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  Suddenly he pounced on her, kissing her so deeply and so possessively that she forgot her anger in the wave of urgency that swamped her. She felt as though she was falling into darkness, felt as though her whole body was rising and opening to him. In that moment she was his completely without pretense or calculation and it felt so undeniably right that she trembled with it.

  Two deer crashed through the undergrowth beside them and out onto the path, and Henry let go of her so abruptly that she gasped. Pleasure fled and she became aware of the rain that was still falling and the chill of her body. She started to shake with a mixture of cold and shock.

  She heard Henry swear softly. He drew her to her feet. His expression was dark and closed and, as ever, Margery had no idea what he was thinking. He looked her over and she was acutely conscious of the way her sopping-wet riding habit clung to every curve. Henry pressed his lips together in a thin line. He looked angry.

  She started to brush the old leaves from her riding habit, her fingers shaking a little. Henry was gently removing the twigs from her hair and she was devastatingly aware of the stir of his fingers through the tangled strands. He passed her hat to her while she self-consciously smoothed down her crumpled skirts. She felt stiff and soaked and bewildered.

  “I don’t understand!” she burst out. Her eyes searched his face. “What happened?”

  “Lust,” Henry said. “The natural consequence of proximity and—” his gaze traveled over her thoughtfully and she blushed all over “—your delightfully disheveled state.”

  Margery felt a flare of annoyance that she had even bothered to ask. “How very primitive you are, Lord Wardeaux,” she said.

  “I’m no different from most men,” Henry said. A smile touched the corner of his mouth. “I only tell the truth. Why dress it up as something it is not, Lady Marguerite?”

  “You mean something like love?” Margery said tartly. “God forbid. Sometimes I don’t even like you very much.”

  “You don’t need to like me to kiss me,” Henry said.

  “Clearly,” Margery snapped. Misery fluttered inside her. It felt like a betrayal to dismiss her response to Henry so casually. What had happened between them had felt too intimate and special to be nothing more than base nature. She could have sworn that there had been true emotion. Yet it had meant nothing to Henry so it could only be her inexperience that made her give the kiss more significance than it possessed.

  She stole a glance at him but he had turned away to climb back up onto the track. He was scanning the shadowy depths beneath the trees.

  “Come along,” he said abruptly. “We should not linger here. I imagine the horses will have run for home but it is not far.”

  “Who was shooting at us?” Margery was shocked that she had almost forgotten the panic and fear of their flight in the heat of what had happened afterward.

  “Poachers, I expect,” Henry said. She saw a muscle flicker in his cheek. “We have had trouble with them in the last few months—although normally they do not attack anyone.”

  Fifty yards farther along, the woods fell back and Margery was astonished to see that they were at the edge of the Templemore deer park. She had not imagined the house to be so close.

  “I need to take some of the men and find this poacher of ours,” Henry said. He was already turning away.

  Unexpected fear clutched at Margery’s heart. She grabbed his sleeve between her fingers, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.

  “Don’t go back,” she said. “It might be dangerous.”

  Henry stopped. Very slowly he turned to look at her. There was an arrested look in his eyes as he stared down into her face, a look that suddenly stripped away all pretense. Margery felt her stomach drop as though she had missed a step in the dark. She felt confused and vulnerable, and she did not want Henry to read that in her eyes. Her feelings were too naked.

  She would have allowed her hand to fall but it was too late. He covered it with his own. His fingers were warm and strong over hers.

  “I shall be quite safe,” he said softly and Margery’s heart gave an errant thump.

  She wanted to resume the pretense and claim that she was not worried for him but the light words would not come. Instead, she simply looked at him and could not look away. “Be careful,” she whispered. “Please.”

  Something moved and shifted in his eyes. “Margery,” he said, and there was a tone in his voice that she had not heard before. Her heart fluttered.

  Henry leaned forward very slowly and gave her a brief, hard kiss. Her lips clung to his, parted. The caress, so short and yet so potent, set up a trembling deep inside her. Henry’s fingers slid from hers reluctantly as he stepped back. There was a baffled look in his eyes now as he looked down at her.

