The conundrum had her frowning.
The crunch of gravel under their horses’ hooves drew her back to her surroundings. Nimway Hall rose before them, the sun glinting off the leaded panes of its many windows.
As she and Richard trotted behind the trap around the drive and into the forecourt, she was still at a loss as to how she might learn what she was now convinced she needed to know.
Young Willie came running from the stable, with Hopkins not far behind.
Jacqueline drew the mare up at the edge of the lawn.
Richard halted the gelding a few paces away and dismounted with his customary fluid grace, then with a smile on his face, he came to lift her down.
Still absorbed with her thoughts, she hadn’t been quick enough to free her boots from the stirrups and slide down without his assistance. Steeling herself against what she knew would come, she freed her feet and gathered her skirt.
His smile widening, he reached up and fastened his hands about her waist. He gripped, lifted her, and swung her down—
Her heavy skirt snagged on the saddle.
The unexpected tug unbalanced them both.
She gasped, her eyes flying wide.
His expression hardened as he juggled her, shifting his hold.
They tipped—instinctively, he snatched her closer.
He staggered, hugging her to him as they toppled, tumbled, and fell in an ungraceful tangle on the grass.
She landed atop him, her breasts plastered to his chest, her skirt trapping his legs. She heard his breath expel in an “Oof!”
For one superb second, safety, security, warmth, and comfort engulfed her, then she realized her elbow had jammed into his stomach, causing that oof, and she squirmed to free her arm—
And froze.
As the reality of what was causing the ridge of solid pressure against her stomach impinged on her mind.
Heat rose to her cheeks. Without daring to meet his eyes, she babbled, “I’m so sorry! The train of my habit…”
Even as she wriggled, trying to shift off him, the wretched train held her in place.
“Hold still.”
She froze again. He sounded as if he’d spoken through gritted teeth.
He shifted his legs, releasing the train that had got trapped beneath them, then his hands firmed about her waist, and he lifted her up and to the side.
She scrambled and got her feet beneath her. He released her, then sat up.
Barely breathing, from beneath her lashes, she watched as he rolled away from her, then, slowly, stood.
He resettled his coat, then turned to face her and offered his hand. “My apologies—I should have checked your skirt was free.”
“No, no.” She placed her gloved hand in his and allowed him to draw her upright. “It was entirely my fault.”
It had been no one’s fault, but she couldn’t deny the incident had been most…fortuitous. Breathless and giddy she might be, but she now knew the answer to one of her questions. Richard Montague was attracted to her in very much the same way as she was to him.
She busied herself shaking out, then smoothing down her skirts.
Elinor had halted the trap by the steps. She and Mrs. Patrick had clambered down and hurried over, but by then Jacqueline and Richard were back on their feet. “Are you all right, dear?” Elinor inquired.
Jacqueline summoned a reassuring smile. “Just a tumble.” From beneath her lashes, she glanced at Richard. “No harm done.”
His gaze on Elinor, he inclined his head. “A moment of clumsiness, I regret to say.”
Did he regret it? There was a note in his voice that made Jacqueline wonder.
Cloaking the stiffness that had afflicted him as best he could, Richard waved Jacqueline on, then fell in alongside her as they followed Elinor and Mrs. Patrick across the forecourt, up the steps, and into the great hall.
He fought to keep his features impassive, to conceal the dismay washing through him. Courtesy of a decade and more of ducking the attentions of over-amorous young ladies, his instincts were exceedingly well honed in detecting that critical moment when a young lady decided to view him as husband material.
Logically, rationally, he wasn’t sure Jacqueline Tregarth had made such a decision—her train might have got caught beneath her saddle on its own.
Yet his instincts were pricking, sharp and insistent.
The questions he’d asked himself the previous day rang again in his mind. What was his purpose?
More immediately, what was he doing there—at Nimway Hall?
Sir Peregrine Wallace entered his house in Lydford via the front door. Located just outside the village, the house was a neat, unpretentious gentleman’s residence built earlier in the century—nothing on the scale of Nimway Hall and completely lacking in history.
