Kathryn Smith (7 page)

Varya and Teresa laughed, but Lady Westwood looked at her as though she couldn’t believe her ears.

“No. They are all gone,” Miles replied with a grin. “Besides, you have yet to finish what is on your plate.”

“I cannot believe she has eaten as much as she has!” Lady Westwood exclaimed. It wasn’t said maliciously, but it might as well have been, given the flush that crept up Blythe’s cheeks.

Devlin nudged her with his elbow. “You can have half of mine, Lady Blythe.”

She turned to face him, and at that moment Devlin knew what it was to be a god. The smile she gave him was the closest he had ever come to being worshipped.

“Thank you, Mr. Ryland.”

As she took the scone from him, their gazes met and held. Devlin didn’t know what she could see in his eyes, but he hoped she knew that he didn’t care how much she ate as long as she enjoyed it. He would rather have her as she was—healthy and round—than thin and sickly looking like Lady Westwood and others of her set.

After Blythe had finished everything on her plate and after some of the other guests had risen for the day, the group of them strolled outside, all of the ladies save for Blythe shielding their delicate complexions with bonnets as well as parasols.

“Miles hates my hat,” she replied when Devlin asked why she didn’t wear protection from the sun’s tanning rays.
“And I despise bonnets. They make me feel like I have blinders on.”

He laughed and offered her his hat if she wanted it. It was old and slightly battered, but it was better than the one she favored, if it was the one he had seen her in. She thought about it for a moment, but declined. Miles would no doubt pitch a fit.

The shooting targets were arranged on the west lawn, facing away from the house and far enough away that safety needn’t be an issue. Devlin watched with interest as different men lined up for a chance to display their skill with a rifle. Most of them were hunters and decent shots. A few were former soldiers as well, which gave them a slight advantage. Good shots, all of them. Many struck the center of the target or near it several times—good odds considering that rifles weren’t always exactly accurate.

“Good show, Carnover!” Lord Harcourt called when the shooting was over.

Carny smiled. He’d had the best score out of all the competitors. “Thank you, but if you want to see real skill, you should watch Ryland here.”

Devlin forced a smile, but inside he wished Carny had kept his praise to himself. For a moment, it seemed as though everyone had forgotten that he was supposed to be some kind of hero. Now they were going to expect him to prove it.

“By thunder, you’re right!” Harcourt chortled. “What say you, Ryland? Up to giving us a little demonstration, eh?”

Devlin opened his mouth to refuse, but plans were already being made. He couldn’t say no. They wouldn’t let him.

“Give him a better target,” someone remarked.

“How about a person with an apple on his head?”

“Or in his hand?”

“A cigar in his mouth!”

Scowling, Devlin shook his head. At least here he could put his foot down. “I won’t endanger anyone’s life.”

“Besides,” Carny joined in with a grin, “who would be foolish enough to let him do it?”

A voice behind Devlin spoke—so softly that at first he didn’t hear what she said. It took a few seconds for her words to sink in.

“I would.”

His heart seized in his chest. He didn’t have to look to know who the voice belonged to, but he turned to face her anyway. She stood in a patch of sunshine, the bright rays turning her hair the color of flame and making her eyes as clear as an island lagoon.

She smiled. “I would be foolish enough, Mr. Ryland. I trust you.”

Devlin opened his mouth to speak. The words were there, right on the tip of his tongue, but they wouldn’t come out. Finally, after what seemed like forever, but was mere seconds, he gave up.

“Bring me my gun,” he barked at one of the footmen. Christ, what was wrong with him? A woman said she would trust him and he couldn’t even form a response?

He turned back to Blythe, who was still watching him with that strangely serene, yet curious expression. It was as though she knew some manner of secret, as though she had seen inside his soul—and she wanted to know more.

It scared the hell out of him.

“Thank you,” was all he could bring himself to say.

As he walked toward one of the targets, he heard someone say, “He brought his own gun? When there’s no hunting party?”

“Of course he did,” came Carny’s defensive reply. “He’s a rifleman.”