  “I should go—” He made a vague gesture in the general direction of the stables. He sounded slightly confused, as though someone had hit him over the head with a heavy object.

  Margery cleared her throat. “Oh, yes. Yes, of course.”

  She watched him walk away. After a few paces he turned to look back at her. He stood staring at her for a very long moment.

  Margery picked up her mud-spattered skirts and headed for the door. The ache in her ankle had dulled now. The footman, wooden-faced, bowed her inside. The long gilt mirrors bounced her reflection back at her, wet, muddy, hair bedraggled, cheeks radiantly pink, eyes like stars. She paused. She looked happy. Which was odd, given that she had just had such a distressing experience. In fact, not only did she look happy, she looked…

  Her heart gave another errant thump. She remembered the slide of Henry’s fingers in hers and the sweetness of his kiss.

  Oh, no.

  She could not be.

  She could not be in love with Henry Wardeaux.

  But there was no arguing with it.

  Because she was.

  * * *

  WHAT THE HELL HAD happened there?

  As Henry directed the grooms and estate workers to fan out through the woods in the hunt for any poachers, a large part of his mind was still preoccupied with the moment he had kissed Margery on the steps of the house. The kiss in the woods had been easier to understand; tension, proximity and the wet riding habit clinging to Margery’s every curve had overcome his self-control, which these days hung by an increasingly slender thread. That, in itself, was troubling enough. But the second kiss had been even more disturbing. When Margery had begged him to take care he had been thrown completely off balance. He had felt as though the world tipped on its axis and had not quite steadied again.

  He felt the shift and slide of some emotion deep inside. It was disconcerting. His disliked it intensely because it was incomprehensible and irrational. Yet he could not deny it. Nor could he banish it. It followed on from the equally disturbing experience of the previous week and the violent clutch of fear he had felt when he had realized that Margery was trapped in her burning bedchamber. No power on earth could have prevented him from breaking that door down to get to her. He had wanted to shake her then for being so careless and endangering herself. He had wanted to hold her close and never let her go again.

  He gave his head an impatient shake. These were disturbing thoughts. When Margery had spoken so candidly of her fears about her inheritance and when she had been so generous in recognizing how important Templemore was to him, he had felt again that warmth and sweetness he was afraid she had lost. His hunger for her had returned fourfold, and not just his desire for her, but a hunger to possess her utterly and draw on that sweetness for his strength.

  One of the search party crashed through the brambles ahead of him, beating the undergrowth back for any sign of poachers or their prey, and Henry turned his attention to the search. He realized that he had been riding along the path so deep in thought that a dozen poachers could have marched past him carrying a brace of pheasants each and he would not have noticed because he had been too busy thinking about Margery. It was hard not to believe that something more than bad
luck was at work here. Margery was becoming remarkably accident-prone and he remembered Garrick’s words to him in London.

  I don’t believe in random coincidence….

  In this situation, neither did Henry. There had been the fire and now this. It seemed that someone at Templemore did not wish Margery to inherit.

  “There’s no sign, sir.” Ned had come up to him and put his hand on Diabolo’s bridle to catch Henry’s attention. Henry was not surprised. He was starting to think that their mystery assailant had been no thief. In the past, he had caught enough men roaming the woods in search of game and not one of them had been armed with an old-fashioned bow and arrow.

  “Thank you, Ned,” he said. “Take a half dozen men and search the Upper Wood.”

  The groom nodded and stood back, and Henry eased Diabolo to a trot until he reached the point in the path where he estimated the first arrow had struck. He stopped, looked around. Twenty feet away was a broad oak and halfway up the trunk the wood was split. A few splinters dusted the ground beneath.

  Henry’s skin prickled. So someone had come back and removed the arrow after he and Margery had galloped away. There could be only one reason for that: there was a danger it might be recognized. He closed his eyes and tried to remember everything he could about the attack. The problem was that instinct had taken over and all he had wanted to do was protect Margery. Keeping her safe had been the most important thing on his mind.