Sir Peregrine tossed his riding gloves onto the hall table and, still smarting over the failure of his attempt to lure Jacqueline Tregarth under his thumb, strode for the comfort of the brandy decanter in the study.
Summoned by his footsteps ringing on the hall tiles, his valet, Higson, popped his head around the servants’ door as Sir Peregrine walked past. “Letter came for you, sir. I’ve left it on your desk.”
Sir Peregrine grunted, but paused to close the study door before crossing to the desk and lifting the folded parchment from the salver there. Sir Peregrine squinted at the writing, then straightened. “Dashwood.”
Reinvigorated, his expression transforming to one of hopeful eagerness, Sir Peregrine set down the letter, crossed to the tantalus, and poured a good two fingers of his best brandy into a crystal glass. Glass in hand, he returned to the desk, picked up the letter and his letter knife, then crossed to sink into the well-padded armchair angled before the empty hearth.
Late-afternoon sunshine streamed through the window, affording Sir Peregrine ample light. After placing the glass of brandy on the small table by his elbow, he gripped the letter knife, broke the letter’s seal, and, his heart beating a trifle faster, spread open the two sheets.
As he read, his lips lifted, then he grinned. “Excellent!”
It had been a mere two days since he’d dispatched his offer to Sir Francis. That the leader of the Order of the Knights of St. Francis had replied so expeditiously suggested that Sir Peregrine had, at last, found the perfect treasure with which to beguile his way into the upper echelons of the order. Indeed, if all went as planned, he rather thought he would be able to lay claim to the position at Sir Francis’s side.
After fortifying himself with a mouthful of brandy, Sir Peregrine returned to the letter.
Dashwood wrote in glowing and laudatory vein, urging Sir Peregrine on and assuring him most earnestly that, should he succeed in securing Nimway Hall—built atop the hallowed cave of the mystical sorceress, Nimue—and further, laid his hands on the ancient orb he’d spied in the residence, which surely must be the fabled orb that had once formed the head of Merlin’s staff and was said to hold a powerful spell, then Sir Peregrine would be assured of a place of honor in the annals of the order, second only to Sir Francis himself.
Sir Peregrine paused to savor another mouthful of brandy and imagine that result—precisely what he’d hoped for when he’d first realized the significance of the local tall tales of the Hall.
After several moments of staring into space, he sipped again, then returned his gaze to the letter and read on.
Sir Francis wrote that Sir Peregrine should send him word the instant he gained possession, so that the order might put in train arrangements to suitably celebrate with an orgy of truly extraordinary extent. Even if Sir Peregrine’s claim to the Hall was via implied possession consequent on a betrothal, that, Sir Francis declared, would be enough for the order’s purposes.
Sir Peregrine turned the sheet, following Sir Francis’s scrawl. He smiled with satisfaction as he read Sir Francis’s assurances that the entire order would be waiting with bated breath to hear news of Sir Peregrine’s success, especially if he was abl
e to seize the prize in time for the summer solstice, which—Sir Francis noted—as Sir Peregrine knew, would be marked by the order with a week-long orgy of the senses, commencing on the solstice.
Sir Peregrine blinked, then glanced at the ornate calendar sitting on the mantelpiece. It was only the tenth of June; he had time enough to lure Jacqueline Tregarth into his clutches.
Reassured, he went back to the letter to read the last two lines. He did, then, staring at the page, he sat up and softly cursed.
Sir Francis Dashwood, Grand Master of the Order of the Knights of St. Francis, had written that, regardless of whether Sir Peregrine had succeeded in seizing the goal by that time, Sir Francis would visit him at Lydford, arriving toward the end of the coming week. Sir Francis had added that Sir Peregrine would not be surprised to learn that Sir Francis wished to gaze upon the wonder of Nimway Hall, and the orb, himself. And, of course, to celebrate Sir Peregrine’s imminent rise through the order’s ranks.