Devlin shook his head. He would never understand why Carny saw him the way he did, even if he had saved Carny’s life. Why did the man insist on puffing him up? Carny had always had a degree of fascination with the men beneath him
in the ranks. It was as though he thought being a regular soldier horribly romantic.

How romantic was it to kill people?

A target was arranged for him, a bale of hay with a wooden target attached to it. Circles were marked on it in brightly colored paint, the center obviously red.

“How many?” he asked tonelessly as a footman handed him the Baker’s case.

Carny grinned. “Five ought to show them. Do it like you used to in the drills.”

Why not dress some of the guests up as the French and see if he could hit them as well? No, that was unfair. Carny only wanted to show him off. He didn’t want to forget as Devlin did.

Nodding, Devlin took his place approximately one hundred yards from the target. It was a fair distance, but he knew the Baker could handle it. She was the most accurate rifle he’d ever fired.

He had powder and balls nearby for reloading. It had been a long time since he shot. Carny wanted him to do it as he used to, but he wasn’t so sure he could. That meant three rounds a minute. At one time he could do it easily, but now…

Now wasn’t the time to think about it. Just do it.

As fast as he could, he loaded the Baker, lifted it to his shoulder, aimed, and fired. Not even bothering to look at the target, he began loading again. His heart began to thump against his ribs, blocking out all other sounds. The smell of burnt powder filled his nostrils as he fired again.

Reload.

Suddenly, he was in a field in Brussels or Portugal or perhaps France. French soldiers were running straight for him, their footfalls thundering between volleys of cannon fire. The blades of their bayonets glistened with blood as acrid smoke drifted around them. Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip as he jammed the rod down the Baker’s barrel.

Fire.

Reload.

The soldiers were drawing closer. He could smell them now, legions of unwashed men drenched in sweat, blood, and gunpowder. Their language was gibberish in his ears even though he had learned enough of it over the years to be almost fluent. A few words took form in his mind.

Kill. Shoot. Fire. English.

They were going to kill him if he didn’t take them down first. Someone was shouting to him. It sounded like Patrick Flynn.

Fire. Reload—hurry, man! Reload. Fire.

Devlin did. His hands sweating, moving with lightning alacrity, he squeezed off another round and reached for more as the French ghost soldiers stampeded toward him…

He had no more shot.

A hand clamping down on his shoulder brought Devlin back to the present with heart-stopping clarity. Air rushed into his lungs as his legs began to tremble.

Not real. It hadn’t been real.

“By God, man, that was incredible!” It was Carny, grinning like a boasting schoolboy. “I knew you could do it! Five shots dead center. Incredible!”

A small crowd gathered and dispersed around him, each person congratulating or praising him in some manner. Devlin didn’t hear most of it. He just stood there, the Baker hanging loosely at his side, trying to return his breathing to normal before he passed out.

Someone pressed a handkerchief to his upper lip. Blinking, he looked down. He didn’t have to look far. It was Lady Blythe.

She handed him the delicate linen and his hat, which he had discarded before shooting. “Wipe your forehead.”

He did as she bade. What was she thinking? Could she see the fear in his eyes? Smell it in his sweat? Could she see how
much he despised the only thing he’d ever been truly good at? How frightened he was of it and what he was capable of doing with it?

If she could, she didn’t show it. She simply gazed at him with those startlingly clear eyes and favored him with a gentle smile—the kind he used to wish his mother would give him whenever he’d hurt himself as a child.

“Would you like to tour the park tomorrow morning, Mr. Ryland?”

That was all she was going to say? “Will you be my guide, Lady Blythe?” He was breathless and hoarse, damn it.

She glanced away—just for a split second, but enough to let him know she was pleased that he asked. “If you wish.”

“I do.”

She nodded. “Eight o’clock? At the stables?”

He agreed, and she flashed him another smile before turning her back and walking away. Holding her handkerchief in one hand, the Baker in the other, Devlin watched her go.

What the hell had just happened?

“W
hat are you reading?”