  He ran his gloved fingers over the wound in the bark, feeling the sharp edges of the cut even through the leather. The arrow had gone in deep. If it had hit Margery she would have been badly injured, even killed. And that was the thing that puzzled him the most. Both he and Margery had been sitting ducks. A good marksman would not have missed his target.

  He urged Diabolo out from under the trees and continued to trace their path along the track, knowing even as he did so that the second arrow would also have vanished. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to cover his—or her—tracks.

  A cold hard weight settled in his gut as he considered the danger to Margery. Whatever happened, he had to keep her safe. It was his responsibility to do so, an obligation he owed to Margery, to her grandfather, to Templemore.

  The use of such words reassured him. The curious emotion he had felt earlier when Margery had caught his hand and begged him to take care was tempered now by a sense of duty. Yet even so, he could not quite shake the feeling that he was in danger and it was not the sort that was delivered at the point of a poacher’s arrow.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Knight of Wands: A robust young man, an energetic warrior, a generous friend or lover. He has a hasty personality

  JEM MALLON RODE THE STAGE to Faringdon and then walked the seven miles out to Templemore, turning in at the gates and standing for a moment to take in the sheer scale of the estate. Before him was an extremely pretty drive. It was shaded by lime trees on this humid spring day, but he could have done with it being a bit shorter. By the time he was close to the house he had taken off his jacket, loosened his neck cloth and was aware that his linen shirt—especially laundered for the important occasion of greeting his sister, the heiress—was sticking to his broad back.

  As he approached the little stone bridge over the stream, he saw a lady standing on the parapet looking down into the water below. She was dressed in a pink muslin gown with a matching pink parasol. Her hair was a rich chestnut color threaded with pink ribbon. She was tall and slender, and as she turned to look at him he saw she had the biggest blue eyes that he had ever seen.

  Jem felt a little odd, light-headed, as though he was parched for a drink. Perhaps it was the heat of the day or perhaps it was those blue eyes that were now appraising him from his scuffed boots to his tousled hair. Never in his life had Jem Mallon felt at a disadvantage with a woman but this was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman in the entire world. He should know. He had met plenty of beautiful women, but none could hold a candle to this one.

  “Good afternoon,” she said, as he reached her side. Her voice was cool and perfectly modulated, like a refreshing shower of water on a hot afternoon. “You must be Mr. Jem Mallon. Margery said you would be coming.” She smiled, straightened up and extended a hand. “How do you do? I am Francesca Alton. I am Margery’s companion.”

  Companion?

  Jem had thought that only old women had companions, desiccated old spinsters who sat around playing at whist. He took Francesca Alton’s hand, small and cool in its lace glove. He felt an overwhelming urge to kiss the back of it. He had never done such a thing in his life. He bowed, a little awkwardly. Francesca Alton smiled at him again and he felt as though the sun had doubled in strength.

  “I am afraid that Margery is out at the moment visiting about the estate,” she said. She withdrew her hand gently from his. Jem had not even been aware that he was hanging on to it. “If you would care to come up to the house to take tea while you wait for her to return…”

  “That would be delightful,” Jem said, recovering his powers of speech. “Thank you.”

  He had never taken tea in his life but he was quite willing to start now. In fact he was prepared to drink anything that Francesca suggested as long as she kept him company while he did it.

  Francesca was waiting and after a moment Jem realized that he was expected to offer his arm, dusty and travel-stained as his sleeve was. He did so, and she laid her hand delicately on it and they walked slowly up to the house. Jem was very aware of the sway of Francesca’s hips and the way that the pink muslin of her skirts brushed against his thigh as they walked. He was also aware that this was a proper lady, a very proper lady, and so to harbor any improper desires toward her was utterly pointless. She was far above him.

  “Is your husband also staying at Templemore?” he asked.

  For a second she looked startled. “I am a widow,” she said. “Lord Alton died last year.”

