Ducal Encounters 01 - At the Duke's Discretion (8 page)

“Miss Brooke,” said the voice she recognised, with a sinking heart, as belonging to Reece. “I have been looking everywhere for you.”

***

Where the devil had Reece disappeared to, Amos wondered as he trotted Warrior across the common. He had kept well back for fear of being seen by him, even though it didn’t appear to occur to the man he might be followed. In any event, he strode along as though late for an appointment and had not once looked back. By the time Amos decided it would be safe to get closer, he had lost the fool. He must have taken the path through the trees, but Amos decided against following his example. There were low branches and rabbit holes everywhere. He would not risk Warrior’s or his own welfare for the sake of chasing shadows.

“This is a rum affair, Warrior,” he said, shading his eyes against the lowering sun with one hand as he peered in the direction of the woods that separated the common from Sheridan land, thinking he had seen movement in the treeline. “What possible business could he have here?”

Unless, of course, he had an assignation with a lady. God forbid he was here to meet with Miss Brooke. The thought was abhorrent to him, and Amos dismissed it at once, satisfied he would not be so attracted to her if she had such poor taste. He shook his head and again focused on the treeline, thinking he saw a flash of yellow. He halted Warrior and looked more closely, but there was nothing there. Then a scream rent the air−a scream that was abruptly cut off. Without hesitation, Amos spurred Warrior into a flat out gallop and headed for the trees.

He arrived to find Miss Brooke lying on the ground, looking dazed. Her forehead was grazed and bleeding.

“Lord Amos.” She blinked up at him, her eyes clouded, not with pain but fear. “What are you doing here?”

“You are perfectly safe now.” Amos slid from Warrior’s saddle and crouched beside Miss Brooke. “Your attacker is gone. Are you harmed? Can you stand?”

“I was not attacked,” she said quickly, looking down at her torn and dirtied gown, not at him. “I caught my foot in a rabbit hole. It was careless of me.”

Amos was disappointed she chose not to be honest with him. A simple fall would not occasion the terror evidenced in her eyes. Besides, he knew she had been assaulted because he caught a glimpse of the rogue responsible as he took off on foot through the trees. The desire to chase him down and thrash the living daylights out of him for his insolence had been compelling, but he could not leave Miss Brooke, possibly injured, without protection. There might be others hiding out in the trees waiting to assault her, also. He had heard nothing about a band of marauders being in the district, but since the end of the war there had been an increasing number of such incidents in rural areas.

Not that he gave the possibility serious consideration. Amos couldn’t be sure her attacker had been Reece, but given he had just now followed him to an otherwise deserted common, the possibility of anyone else being the perpetrator was remote.

“Here, take my hand and allow me to help you to your feet.”

He reached down, smiling his reassurance. She hesitated for a protracted moment before slipping her hand into his with obvious reluctance, as skittish and unsure of herself as one of his new born foals. Amos closed his fingers firmly around her palm and pulled her easily and gently to her feet. A part of him wished he could sweep her into his arms and pick her up by less conventional means. The desire to behave recklessly consumed him whenever he was anywhere near Miss Brooke. Stimulated by the mere touch of her hand, he ignored his extreme reaction to it, concentrating all his efforts upon making her feel safe. The urge to protect her and frighten off those who wished her harm burned through him like a virulent disease. That any man could behave so despicably towards a respectable young woman roused him to a paroxysm of fury.

“Have you twisted your ankle?”

She placed her weight on the afflicted limb experimentally. “No, I don’t believe any harm has been done by my clumsiness. Thank you for coming to my aid, Lord Amos, but I need detain you no longer.”

She gasped when she noticed her bodice had been torn, revealing the top of her shapely breasts. Amos reached for her shawl and tied it across her bosom, preserving her modesty.

“Let us go over there and sit on that log until you recover.”

“I am perfectly all right. There is no necessity for you to inconvenience yourself.”

Why is she so anxious to be rid of me?
“On the contrary, there is every need.”

