The Gamekeeper's Lady (7 page)

In the confined space between the boulders, his shoulders hemmed her in. Trapped her. His steady, even breathing filled her ears, warmth radiated from him and the smell of bay drifted on the still air, instilling a strong desire to inhale his manly scent. From the corner of her eye she admired the black curl of hair on the bronzed skin of his strong column of a neck and the way it skimmed the collar of his coarse linen shirt. Once more her pulse galloped out of control.

Oh, yes, he would make an excellent subject. She had never drawn a man from life, but this one had an air of natural nobility for all his lowly station. Intangible to the eye, it radiated off him like an aura. No other man of her acquaintance had such elegant male beauty. Particularly not Simon.

But would she have the skill to do him justice? It would mean spending hours in his company—his naked company—if she was to work in the classical style she longed to emulate. Any decent art school in Italy would want to see more than drawings of birds and wildlife to accept her as a serious artist. If her portfolio presented a study of him, and if it was any good…

Would he even be willing? Perhaps if she offered to pay him? She didn’t have much money, but she had some.

He glanced at her with a raised brow.

Heat suffused her face. What would he think of her, if she asked him to pose in the nude?

‘Tired of waiting?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘Do you know why they call this Gallows Hill?’ she choked out over the pounding of her heart.

‘No.’

‘They hung the last highwayman in the district here. Mad Jack Kilgrew. Apparently, he took to the roads when he wasn’t allowed to marry the girl he loved.’ She knew she was gabbling, but she couldn’t stop. And since she didn’t have the nerve to broach what was on her mind, she just kept going. ‘They say all the local ladies were in love with him because he was so handsome and only ever stole kisses—the reason the menfolk hanged him out of hand.’

‘Romantic claptrap,’ he muttered.

She laughed. ‘No. It is true. He stopped Mrs D-Demp-ster, the baker’s wife, when she was a girl.’

‘A man can’t live on kisses,’ he said.

‘Well, he did. Along with the money he stole from their husbands.’ She shivered. ‘They say you can hear the rattle of the g-gibbet on the anniversary of his death.’

He grinned. ‘You’ve been reading too much Mrs Radcliffe.’

The fatal grin again. She could not hold back an answering smile. For a long moment they said nothing. His gaze dropped to her lips and stayed there.

A heart-quickening tension gripped every nerve in her body. The small space between them seemed to shrink and she was certain his breath brushed her cheek. A shiver slid across her shoulders, something sweetly painful tugged at her heart. A longing to be held.

She’d felt nothing like it since childhood. She swallowed.

He jerked back as if he, too, resisted the strange pull. ‘The fox will be along any moment now, if he’s coming.’ His voice sounded harsh, his breathing rushed, but his expression seemed quite blank as he stared ahead as if completely oblivious to what had just happened between them.

Nothing had happened.

She must have imagined the sense of connection. How could she feel such a thing for a man she’d met only a few times? But he was unlike anyone she had ever met. Handsome and arrogant, and occasionally humble. Well educated, too. He even knew about Mrs Radcliffe. Fascinating. And obviously very dangerous to her senses.

He touched her arm. ‘Look,’ he said in a soft whisper.

Pencil poised, she stared at the sleek red creature trotting into her field of vision. His bush hung straight to the ground, his shiny black nose tested the air and his ears pricked and twitched in every direction.

With held breath, she sketched his shape. Focused, imprinted the colours on her mind, even as her hand caught his outline, the shadow of muscle, lean flanks, the curve of his head. Attitude, intense and watchful—not fearful, though. Eyes bright, searching, body sleek, softened by reddish fur.

Apparently satisfied, the fox trotted the last few feet and, after one glance around his domain, disappeared into his lair.

Frederica didn’t stop drawing. The image firmly in her mind’s eye, she captured the narrow hips and deep chest, the tufted ears and pointy muzzle, the white flashes on chest and paws.

Finally, she stopped and rolled her shoulders.

‘Did you see him for long enough?’ he murmured.

She jumped. She’d forgotten his presence. ‘Yes.’

‘You draw with your left hand.’

The devil’s spawn. She waited for him to cross his fingers to ward off evil spirits the way some of the other servants did. She should have used her right hand as she’d been taught by hours of rapped knuckles. But then the picture would be stilted. Useless. Tears welled unbidden to her eyes. How could she have let him see her shame? She never let anyone watch her draw. She transferred the pencil to her other hand. ‘I-I—’

His hand, large and warm, strong and brown from hours outdoors, covered hers. ‘My older brother is left-handed.’

She glanced up at his face and found his expression frighteningly bleak. ‘Y-you h-have a b-b—’ she swallowed and took a deep breath ‘—brother?’

‘Yes. I have two brothers and three sisters.’