  So she was that Lady Alton. That changed everything. Jem felt a doubling of interest. He had heard about Francesca Alton and her shocking marriage to the late marquis. No doubt the whole of London knew about it. She was without a doubt a very racy widow, indeed, just the type he liked.

  He put his hand over hers where it rested on his arm and gave her fingers a little squeeze.

  “I do hope that you have been able to find sufficient comfort in your widowhood.”

  Lady Alton gave him a look so cold that his ambitions and a great deal else froze in that moment despite the heat of the day.

  “How very thoughtful of you to be so concerned for my comfort,” she said, in arctic tones. “I assure you that there is absolutely nothing you can contribute to it.”

  Ouch.

  Jem winced. He acknowledged that he had grossly miscalculated. Lady Alton was not a fast widow to be tumbled in the bushes on the basis of five minutes acquaintance. Perhaps all the stories about her were not true. One could not believe anything the papers wrote nowadays.

  They walked on in silence until Lady Alton unbent sufficiently to comment on the weather and to point out to him various items of interest about the estate: the dovecote, the walled garden and the fountain. Jem found it all fairly boring except as an indication of just how rich Margery must be now, which interested him very much indeed.

  They reached the gravel sweep where a number of peacocks stared balefully at him, as though they knew he was no gentleman and should not be permitted to set foot on Templemore turf. A footman bowed him inside the house. The sudden shade after the dazzling sunlight was blinding for a moment. Jem found himself standing in an enormous hallway dominated by a picture of Margery as a small child. It was the same image that his brother Billy had found on a miniature painting in their mother’s effects after she had died, a miniature that had set Billy on his unfortunate quest to reunite Margery with her inheritance. If only he had left well enough alone….

  “Mr. Mallon will take tea in the drawing room, Barnard.” Lady Alton was addressing the butler. “Pray tell La
dy Wardeaux that he has arrived.” She gave Jem a cool smile. “Good day, Mr. Mallon. I will see you later.”

  “Oh,” Jem said, realizing that his chances of recovering lost ground over a cup of tea were lost. “But—”

  But she was gone. Jem realized that he would have to work a great deal harder in order to fix the interest of the lovely Lady Alton, but he was not a man who accepted defeat lightly. The situation still held intriguing possibilities.

  “This way, sir.” The butler ushered him into the drawing room and Jem paused to admire the high ceilings with their exquisite plasterwork, the thick carpet beneath his feet and the soft glow of the sun on the rosewood furniture. The room reeked of money, but in the most discreet and tasteful way imaginable. It was a great pity, Jem thought, that he was going to have to put a stop to all of this. But not before he had taken advantage of it first.

  * * *

  “MOLL!”

  Margery had been in the hall for no more than twenty seconds when the door of the drawing room opened and Jem hurried out and enveloped her in a bear hug. She hugged him back fiercely, then surprised them both by bursting into tears.

  “What’s this?” Jem, looking comically bewildered, held her at arm’s length. “Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

  “Don’t be daft.” Margery felt a huge swell of gladness in her heart. Jem looked so familiar, so reassuring, at a time when her heart and life felt in total turmoil. She grabbed him again, drawing comfort from his sold strength. “What took you so long?” she scolded. “I wrote to you weeks ago.”

  “Sorry,” Jem said. “I had business to attend to.” His bright blue gaze traveled over her, taking in her soaking clothes and general air of dishevelment. “What on earth has happened to you?” he added, releasing her and looking down at the smears of mud that were now adorning his beautifully cut jacket. “You look as though you have been pulled through a hedge, and you’ve spoiled my new jacket.”

  “I fell off my horse,” Margery said. She had already decided to say nothing about the poachers for fear that word would get to her grandfather and upset him. Now she was doubly glad to hold her tongue. The last thing she wanted was Jem rushing off to confront Henry about what had happened and demanding to know why he had not taken better care of her. There would be quite enough antagonism between the two of them without that, especially when Jem realized that Henry was the man she had been with that night in London.