They threaded through the crowd, with Richard shifting his broad shoulders this way and that, carving a way through the increasing press. They fought their way to the Higgses’ stall. Higgs had been sitting on a stool behind his wife and his sister, minding their purse and supplies, but at the news that there were four fine-wool black sheep among the animals for sale, he quickly drew several coins from the purse and slipped them into the pouch at his waist, then with the two women shooing him on, he bobbed a bow to Jacqueline, tipped his hand in a salute to Richard, and hurried off toward the area where the animals were tethered.
Jacqueline agreed with Mrs. Higgs’s fervent hope that her man would be in time to purchase the beasts. Turning away, Jacqueline shared a warm—faintly triumphant—smile with Richard, then she tipped her head along the aisle, and they resumed their wandering.
They’d lost Elinor and Mrs. Patrick long ago, but came upon the pair a few minutes later. The two older ladies had halted at one end of the market, in the shadow of a wall, to examine some lace Elinor had bought.
“See?” Smiling, Elinor held out the lace to Jacqueline. “It’s just what I’ve been looking for to trim my blue silk.”
While Jacqueline duly fingered the lace and exclaimed over its quality, Richard stood beside the three women and, raising his head, looked out over the marketplace and the still-surging crowd. There were three exits from the square, with two watchmen stationed at each, which probably explained the lack of cutpurses in the throng. Yet for ladies such as Jacqueline, the threats did not come from the beggars but from those far better dressed.
Richard was conscious that, while he’d been thoroughly amused by both Sir Godfrey and Wootton, he’d also taken definite pleasure in seeing both men summarily dismissed. Courtesy of the past days, he’d already felt protective toward Jacqueline—an instinctive protectiveness he’d excused, telling himself he would feel the same for any pretty maid.
Yet what he’d felt through the recent encounters had been far more intense. More specific, more focused.
More dangerous and deadly.
Part of him would have been only too happy to have drawn his sword on either man.
Neither, of course, had warranted such force; Jacqueline had dismissed one, and he the other, without resorting to anything beyond words and, in his case, presence.
Still, some darker part of him wished it had been otherwise.
Yet the most disturbing aspect of feeling so on edge was that he couldn’t recall ever reacting so strongly—not over a lady or anything else—before.
He sincerely hoped he and Jacqueline would encounter no more of her would-be suitors; he hoped the idiots would notice him with her and have the sense to draw back. The last thing he wanted was to cause a scene, yet if they persisted in troubling her, he suspected he would.
The clock on the tower of the village church tolled the hour—midday had arrived.
With relief in sight, he turned to the three women. “Ladies—shall we repair to the inn to enjoy our luncheon?” He’d bespoken a private room at the inn before they’d started wandering the stalls.
Elinor beamed at him. “Thank you, dear. I confess I will be grateful to rest my feet.”
With a quite genuine smile in return, he ushered the three ahead of him to the inn at one corner of the square.
He moved to enter the inn first, but a quick glance around revealed no likely causes of interruption. He stepped back and waved the ladies in, then spoke to the innkeeper, who had seen them and came hurrying up. The man beamed and bowed them to the private parlor set aside for their use.
The meal passed uneventfully. Richard relaxed at the head of the small table and listened to the three women exchange comments and observations on all they’d seen, with Elinor and Mrs. Patrick essentially reporting to Jacqueline. He was left with the impression that the guardian of Nimway Hall kept watch over the local population, even those who lived beyond her pale.
At the end of the meal, he ushered the ladies out into the tap and paused to settle the account with the innkeeper, adding several coins in thanks for the man’s swift service and the excellent food.
In a group, the ladies had ambled to the inn’s front door. As Richard rejoined them, bringing up the rear, Jacqueline led the way out.
Jacqueline had taken only a single step over the inn’s threshold when a strong arm collected her, and she was bodily swept to the side. Perforce, she stepped off the inn’s stoop—it was that or fall—but she immediately dug in her heels, halted before the front wall, and swung to face her accoster.
“Miss Tregarth.”