‘How lucky you are. Do they live near?’

She winced at his short, hard laugh. ‘I don’t know about lucky. They live in London most of the time.’ He shrugged. ‘What about you? Do you have any siblings?’

How had she allowed the conversation to get on to the topic of families? Had he really not heard the gossip about her mother, or was he looking for more salacious details? ‘I never knew my parents.’

The small breath of wind lifted a strand of dark hair at his crown in the most appealing way. ‘An orphan, then. I’m sorry,’ he said softly.

‘You forgot your Somerset accent again, Mr Deveril.’

He pushed to his feet, unfolding his long lean body and stretched his back. ‘So I did, Miss Bracewell. So I did.’

‘Why pretend?’

‘Weatherby wouldn’t have hired a man educated above his station.’

The words rang true, but she sensed they hid more than they told. Clearly he was not about to reveal any secrets to her. With a feeling of disappointment, of an opportunity missed, she packed up her drawing materials. It really was time to go or she would be late for breakfast.

She held up her portfolio. ‘Th-thank you for this. I presume it was my last opportunity to see him at all?’

His gaze followed hers to the tools of his trade, the fierce metal traps and the gun. He inclined his head. ‘I expect so.’

She nodded. ‘Good day, Mr Deveril.’ Great way to convince him to let him sit for her as a model: accuse him of murder.

She’d have to do better than that if she wanted to escape her fate with Simon. And she’d have to have a little more courage.

Chapter Five

T
he gamekeeper’s office beside the stables smelled of old fur, manure and oil. A small lantern on a rickety table provided enough light for the task of cleaning his lordship’s shotguns before daylight would send Weath-erby and Robert out into the fields.

‘Did ye catch the fox on Gallows Hill yesterday, young Rob?’ the gamekeeper asked in his creaking voice.

Until yesterday, Robert had never balked at culling Reynard’s population. Cunning and sly, their raiding of henhouses and other fowl made them unpopular vermin. Caught in its natural setting by an artist who seemed almost as wild as the creatures she brought alive on paper, the dog fox had looked magnificent.

The far-seeing hazel eyes on the other side of the table required an honest answer.

‘No, sir. I don’t think that’un’s raiding Lord Wynch-wood’s chickens, after all. The only bones I saw were voles and rabbits.’

‘Hmmph.’ Weatherby stared down the barrel of the shotgun, then picked up his ramrod. ‘Still, it’s a fox.’

‘The most likely culprit lives by the river,’ Robert continued. ‘I’ve set traps.’

‘Make no mistake, Lord Wynchwood wants to see a brush, lad. It’s results what counts with our master.’

And it was the creatures who counted with the young lady of the house. The thought of her knowing he’d killed the creature she’d drawn so lovingly made him feel sick. He was a soft-hearted fool. She’d got her drawing, made a damned fine job of it, too. She didn’t need the animal as well. Yet the sadness in her eyes had caused him to forget his duty to his employer. He’d risked his position for gratitude in a pair of ocean-coloured eyes. He must have lost his mind.

‘He’ll have his brush,’ Robert muttered. ‘I’ll check the traps later.’ Robert placed the gleaming weapon in the rack on the wall. ‘Do you have any instructions for today?’

‘Hares, if you can get’em, and trout, for his lordship’s table.’

Robert nodded. ‘By the way, I noticed a break in the hedge down by the river—might be the way our poacher is getting in. Shall I have it fixed?’

‘I don’t know how I managed before you came along,’ Weatherby said.

Robert nodded his thanks and picked up his far-inferior shotgun to the one he’d cleaned for his lordship. ‘Is there anything you’d like for your pot, Mr Weatherby?’

‘Not today, lad. The missus exchanged a brace of pheasant for a nice bit of pork. I reckon it will do us for a couple of days.’

Roasted pork. Robert could almost taste it.

‘What you need, lad, is a wife.’ Weatherby groaned to his feet and shouldered his own gun. ‘You’d get a proper dinner.’

Robert couldn’t imagine anything worse. What woman would want to share this hard life of his? Not the kind of woman he’d want. But celibacy didn’t appeal much either. Perhaps he’d snuggle up to the barmaid at the Bull and Mouth this evening. She seemed like a cheerful sort, and willing, from the gleam in her eye.

Weatherby gave him a dig with his elbow on the way to the door. ‘How about our Maisie? She’s taken quite a shine to ye.’

He repressed a shudder. As a kitchen wench, Maisie was a fine lass, but not one to whom he could bear to be shackled.

‘I’m not looking for a wife until I’m better set up. I’d best be off, sir, if I’m to get all of this done before dark and catch his lordship’s fox.’