Her brow puckering in mild annoyance, Blythe looked up from her book as her brother sat down on the settee beside her. He had a house full of guests to entertain, especially this early in the evening, and her solitude since Teresa left the room earlier had been all too brief. Why was Miles bothering her now? She hadn’t done anything to earn his ire.

“It is a book on horse breeds. I am intrigued by Mr. Ryland’s horse. I thought this might help me figure out his bloodlines.”

Miles smiled, reminding Blythe very much of their father as he did. “Ah, so you have met Flynn, have you?”

Blythe’s lips curved as well. “I have. I saw him shortly after Mr. Ryland arrived.”

Her brother nodded. “What do you think of him?”

Raising her brows in surprise, Blythe shrugged. “He seemed like a very nice horse.” What did Miles care what she thought of an animal anyway? “It wasn’t as though we had a conversation or any such thing.”

Miles scowled at her sarcasm. “Not the horse! Devlin.”

She saw where this was going. Miles wanted to know what she thought of Carny’s savior. Well, she wasn’t going to blame Mr. Ryland for anything that happened between herself and Carny.

“I have only known him a few days, Miles. Hardly long enough to form a decisive opinion.”

He seemed satisfied. That in itself was disconcerting. Miles was rarely, if ever, satisfied by anything. “Did you enjoy the shooting today?”

“It was interesting.” She set the book on the small pedestal table beside her chair. Obviously he had more on his mind.

“You?”

“I thought it was quite good. Ryland was very impressive, do you not think?”

Ahh, so that’s what this was. He wasn’t trying to find out if she disliked Devlin, he wanted to ferret out if she
liked
him. It would be somewhat sweet if Miles hadn’t been harping on her for the last year to hurry up and get married. Why would she want to ruin her life by getting married? She had all the freedom and independence she could want right now.

“He was very impressive, yes.” She draped her arm across the back of the settee. “But I’m not going to marry him just because he can shoot.”

“Marry?” Miles laughed—a little too loudly. “Who said anything about marriage?”

He wasn’t a very good liar, not when it came to lying to her. Normally she would be quite annoyed with him, but not when he was providing her with the perfect opportunity to find out more about the mysterious Mr. Ryland. They were friends. And as her brother, he was duty-bound to tell her all he knew.

“Miles, what happened to Mr. Ryland?” Ever since that morning, Blythe had been unable to put Devlin or his well-being out of her mind. He had seemed so unnerved by the shooting competition, almost as though ghosts from the past
had come up to haunt him as he aimed at the target—a target Blythe didn’t believe he’d even seen yet managed to hit dead center every time.

Miles was obviously thrown off by her change in subject. “What do you mean, ‘happened’ to him?”

Good Lord, he wasn’t truly that blind when it came to his friends, was he? How had he ever managed to spy for Wellington and the Home Office? Honestly, there were times when she thought him positively thick.

“He was a rifleman, a sharpshooter. That rifle was a part of him, so why did he break into tremors and a cold sweat today after shooting five rounds at a still target?”

Miles’s expression became thoughtful, then knowingly grim. “War changes a man, brat. I do not have to tell you that.”

He referred to Carny, of course. Neither of them had to come right out and say his name.

Casually crossing his long legs, Miles leaned back against the plump cushions, his fingers absently stroking the sofa’s curved arm. “Some men have a hard time leaving behind everything they saw and did over there. Sometimes it can come back to haunt you at the strangest times.”

As it had when Miles first returned from fighting. He used to have nightmares, but as far as Blythe knew, they ended long ago. “So you think Mr. Ryland might have remembered something about the war while he was shooting today?” That would certainly explain the shaking and the wildness she’d seen in his eyes.

Miles shrugged. “I cannot say for certain, but Ryland was a soldier for more than a decade—since he was a very young man. He was in a lot of desperate situations and always put others before himself. It was as though he had something to prove by being the best and most fearless. What and to whom, I have no idea.”

It was all very interesting and certainly intriguing, but she wanted answers about the man, not more questions!

“I do know this,” Miles continued after a second’s silence.

“Something changed him at Waterloo. He was a different man after that. Quieter, more serious.”