Shocked, she found herself staring at Sir Peregrine Wallace’s dissipated countenance.
“My apologies, my dear lady, but I’m delighted to have a chance to speak with you.” His body shielded her from the inn’s doorway. He smiled ingratiatingly at her, his handsome but dissolute face the picture of neighborly helpfulness. “I realize, of course, that you now have water in your lake, but with the lake being so distant from your farms on the Levels, I strongly suspect you’ll find that ferrying water from it will simply not serve. However, the lake on my farm, Windmill Farm, is on the same level as your farms and mill. Much easier for water to be carted across, you see?”
Sir Peregrine’s brown eyes glittered with expectant triumph.
Jacqueline drew in a tight, furious breath.
“And I understand”—Sir Peregrine’s expression turned commiserating—“that your stream is nearly dry.”
She caught and clung to her temper; her gaze on Sir Peregrine’s face, she fought to keep her expression unreadable. She, Hugh, Richard, and Elinor had agreed they had insufficient evidence to make an accusation against Sir Peregrine, but perhaps if she encouraged him to explain, he might say enough to reveal his involvement in the dastardly scheme. Reining in her anger, she clasped her hands at her waist and, lowering her gaze yet watching his face from beneath her lashes, murmured, “Well, sir, as to that…” She let her words fade and waited, willing him to misinterpret and speak further.
Sir Peregrine swallowed her show of meekness whole and smiled as if all was progressing as he wished. “Indeed, my dear Miss Tregarth, there’s nothing to fear in being frank with me. Nothing at all.” He waited until she raised her gaze and again met his eyes, then went on, “I fully comprehend how anxious you must be, what with your guardian helpless to lift the weighty burden of the estate from your shoulders. I assure you, my dear, that all I wish is to see your farms prosper, and if, in time, you come to see me as a friend on whom it’s safe to lean, I would be more than happy to fulfill such a role.” He held her gaze and pointedly said, “You have my deepest regard.”
Clearly, he intended to make her indebted to him, then offer his hand in marriage.
She allowed her lips to curve. Resolutely.
Sir Peregrine blinked.
“I’m unsure, sir, from whom you got your news.” She kept her tone even, her accents cool and matter-of-fact. “However, our stream is now running strongly. We discovered that some blackguard”—she paused to let the word sink in, her eyes steady on his—“had created a cunning set of tunnels that diverted the waters of our stream. Rest assured that the damage has been fully repaired and the stream returned to its customary flow. And as the area in which the diversion was constructed lies within Balesboro Wood and is thus a part of the Hall estate, my people will be keeping a close eye on the stream and all who approach it from now on.”
Sir Peregrine’s face had fallen; the change was almost comical. He stared at her, then when she arched her brows, pointedly inviting a response, he stuttered, “T-Tunnels? I’m sh-shocked. Quite shocked.”
He was, too, and then chagrin crept into his eyes.
She couldn’t stop hers from narrowing. “What’s more, Sir Peregrine, two nights ago, we had a disturbance at the Hall. In the small hours. A would-be burglar who was surprisingly clumsy—he fell over the furniture and was forced to flee.” Her gaze unrelentingly fixed on his face
, she firmed her chin and asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
His eyes flew wide, and he recoiled. “What? No!”
Tense and ready to go to Jacqueline’s aid, Richard watched the scene play out from his position in the doorway of the inn. Elinor and Mrs. Patrick stood a little to the side—out of his way—both bending sternly disapproving looks on Wallace’s back.
Wallace tried to come about, drawing himself up and, judging by his tone, adopting a wounded expression. “Of course I don’t know anything about any intruder. I don’t know why you might imagine—”
Wallace rattled on, but from the stony look on Jacqueline’s face and the way she folded her arms across her chest, not to mention the increasingly belligerent gleam in her eyes, Wallace would have been wiser to save his breath.
Jacqueline let Sir Peregrine run on. Had she harbored any doubts that he was the guilty party—both over the diversion and the attempted break-in—those doubts had been well and truly laid to rest. His tone, the restlessness of his hands, and the calculating look in his eyes as he desperately tried to find some way to overcome her resistance and gain her favor all screamed his guilt.