“Damn!” Sir Peregrine lowered the letter and stared unseeing across the room.
By the end of next week…
Until he managed to bend Jacqueline Tregarth to his will, he wouldn’t be able to allow Sir Francis the run of Nimway Hall, much less allow the founder of the order to claim the orb—which, he knew, was precisely what Dashwood was hoping to do during his impending visit.
The incident in the marketplace replayed in Sir Peregrine’s mind.
He might have erred in his estimation of how long it would take him to charm Jacqueline Tregarth. Indeed, charm had never seemed to have much effect on the wretched woman.
Which simply underscored the sense in setting charm aside and bringing other forces to bear.
By the end of next week…
Sir Peregrine glanced at the letter, then set it aside. He wouldn’t write and put Sir Francis off; such a move would definitely not improve—and might even scupper—his chances of securing the position he was determined to claim, the one by Sir Francis’s side in all the order’s rituals.
Slumping back in the chair, Sir Peregrine sipped, then drained the brandy from his glass.
Once the interfering gentleman was no longer by Jacqueline Tregarth’s side and no one else who could wield a sword was there to defend her, Sir Peregrine would seize the moment. It was his to seize, after all.
There were well-known and well-used ways of forcing reluctant ladies to front the altar.
As soon as Morgan brought word of the gentleman’s departure, Sir Peregrine would act.
He would plot, plan, and be ready to seize and secure his future the instant Jacqueline Tregarth was once more effectively alone at Nimway Hall.
Chapter 8
How did young ladies encourage gentlemen?
Jacqueline had no clue. She’d never wanted to do such a thing before.
So she dallied in the drawing room until, as had happened on the previous nights since Richard had arrived at the Hall, he and she started up the stairs side by side.
Cruickshank was doing the rounds of the ground floor, checking that all the doors and windows had been locked. Ever since the break-in, he’d been extra vigilant.
A candelabra on the central table in the hall cast flickering light over the walls as, holding her skirts raised, Jacqueline climbed. Cruickshank would douse the candles downstairs. The single large candle in its ornate stick that sat on the side table in the gallery opposite the head of the stairs cast enough light to guide Jacqueline and Richard to their rooms; when, eventually, Cruickshank followed them upstairs, he would take the candlestick with him to light his way up the next flight to the staff quarters above.
Not having to juggle a candlestick as well as manage her skirts was a definite boon…
Inwardly cursing, she wrestled her skittering thoughts back to the problem at hand. How was she to encourage Richard? How to convey and make clear to him that she would welcome his advances if he chose to make them—if he felt that way inclined?
The gallery loomed ahead. The end of the stairs was nigh.
She frowned in earnest, raking through her mind to find some form of words with which to at least allude to the subject, to indicate—
Her toe hit the top step, and she pitched forward—
Before she could gasp, she sensed Richard beside her, swooping, then a muscled arm wrapped about her waist, and she was abruptly hauled upright.
She tilted toward him—was pulled even nearer—and found herself locked in his arms.
Once more with her breasts pressed to his coat, cradled against the warm hardness of his chest. But this time, they were on their feet.
She looked up. Their faces were only inches apart. The flickering light of the candle played softly over one side of his face, revealing the austere planes of his cheeks beneath his sharply delineated cheekbones.
His eyes, the bright hazel wreathed in shadow, trapped hers. Gazes locked, they stared at each other, their breaths mingling in the dimness while hunger rose, powerful and potent, a tangible entity claiming the air between them.
She stared into the sharp hazel gaze of a predator.
Her heart sped, galloping faster and faster. Her lungs seized, denying her breath.
As every sense she possessed stretched and reached for him.
Passion flowered, a need she’d never experienced before. Desire bloomed and seduced her.
She felt heat rise and spread beneath her skin, urging her on, needy and wanting. Instinctively, she moistened her lips—and saw his gaze deflect, releasing her eyes to follow the passage of the tip of her tongue over the lower curve…
Emboldened, she lowered her gaze. To his mouth.