Waterloo. Miles hadn’t been at Waterloo, so he didn’t know what had happened. But Carny did. The question was, would Carny tell her if he knew anything? After all, Mr. Ryland had saved his life. Carny might regard telling his secrets as a betrayal of their friendship.

But perhaps he’d hold friendship in as low regard as he did betrothals.

“Thank you,” she said, rising to her feet. “You know, if we did not argue so much, we could talk like this more often.”

Miles smiled. “We should. Are you off to bed?”

“I believe so. I am showing Mr. Ryland the park tomorrow, so I want to have a good night’s sleep.”

“Yes,” he agreed, also standing. “A lady should look her best when in a gentleman’s company.”

Rolling her eyes, Blythe kissed her brother’s cheek and left the library. She had to give Miles credit for one thing—Devlin Ryland was a much better choice of a husband for her than some of the other ones he had come up with.

She entered her bedroom to find a lamp lit and the covers already turned down. Not bothering to ring for Suki, Blythe undressed and pulled a fresh nightgown over her head. Then she unwound her hair and gave it a thorough brushing before padding across the carpet to climb up onto the bed.

There was something on it. Reaching down, she picked up the square of soft, folded linen. She turned it over.

B.E.C.
Her initials. This was the handkerchief she had given Mr. Ryland that morning. Should she be hurt that he returned it or appreciate his thoughtfulness? It was so difficult to understand men and their motives.

Then a thought struck her. He had been in her room.

Just the idea of him standing there, in her private sanctuary, setting the handkerchief on her neatly readied bed was enough to make the bottom of Blythe’s feet tingle. Every pulse point in her body seemed to throb with the picture her mind created: Mr. Ryland, in nothing but his trousers and shirt sleeves, the open collar of his shirt revealing the crisp dark hair that covered his chest and the tanned, strong column of his throat. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing dark forearms. His hair was slightly mussed, falling boyishly over his forehead, and as he placed the linen on her bed, he ran a palm over the soft, ivory sheet, imagining her body there beneath his hand…

Good Lord! What was she doing? And how would she know if he had hair on his chest or not! Why would she care what his arms looked like? And why, why was it so easy for her to imagine those details?

Her blood feverish, her body tingling with desire, Blythe flopped back on the mattress and breathed deeply. She forced herself to think about cleaning out the stables rather than about Devlin Ryland’s long, blunt fingers. She didn’t even know the man!

Sometime later, she rolled over onto her side to turn down the lamp. She hesitated as her eyes fell on the handkerchief, now sitting on her nightstand. Picking it up, she lifted it to her nose and breathed deep. There was a hint of the sandalwood soap she had the laundry maids use to clean her clothes, but that was overshadowed by new, yet familiar scents. Bay rum, horse, and cloves. This was
his
smell.

After extinguishing the lamp, Blythe rolled onto her stomach and waited for sleep to come and claim her. When it did, it found her lying peacefully, breathing in the scent of Devlin Ryland and smiling.

True to their arrangement, Blythe and Devlin met at exactly eight o’clock the next morning. After exchanging greetings, they saddled their horses and set off for a tour of Brixleigh Park.

The morning rang with the sounds of summer. Tenant children played in the fields, their laughter chasing after them. Gulls swooped and soared, searching for their next meal, calling out to their companions with high, mournful voices. And in the distance, the low bleat of sheep answered the commanding bark of a herding dog.

A light breeze blew across the green grass, bringing the smell of salt sea and rich earth with it. Blythe turned her face to the sun and tried to ignore this strange awareness she felt toward the man riding beside her.

Devlin—he had ceased to be simply Mr. Ryland to her last night—had taken one look at her in her boots, trousers, and coat and smiled that little lopsided smile of his. Her heart tilted with it. It was far too boyish for a man with a face like his, but it suited him, as did the dark colors he favored. Most men would look drab and unfashionable in such shades, but somehow they looked nice on him.

And then he had done something wholly unexpected.

“What are you doing?” she demanded when he bent down and cupped his hands.