Indeed, he sank himself deeper in her estimation with every word that fell from his untrustworthy lips. Blackguard, she had called him, and blackguard he was; she was beyond convinced of that.
From the corner of her eye, she could see Richard, standing quietly just out of Sir Peregrine’s line of sight.
Why couldn’t her suitors—any of her suitors—be like Richard Montague?
He was kind, considerate of others, willing to step in and help anyone regardless of their station. He understood her and her position, understood how to support her without trying to wrest control. He was, in Elinor’s old-fashioned way of gauging such things, a worthy man.
If only he were her suitor…
The thought made her blink. It effortlessly distracted her from Sir Peregrine—still pleading his case before her—and sent her mind careening over all the moments she’d shared with Richard over the past days…
She’d sensed a certain kinship—that of a kindred spirit—but at no time had he given her any reason to imagine he was interested in her in a more personal way.
He was a guest, a supporter; he might be a friend. He’d never stepped over that invisible line…except for those frissons of reaction she felt when he lifted her to and from her saddle, as he had made a point of doing as often as he could, but she had no grounds to believe he felt any physical attraction at all.
Then again, he was an experienced gentleman; that she did not doubt. He was also deeply honorable, and as a guest in her house…he would feel constrained by that, wouldn’t he?
Richard saw Jacqueline’s expression blank, saw her thoughts turn inward. He had no idea what had caused the change—nothing Wallace had said seemed likely to have evoked it. But Wallace saw it, too, and perhaps unsurprisingly, interpreted it as a sign that she was softening toward him.
Richard could see only a sliver of Wallace’s face, but the man’s relief showed clearly in the line of his shoulders.
Then Wallace reached for Jacqueline’s arm—just as she snapped back to the moment.
“My dear Miss Tregarth, come. Walk with me and—”
Jacqueline’s eyes spat sparks. “Don’t touch me.”
Again, Wallace recoiled, this time in response to the ice-cold fury in Jacqueline’s face.
Her gaze skewered him, and her tone resonant with authority, she stated, “I have nothing further I wish to say to you.” She lowered her arms and tipped up her head. “Kindly allow me to pass.”
Richard saw the corner of Wallace’s lips tighten. Sensed he was debating refusing to yield.
Enough. Richard stepped out of the inn’s doorway and off the step—deliberately jostling Wallace with his shoulder.
Wallace glanced his way, a scowl descending as he opened his lips to protest.
Richard trapped Wallace’s gaze, held it mercilessly, and let all he truly was—his father’s son—fill his eyes. Slowly, with a deliberation that was a statement in itself, he took the last step that set him at Jacqueline’s side. “Richard Montague.” The words rang with challenge and undisguised menace; he wished he could use his title and cow the man still further, but he bit down on the impulse and instead, with deadly calm, said, “I believe the lady wishes to pass.”
Color rising, Wallace blustered, “I say, I know Miss T—”
“Surely, sir”—Richard shifted his hand to the hilt of his sword—“you are not going to be such a churl as to insist I put you aside.” His tone made it blatantly clear he was very willing to do so and, more, would relish the doing.
Wallace paled, but something—desperation?—stiffened his spine and kept him where he was. He moistened his lips and demanded, “Who are you to threaten me? You’re a stranger in these parts.”
Richard smiled intently, the gesture designed to be anything but reassuring. “I make you no threats, Wallace. Merely a promise. I hold myself a friend of the lady’s”—pointedly, Richard looked past Wallace at the witnesses behind him and amended—“all the ladies, and I believe, sir, that you need to step aside.”
Wallace glanced behind and was surprised to find Elinor and Mrs. Patrick, both with severe expressions on their faces, within hearing distance.
Still, the man vacillated for a second more before, reluctantly, stepping back.
Frostily, Jacqueline inclined her head and stalked past him.
Richard moved with her—forcing Wallace to take another step back. With a glance, Richard gathered Elinor and Mrs. Patrick and calmly ushered the three ladies ahead of him along the side of the marketplace toward where they’d left their horses.