His lips were edged in shadow, infinitely intriguing…infinitely tempting.
She drew in a shallow breath, then tensed and stretched upward—
He stiffened.
She looked up, surprised. His hooded lids had fallen, screening his eyes.
Then his arms eased—slowly but smoothly releasing her. Before she could stagger, he closed his hands about her upper arms.
He gripped and, for one instant, stilled, but then she saw his jaw set, and with his lips now a thin line, he stepped back, simultaneously setting her on her feet.
Away from him.
His hands fell from her. His rejection could not have been clearer.
Struck to the heart, her blood cooling as if he’d plunged her into ice, she dragged in a breath. “I’m…thank you.” After a second, she added, “Again. I seem to be making a habit of stumbling…”
What was she saying? Both falls had been accidents.
She reached for a shawl she wasn’t wearing, then realized, straightened, and clinging to what dignity remained to her, inclined her head. “Again, thank you. I will bid you—”
“I meant to mention it before.” He’d edged even farther back; the candlelight barely touched his face. He clasped his hands behind his back; standing rigid and somehow distant, with quite terrible politeness, he went on, “I believe my horse will be recovered enough to ride on…if not tomorrow, then certainly, the day after. I’ve enjoyed my time at Nimway Hall immensely and wish to convey my deepest gratitude to you and the household for the welcome you’ve shown me—a stranger lost in your wood. However, despite the pleasure I’ve found here, others will be wondering where I’ve got to. I must ride on.”
Despite the cauldron of feelings roiling inside her—embarrassment, hurt, disappointment, and self-directed anger among them—she nevertheless thought, on a spurt of irritation, that obviously his stay hadn’t been so very pleasant that he would consider remaining forever.
Metaphorically pulling the shreds of her dignity more tightly about her, she forced herself to—however stiffly—incline her head. “Of course.” Her voice was low; despite her best efforts, temper edged her tone. “We cannot—and would not wish to—keep you.”
An outright lie, but at least she’d got the words out.
With a fractional inclination of her head, she turned away. “Goo
dnight, sir.”
She didn’t look back but, head high, walked to her door, opened it, went inside, and carefully let the latch fall.
Only then did she allow the tremors that had been building inside to surface. She slumped back against the door and closed her eyes.
She breathed in, out, and waited for the maelstrom of her raging emotions to subside.
Once it had—only once it had—she drew in a deep breath and opened her eyes.
Her gaze fell on the orb. It sat on her dressing table; she hadn’t moved it since it had appeared there. Yet even though the moonlight was falling full upon it, the moonstone seemed curiously dull. More milky, less translucent, and with not a hint of a glow.
She humphed and pushed away from the door.
Without allowing herself to think—without allowing her still-surging emotions to capture her again—she walked to the open window and looked out. The view was to the north. She could see the lake, its waters shimmering under the moon’s light, its edge marked by the dark shadows of trees, and on the distant horizon, silhouetted against the night sky, pale and somehow infinitely lonely, stood the Tor.
Had Nimue once stood somewhere near, on the Hall’s lands, and looked out on a moonlit summer night—at the Tor, at the lake and the wood—and wondered about life and love?
Jacqueline stood for long minutes and grappled with the reality of rejection.
Of the pain of offering and being deemed unworthy, of being turned away from.
It hurt.
As the minutes ticked by, she sensed the ancient peace of the Hall rise around her, wrapping comfortingly about her, an all-but-palpable presence in the dark.
Held, supported, she took her courage in her hands and looked inward—to where the hurt resided. As if it was a physical wound, she examined it. Acknowledged it.
Admitted to herself that the slash had scored her heart.
Only now that the prospect of a future with Richard Montague had been denied—had been shown to be an unattainable dream—did she finally understand, did she finally comprehend how deeply the hope and the promise of what she’d sensed she might have with him by her side had burrowed into her soul.