He led Warrior with one hand and placed the other on her elbow as he guided her towards the log in question. She took several deep breaths and appeared to recover some composure, yet was still deathly pale. Amos was gripped by the sight of her thick riot of curly hair, cascading over her shoulders. The ribbon holding it in place had slipped free during her attack. Thoughts of that attack−of what might have happened had he not been there to save her−fuelled his murderous rage and deepened his determination to discover her true reason for being in the district.

Amos had yet to decide if he would tell her what he knew about her activities. She made most, if not all, of the jewellery for her uncle, but took no credit. The strain, the secrecy, was starting to tell on her nerves. Amos was willing to wager Reece did not know one end of a soldering iron from the other. Zach was right to say it was not Amos’s concern−or rather, it had not been. Since witnessing an attack of Miss Brooke’s person and saving her reputation, even the wildest of the horses he bred could not have stopped him from delving more deeply into her business.

“Here,” he said, helping her to sit.

Once she was settled, he tied Warrior’s reins to a low, stout branch, and the horse idly set about cropping the coarse grass. Amos sat beside Miss Brooke and fixed her with a steady gaze. There was blood on her forehead, but it had stopped flowing and the wound did not appear serious. He extracted a handkerchief from his pocket, moistened the cloth with his tongue, and gently dabbed at the injury. She inhaled sharply but not, Amos suspected, because he had hurt her, at least not physically. She could not possibly be aware how much pain such a simple, albeit rather inappropriate action, was causing him. Their gazes clashed, her eyes gleaming with liquid fire and the awakening of…of what precisely? The air between them became taut with expectancy as she watched him with unnerving stillness. When a gasp of awareness slipped past her lips, it brought Amos to his senses, and he ceded control of the handkerchief to her. She pressed her fingers to it, holding it firmly against her forehead.

“Thank you.”

“What happened?” he asked for the second time. “I know you didn’t fall.”

She did not immediately respond. The only sound was the jingling of Warrior’s bit as he chomped at the grass, the distant sound of a dog barking, and a melodious chorus of evening bird song. She absently pulled away a piece of the bark from the tree trunk they sat upon, her expression distant, brooding. A deep silence spread between them−the silent awareness of shared sensibility. Amos saw no occasion to break it, leaving her to her cogitations.

“Someone did take me by surprise and caused me to fall,” she eventually said, staring off into the distance. “I did not see who it was.”

Amos was disappointed by her response, but not surprised. “I would prefer it, Miss Brooke, if you would either tell me to go to the devil, or be honest with me.”

She gasped and turned her head sharply back in his direction. This time he had her full attention. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean you know who attacked you. It was Reece.”

Her eyes darted wildly in all directions, as though seeking a way to escape from him. She was very afraid of something. Or someone. “What makes you say that?”

“I saw him walking this way as I left the village. If he cut through the trees, he would have reached your position just before I did.”

“Mr. Reece is not my favourite person−”

“I am very pleased to hear you say so.”

“But he would not attack me.”

Amos screwed up his features. “There we must disagree.”

“You do not know him.”

“I have known men like him. They take what they want.” Amos had difficulty containing his anger when he saw the bruised look in her eye. Unable to understand why she would protect a man she despised, Amos itched to know the truth. “It is fortunate for you I came along when I did,” he said laconically.

“I am very much obliged to you, my lord.”

“I did not say that in the hope of earning your gratitude, Miss Brooke. Any gentleman would have provided the same service.” He fixed her with an ardent look. “But if you wish to reward me, I much would prefer you would honour me with your confidence.”

She trilled a laugh that sounded forced. “About what? I don’t believe I have any secrets, and even if I did, why would I share them with you? More to the point, why would a gentleman of your stature be interested in my affairs?”

Amos sighed. He enjoyed sitting there on an uncomfortable log at the edge of the common with the young lady who had made a huge impression upon him and occupied so many of his recent thoughts. He was in a position to know trust needed to be earned, and she was too afraid to place hers in him quite yet. Amos accepted he must set about earning that privilege.