He didn’t bother looking back at Wallace; he could feel the man’s gaze boring into his back.
Of the three of Jacqueline’s suitors he’d thus far met, he would rate Wallace the most dangerous. And he was perfectly certain the man wouldn’t desist. Given he’d gone to the extent of diverting her stream, Wallace was clearly prepared to act to bring about his desired end.
Richard’s buoyant sense of satisfaction over having hobbled Wallace’s heavy-handed approach to Jacqueline lasted until they came within sight of the horses.
Then reality reared its head.
What am I doing?
What right did he have to pass judgment on Jacqueline’s suitors—to decide who was suitable and who didn’t deserve her?
He was merely a guest—it wasn’t his place.
Something inside him stubbornly insisted: Yes, it was.
Jacqueline’s words of the previous day echoed through his mind. Everyone likes to have a purpose.
And on the heels of that, his unvoiced response replayed: If one had a purpose, one had a reason for living. So what was his?
What was his purpose in being there? In being?
He went through the motions of settling the three women—Elinor and Mrs. Patrick in the trap and Jacqueline on her mare—by rote. Then he mounted the gelding, and with his mind sunk in his thoughts, he escorted his small party onto the lane that would return them to Nimway Hall.
Sir Peregrine Wallace stormed away from the inn, away from the marketplace. His face a mask of black temper, uncaring of whom he shouldered out of his way, he strode to where he’d left his horse in Morgan’s care.
The sight of his loyal henchman gave Sir Peregrine pause.
His temper cooled, chilled by unnerving realization. He needed to marry Jacqueline Tregarth. There was no other way to achieve his ends.
He joined Morgan and, with a curt nod, accepted the reins of his rawboned hack. “They found the tunnels and filled them in. So now, not only has Miss Tregarth a lake full of water, but their blasted stream is running strongly again.”
Morgan blinked in his usual dour way. After a moment, he asked, “Do you want me to go and set up the tunnels again?”
Sir Peregrine thought, then shook his head. “
No—that’s over with.” After several moments of further cogitation, he said, “There’s a gentleman who I gather is visiting—a family friend. He was by her side just now. From his accent, he might well be from London. I don’t want to do anything to signal my interest in the Hall, not while he’s about.” Sir Peregrine focused on Morgan. “Find out who the fellow is, where he’s staying, and when he’s likely to leave.”
Morgan nodded.
Sir Peregrine grasped his saddle and mounted. Gathering the reins, he looked down at Morgan. “Meanwhile, I’ve plans to make. Once our interfering gentleman departs, I want to be ready to act.” Sir Peregrine nodded in dismissal. “Come and tell me what you learn. I’ll be at Lydford.”
Morgan tugged his forelock. He stood and watched Sir Peregrine ride away, then turned and lumbered toward the marketplace.
Throughout the uneventful ride back to Nimway Hall, with Jacqueline and Richard on their mounts trotting in the wake of the trap, Jacqueline’s mind remained obsessed with the notion—the vision—of Richard Montague as her husband.
No matter how determinedly she tried to turn her mind away from the fascinating prospect, her thoughts slid back to contemplating the possibility to the exclusion of virtually all else around her. Given her position as guardian of Nimway Hall, it was difficult to discount the fact that Richard had, indeed, been trapped by her wood, apparently in spite of his hunter’s skills. The stories telling of the destiny of those thus trapped might be old, but were they anchored in reality, as many such stories were?
And if that was true…?
Impossible to stop herself from glancing his way, from thinking and considering and wondering.
What if he truly was her love—the man drawn to the Hall by some fated force, the man destined to stand by her side?
She knew she was attracted to him—the leap of her senses whenever they touched was impossible to deny—yet she had no grounds to believe he was equally attracted to her. That didn’t mean he might not be, only that he was better than she at concealing such reactions.
And if, moreover, he was holding back and resisting giving her any sign because he was a guest under her roof—what then? How could she learn the truth of what might already exist between them enough to gauge its potential?