Weatherby grunted. ‘Right-ho. Talking of getting established, I heard of a position for a head gamekeeper opening up in Norfolk. Small place, mostly water birds. Might be a good start. I’d miss you here, but you’ve a talent for the work.’

Hard work did pay off. For the first time in his life Robert felt truly appreciated. He couldn’t stop the grin spreading over his face. ‘Thank you, Mr Weatherby. I’d appreciate your recommendation.’

‘Ah. Time to thank me, if you get the job. We’ll see, lad. We’ll see.’ He stomped out of the door. For Robert, hard on his heels, the chill winter day suddenly seemed a great deal brighter.

Out in the courtyard, he toyed with the idea of stopping by the kitchen and asking Maisie to deliver the book he’d dug out of his meagre store to Miss Bracewell.

Charlie had purchased it for him when he’d expressed an interest in helping with the ducal estates. It hadn’t taken Father long to veto the idea. The estates were not his concern.

For some reason he’d kept the book.

Miss Bracewell would find it helpful in locating the animals she liked to draw—assuming she’d accept a gift from someone like him. The thought cut off his breath. Servants, particularly Maisie, loved gossip. He’d be giving them grist for their mills if he did something so stupid. He patted his pocket. He’d better keep it for when he could give it to her privately.

If the young lady stayed true to her habits, he’d see her somewhere on the Wynchwood estate in the next few days.

Later that evening, Robert strode back from the Bull and Mouth with a foul wind driving needle-sharp rain up under his hat into his face. Trickles of water ran down inside his collar. Not that he cared much. The glasses of heavy wet he’d sunk with a group of jolly companions prevented the cold from penetrating too deep. Hardworking men they were, who enjoyed a tall tale. And he’d told a few of his own to uproarious laughter. Especially those about some of his adventures with the ladies. Embellished a bit. And no names mentioned.

He’d enjoyed himself.

He frowned, not quite sure why he was heading home in the rain soaked through to the skin instead of being tucked up cosily in a warm bed with the saucy barmaid. Cheery though she was, he just hadn’t fancied her. Too many images of Miss Bracewell swimming around in his head. Lascivious images brought on by too much beer.

He lifted his head to get his bearings. Rain ran down his face, but he was so wet already it didn’t make a scrap of difference.

A little unsteadily, he plunged forwards. ‘Steady, Robin, or you’ll end on your backside.’ He got back into his stride, sure he was going in the right direction.

The evening had reminded him of the first time he and Charlie had ventured to the tavern near one of the ducal estates. They’d got rollicking, barely able to hold each other up on the way home, singing and laughing fit to burst.

In those days, he and Charlie had been inseparable. He missed that closeness. He missed his family. He even missed Father. They’d be at Meadowbrook now for the Christmas season.

Oh, no. No thinking about that, Robin. Not tonight.

Keep it sweet and light. That was the trick. What
was
the song they learned from the barmaid? How had it gone?

He stopped. Thinking. No. Couldn’t remember.

He started walking again, the mud sucking at his boots as he staggered forwards. A tree stepped out in front of him. He bowed. ‘Beg your pardon.’

Careful, Robert. You aren’t that bosky. Just a little warm.

He picked up his pace. Became aware of a tune hummed under his breath. That was it. He raised his voice.

Last night young Nancy laid sleeping,

And into her bedroom young Johnny went

a-creeping,

With his long fol-the-riddle-i-do right down to

his knee.

‘Bloody rude.’ He chuckled.

He knew one bedroom he’d like to creep into in the middle of the night with his fol-the-riddle-i-do, and it wasn’t the barmaid’s at the Bull.

And it wasn’t going to happen.

A shame, though. He didn’t know how he’d kept his hands off her up on the hill yesterday. A bit of a surprise, since he’d never been attracted to innocents. She was the kind of female men married, whereas he preferred high flyers or a merry widow. The lass was good at her drawings, though. Odd sort of occupation for a gently bred girl. It would all come to an end when she found herself married and raising a passel of children.

A husband with the right to caress her slender body, to palm her small breasts, to stroke those boyishly slim hips.

Desire jolted through him, hardening his body, quickening his blood.

What the hell was her family thinking, allowing her to roam the estate without an escort? A prime target for men like him. Or, worse yet, men without a shred of honour. They were out there. She would be an easy target.

What the hell. It wasn’t his business what the wench did. He had his work and his prospects to worry about and that was enough for any man. He picked up the next verse.

He said: Lonely Nancy, may I come to bed you, She smiled and replied, John you’ll undo me, With your long fol-the-riddle-i-do right down to your knee.

That wasn’t going to happen. He was likely going to be spending a great many nights alone. He shivered at a sudden chill running down his spine.

He stopped dead, his mouth open at the sight of a shadow huddled against his front door.

The shadow rose like a wraith. ‘Mr Deveril?’

