The Maiden's Hand

“Not exactly. I think they were sent to stop us from reaching Blackrose Priory,” she said.

“Really?”

“Aye.” She had no choice but to admit her fears. “Spencer’s sole enemy must have learned what he plans.”

“What does the gentleman plan?”

She was keenly aware of Oliver’s presence behind her. She felt the heat of his stare like a ray of the sun.

“I must let Spencer tell you that.”

“You say he has an enemy. Who is that?”

“Wynter Merrifield.” Lark paused as a cloud passed over the sun, then gave way to dazzling brightness. “His only son.”

Kit gasped. “The man’s son is his enemy?”

“Sadly, yes.” She remembered the coin Kit had found. Of Spanish origin, it had been. “More I cannot say. Spencer will explain all you need to know when we arrive.” She trotted on ahead, wishing the kiss had not happened, wishing she had not lain awake half the night thinking about his lips upon hers.

When Lark moved out of earshot, Kit glared at Oliver. “What in God’s name are we doing?”

“Helping a damsel in distress?”

Kit studied her stiff figure riding in the fore. Mistress Lark rode as if she had a ramrod up her back. “She doesn’t look distressed to me. Why is she being so secretive?”

“Because we’re a pair of rogues. She doesn’t trust us.”

“And you trust her? Oliver, I need hardly remind you that she almost got us killed.”

“It was exciting, was it not?” Oliver smiled, savoring the memory. “Swordfights have ever made my blood run hot.”

“I worry about you, Oliver. I truly do.”

He nodded at their silent leader. “She makes my blood run hot, too.”

“Anything in skirts has that effect on you.”

“Out of skirts is even better.” Oliver studied her. To the undiscerning eye, she resembled her namesake—a small, drab bird. Yet he knew better. He knew there was softness beneath her rigid exterior, the heart of a woman beating in her breast, and a host of dreams inside her, just waiting to be set free. “That one’s special.”

Kit pushed back his hat and scratched his forehead. “Her? You’re mad. Look at her.”

“I’ve been looking, and I know what you’re thinking. She’s small and dark and plain. She’s about the least worldly wench we’ve ever encountered. She has the disposition of a badger. And she bites her nails and quotes the scripture.”

“And she fires your brand?” Kit demanded incredulously.

“The challenge of her stirs my blood, Kit. It is no great feat to desire a woman who is fair and charming. But this one.” He nodded ahead, feeling a curious rapture. “If I could love her, I’d be capable of anything.”

“She helped save you from hanging. It’s disturbed your judgment,” Kit said stolidly. Suspiciously.

“That’s always been your problem, my friend. You lack imagination. You see only what is there on the surface. Mind, I don’t blame you for loving my sister, but Belinda’s easy to love. She’s pretty, she has a charming temperament, and she loves you in return.”

Kit thumped his fist against his chest. “She does?”

“Of course she does, you muttonhead, though I trow ’twas not your brains that won her.”

“Why do I endure you?”

“To keep yourself from running quite mad with boredom. Tell me, Kit, how do you endure toiling away at the law day in and day out?”

“Such toiling does earn me a living. Not all of us are born to wealth and idleness.”

The laughter drained from Oliver. Most of the time he enjoyed the advantages of his rank. Every once in a while he wondered if he might be a better person were he forced to fend for himself. Fortunately his moments of doubt were few and far between, easily banished by thoughts of his own splendor.

Could he have been, even so slightly, wrong?

A short time later they reached the estate of Blackrose Priory. Oliver eyed it with appreciation. The long road, winding northward and westward, was kept free of deep ruts and holes and stones. The hedgerows were freshly clipped and alive with the music of thrushes.

Thick-coated sheep grazed on the gentle hills that rose behind the main building. The priory itself, once a haven for Bonshomme monks, had a good-size almshouse and a broad lawn with fountains and knot gardens. The path to the front had been paved with pebbles. The old Gothic hall, echoing with ancient, ghostly voices, had sprawling wings added on each end. It was built of native stone, which gave it a warm, brownish hue.

“The servants defer to her,” Kit muttered, watching Lark.

It was true; the grooms who came to look after their mounts obeyed her murmured instructions. The pair of footmen who appeared at the main door bowed low to her.

“Who is she to this Spencer?” Oliver wondered as they followed her up the broad steps to the huge arched doors.

“Some relation,” said Kit. “You ought to ask.”

“I don’t think she enjoys being questioned.”

She stopped inside the door and turned to them. The weak light in the great hall leached her complexion of all color. The marble hardness of her face startled Oliver. He could scarcely remember how she had looked last night when she had kissed him. She had been soft and warm and alive, a vivid contrast to this whey-faced stranger.

“Wait here,” she said. “I’ll see that you get something to eat and drink. His Lordship will receive you shortly.”

She turned like a soldier obeying an order and marched through a low door to the right of the hearth.

A door on the opposite side of the hearth opened, and in stepped a remarkable young man. “Charming, isn’t she?” he said, a sardonic curl to his lip.

“Indeed,” Oliver said. Without moving a muscle, he took the measure of the man. Of medium height and build, with glossy black hair and a pointed beard, he was dressed in black velvet, with a rapier at his hip and a wide smile of welcome on his face. His dark eyes flashed with the promise of a quick, observant wit. When he moved, it was with lithe, unconscious grace.

Oliver felt a shock of instant dislike as he fixed an equally charming smile on his face.

The newcomer held out a well-tended hand. “Welcome to Blackrose Priory. I am Wynter Merrifield, Viscount Grantham.”

Ah, thought Oliver as he introduced himself and Kit. The heir. The enemy. The man who had sent hirelings to stop them from reaching Blackrose Priory. Was he the man who caused the hardness on Lark’s face?

Oliver kept a bold grin in place. “My lord, we’ve already had a taste of your welcome.”

Four