What struck him as extraordinary was the manner in which she spoke to him. Her uncle was a skilled and respected craftsman, it was true, but he was not a gentleman. Ergo, she was no lady and ought to be tongue-tied and awkward in the presence of a duke’s brother. And yet, she was not—nor had she been when she came to the house with her uncle. She poured tea for them all as though she was perfectly accustomed to doing so, barely a shake of her hand indicating nerves. Her speaking voice was refined, as were her manners. This infuriatingly secretive young lady was no stranger to good society, and he yearned to know more of her background. But he did not force the issue, instead asking a question of his own.

“Presumably, as your uncle’s assistant, Reece lives above the shop?”

“No,” she replied, considerable satisfaction in her tone. “We do not have to endure his presence there.”

Then why endure it at all? This makes no sense
. “I am glad, at least, for that.”

“Uncle Charles thought it would not be appropriate to have an unmarried man in such a small establishment.”

“I applaud your uncle’s morals.”

“Reece resides at the Crown and Anchor.”

Amos’s brows shot up. “Does he indeed? And how does a mere assistant afford that?”

“I believe it is a temporary arrangement, until he can find alternative lodgings.”

Amos was pleased to hear it. A quick word in Jeggins’ ear was all that would be necessary to learn everything that was known about Reece.

A bird shot out of a nearby tree with a loud clatter of wings, startled by something, and startling Warrior in its turn. The stallion jerked its head up, whinnied, and turned on the spot, pawing at the ground. Amos stood up to soothe him. So, too, did Miss Brooke.

“Sit down,” Amos told her firmly. “You have had a shock and ought not to be on your feet again quite yet.”

“I feel completely recovered.” She walked across to Warrior, and this time her smile appeared more genuine. “He is magnificent. Did you breed him yourself?”

“Be careful! Warrior does not take kindly to strangers.”

She ignored his warning, leaving Amos with no time to pull her clear of Warrior’s snapping teeth. Instead he watched, dumbfounded, as his irascible stallion stopped misbehaving the moment Miss Brooke reached out a hand and stroked his sleek neck. He dropped his head into her outstretched hand and even permitted her to place a kiss on his muzzle.

“Remarkable,” he said softly, shaking his head in astonishment. The more he learned about Miss Brooke, the less he understood her.

***

He knows, Crista thought, playing for time as she focused her attention on the stallion, which was no great hardship since she loved horses. He knows it was Reece who attacked me and that he is not whom he claims to be. Crista was disappointed because he also thought ill of her for being untruthful, but there was no help for that.

She wanted this time alone with the elegant and formidable Lord Amos to last forever. She also wanted him to leave her, unable to understand why he had not already done so. He had gone out of his way to help her but, as he had just told her, any gentleman would have done as much under such circumstances. Unlike her, his conscience was clear, and he had no reason to linger. It must be apparent she was not hurt, at least not physically. The shock that Reece would actually lay in wait for her and try to…well, it would not do to consider what he had tried to do. He did not succeed, and Crista was now wise to him. She would not be caught unawares a second time.

“No, I did not breed him.”

His lordship’s voice intruded upon Crista’s introspective thoughts, startling her. He again reached out a hand, and she was most reluctant to place hers in it. The mayhem it caused to her emotions when she touched him was unsettling and inappropriate. She compromised by walking beside him and obediently resuming her seat on the log, breathless for reasons that had nothing to do with her recent attack. Lord Amos truly was as magnificent as his beautiful horse, a combination of elegance, grace, strength, and coercive charm. Long, thick, flowing black hair framed his handsome face—a face that reflected strength of character, steadfastness, and tough resourcefulness. His broad forehead led to rugged, symmetrical features and a strong, chiselled jaw. His dark blue eyes gleamed with intelligence and, she suspected, missed little. At that moment, they were focused upon her, assessing her in a most disarming manner.

“Warrior was a present from my father, the year before I graduated from university. I broke him myself.” He looked away from her. “He was the last gift I ever received from him. He died six months after the end of the war.”

“I am sorry,” she replied, moved enough by his obvious sadness to daringly touch his arm. “I lost my own father not so very long ago and understand your pain.”