‘Miss Bracewell?’ Well, how about that. He just had to think about her and she appeared—or was it a beer-induced vision?

He shook his head to clear his sight.

She lifted a hand. ‘I need your help.’

He knew the kind of help he wanted to provide and it involved helping her between his sheets. He wrestled his evil thought to the ground and his body under control. ‘At this time of night? Are you mad?’

Her eyes looked huge in the light of the lantern. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll go.’

‘Good Lord, how long have you been waiting?’

‘I d-didn’t expect you to be out.’

If he had one scrap of sense, a smidgeon of honour, he would turn her around and send her straight home. And let her freeze to the bone? A few minutes while she warmed up wouldn’t hurt. He might a libertine, but he wasn’t a debaucher of innocents, no matter how badly they behaved.

‘Come inside before you catch your death of cold.’ He grabbed her elbow. Beneath his fingers, he felt a shudder rack her fragile body. He cursed under his breath and urged her through the door. It took only moments to coax the banked fire into a crackling blaze with a fresh log. A sudden gust down the chimney blew smoke into his face. He coughed.

She laughed, a low smoky chuckle, and his body tightened at the seductive sound.

He shook his head. ‘Did no one ever tell you it’s not appropriate to visit a man in his house alone, late at night?’ He tossed another log on the fire and poked at the embers. ‘Why are you here?’

No answer. The door latch clicked. He leaped forwards and caught the door before she opened it enough to slip out. A blade of cold air cut through the room.

Rigid, she stared at the rough wood inches from her nose. ‘I apologise for m-my intrusion. R-release the door.’

The raw hurt in her voice tore at his defences. He enfolded her fine-boned fingers in his. Ice cold. ‘Come back to the fire. I’m sorry if I sounded harsh—my concern is for your reputation.’

She snatched her hand out of his.

‘Is it not mine to r-r—’ she took a ragged breath ‘—risk?’ Despite the defiance in her gaze, she let him lead her back to the glow of the fire.

He shrugged. ‘Then think about my position.’

Her shoulders slumped. She raised her lashes, eyes dark with regret and something else he couldn’t make out. He could not read this woman. It was an odd feeling when most of them had been an open book.

Her soft mouth trembled. ‘I am s-sorry. You are right. I should not have troubled you.’

Right now, looking into those fathomless eyes through the muzz of alcohol with heat from the fire warming his body, he didn’t care about his job or her reputation. He desperately wanted to chase away the shadows in her face and see her smile.

‘Apology accepted. Sit closer to the fire.’ With hands that shook only slightly, he undid the strings of her oilskin cloak and tossed it aside. Beneath it she was as dry as a bone.

The grateful curve of her lips tempted him more than he dared admit. He cupped her face in his hands, small and chill and buttery soft to his work-roughened skin. The muscles in her jaw flickered against his palms. All he had to do was bend his head and claim those lushly formed lips.

A brush of his mouth against hers, a taste of heaven, one little sip.

Trust shone from her eyes.

The dregs of his conscience pierced his beer-soaked mind. Inwardly he groaned and dropped his hands to her shoulders and nudged her away.

Even the glow from the fire could not hide her blush. So pretty. So innocently knowing. So arousing.

He forced himself to turn away. He stripped off his coat and hung it behind the door.

‘You are soaked through,’ she said, sounding surprised. ‘Did you not wear your oilskins?’

‘It wasn’t raining when I left.’ He wasn’t going to tell her this coat was all he had. He retrieved a towel from the dresser and rubbed at his hair.

She was frowning. ‘You really ought to get out of those wet clothes. You could catch an ague.’

He’d have been out of his clothes and under his covers the moment he walked in the door if she’d not been standing on his doorstep. He’d like to be under his covers with her.

‘Why did you come here, Miss Bracewell? You said you wanted to ask me something.’

‘I did. But I think perhaps I was mistaken.’

Women. Now he’d have to charm it out of her.

A shiver ran down his spine. Despite the fire, the cold was creeping into his bones. She was right. He did need to get out of these clothes. He couldn’t afford to get sick. And even if he was going to take her home immediately, he should at least start out dry. ‘Turn your back.’

Her little gasp reminded him that it was not his place to issue orders.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘I am going to change and, short of going outside, there is nowhere to do it but here.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Come closer to the fire.’ She moved away from the hearth and faced the corner near the dresser. She looked like a child being punished for some naughtiness.

He couldn’t help smiling. She was naughty coming out here. He ought to smack her sweet little bottom. Damn. He did not need thoughts like that right now.

His glance fell on the brown-paper-wrapped parcel on the dresser top. He’d set it there before he went out.

He turned his back and set to work on the buttons of his vest with numbed fingers. ‘That package is for you.’