in her throat and was aware that her pulse had leapt. If he wanted to, he could really hurt her. But she had the gun.

His voice was husky. “Why? Why did you come back?”

“I told you. For the children. We’re going to teach them to be farmers.”

“Was it for the title? The money? Did you think the past wouldn’t make a difference? Answer me, Jess.”

Whatever he knew of Jessica Hayward obviously wasn’t to her credit. In fact, he looked as though he hated her. She didn’t have time to think about that now. He was closing the gap between them, forcing her to retreat. Her next step took her into the hall.

She moistened her lips. “Lord Dundas—”

He acted as though she’d struck him. “Christ, if you call me that again—”

He was reaching for her, and she jerked up the gun, pointing it straight at his chest. He stopped dead in his
tracks. “I know how to use this,” she said, trying to control the wobble in her voice. “I’m warning you, don’t come any closer.”

The hard planes of his face gradually softened and he laughed low in his throat. “Now this is more like the Jess I know.” He spread his arms wide and took another step toward her. “Go on then. Pull the trigger. You can’t miss me from that distance. Aim for here.” He touched his heart. “What’s the matter, Jess? Have you lost your nerve?”

She aimed for the floor, shut her eyes, and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. It was a mistake that cost her dearly as she knew the moment she opened her eyes. His face was livid with color and his lips were pulled back, baring his teeth.