“Giving you a hand up,” was the simple reply as he lifted his gaze to hers. He smiled when she didn’t put her boot immediately into his gloved hands. “Surely you’ve been given a hand up before?”

Actually, no. She’d been getting onto horses by her own devices since she was old enough to ride. Her father thought it was cute, how independent his daughter was, so all the grooms had allowed her to climb up by herself—no matter how long it took.

But she wasn’t going to tell Devlin that, so she had lifted
her boot into his hands and prayed that he wouldn’t hurt his back helping. She practically jumped into the saddle in her effort to put as little of her weight on him as possible.

Stunned, Blythe sat on her mare’s back and watched as Devlin gracefully vaulted onto Flynn’s back. His gentlemanly behavior almost made her wish she were wearing a riding habit—something fashionable with a jaunty little feathered hat. Something feminine. For the first time in years, she wanted a man to see her as a woman.

A few days ago she had no idea who this man was, and now she was wanting to look womanly for him? Had she learned nothing from the fiasco with Carny? She had no sense when it came to men; she had to remember that. Devlin’s attentions might be nothing more than a man being kind to a friend’s sister. Even if Devlin was serious in his attentions, she would be wise to guard her own response and actions.

She’d made a fool of herself over one man; she would not be so quick to do so again. Ignorant in the ways of men she might be, but she knew all too well how easy it was for them to say one thing and mean another. It would take more than a few compliments, heated looks, and one kiss to tempt her now as they had with Carny. Even in her youth she’d given her adoration far too quickly. It seemed that she was bound to pine for whoever paid attention to her. It had to stop. She would not be made a fool of again.

But not because people would talk. She didn’t care if people talked. She just didn’t want to experience that disappointment, that betrayal, again.

“Are you enjoying your stay at Brixleigh?” she asked as they clip-clopped down the lane that led to the tenant farms. John Dobson grinned and waved. She waved back.

“Yes,” Devlin replied, his gaze fixed on Dobson. The two men seemed to be sizing each other up. Or rather, that was
what Blythe’s fanciful imagination wanted to believe. They were just strangers giving each other a cursory glare…er, glance.

“I have never been in this part of Devon before,” he continued once Dobson was safely behind them. Ahead were gently rolling hills of rich, verdant green, seagulls swooping overhead in a sky of cloudless blue. “It is very pretty.”

“Have you been to the beach yet?” She loved the beach, although she hadn’t been there for days.

“Yes, I was down just the other morning. I spent several hours there. Your brother has also taken it upon himself to show me several available properties in the area.”

Blythe’s heart jumped. “Oh?” She tried to look and sound nonchalant. “Are you thinking of settling here?”

He favored her with that little smile. “I am, yes. Would I make an acceptable neighbor, do you think?”

She blushed. What was it about this man that made her blush like a schoolgirl? It was demmed frustrating.

“I cannot say,” she replied coyly. Lord, she sounded like Lady Ashby! “I should like to think so.”

They talked a bit more about the area and the nearby villages and towns as Blythe pointed out various landmarks of the park, including the high cliffs that fell in an almost completely straight line to the beach below. Of course, this led to a lengthy discourse on the history of smuggling in the area. It had only been the last few years that she hadn’t seen lights on the tide and cliffs anymore.

She wanted to ask him what properties Miles had shown him, but didn’t for fear of seeming
too
interested in his plans. She didn’t dare tell him of her own plans for Rosewood. He might let something slip to Miles, and then her brother would surely try to put a stop to her buying her own property.

She glanced at Devlin, slouched comfortably in his saddle. He really shouldn’t slouch. A man of his height should al
ways keep his shoulders back, as her governess had forced her to do growing up. Even standing at her tallest she still had to look up at Devlin. It was a strange experience. Not unpleasant, just strange. What would it be like to have to lift her chin so a man could kiss her?

He caught her staring and raised a thick, arched brow.

Fighting the girlish urge to blush yet again, Blythe smiled as though she hadn’t been thinking of the feel of his lips against hers. “Do you ever wish you could change something about yourself?”

The other brow crept up to join the first. “Are you always so blunt with people you do not know?”