Love Inspired Historical March 2014 Bundle: Winning Over the Wrangler\Wolf Creek Homecoming\A Bride for the Baron\The Guardian's Promise (59 page)

“Actually I did.”

“Why? Because such work is below a peer's dignity?”

“You do have gardeners at Meriweather Hall.”

“I didn't always live at Meriweather Hall. Maybe I enjoyed digging in the dirt, too, before I inherited my title.”

Her eyes widened. “I never thought of that. Did you?”

“Did I enjoy digging in the dirt?” When she nodded, he chuckled. “Only when it comes to raising a new building, I must admit. However, no lord of the realm would allow a young lady to dirty her pretty frock by digging up bulbs.”

She swept out her hand. “I don't want to be the one who pulls out the underpinnings of the realm.”

“And you have no desire to spend more time with Mme. Dupont being measured for a new gown to replace a dirty one.”

“You said that. Not me.” She laughed. “So, by all means, dig up the daffodils.”

He pressed the tip of the shovel against the ground, then put his foot on it to drive it into the hard earth. He had been jesting with her; yet, he found doing something physical very satisfying. He had been accustomed to taking care of his own needs. Now he had a valet and a butler and a stableman and a coachman and a gardener and many others. He must not lose sight again of how pleasant it was to do a task himself.

As he worked, pushing aside stones and piling dirt to the left of the daffodils, Vera knelt by the flowers.

“It's said that the daffodils in North Yorkshire,” she said, “come from those planted by the monks at Rievaulx Abbey out past the moors.” She smiled at the buds where small slips of yellow were visible through the green. “Since then, they have spread throughout North Yorkshire and blossom each spring.”

Her smile wavered as she glanced toward the ruins of her home. Nothing remained except the torn-up ground.

“Did you have daffodils by the vicarage?” he asked, aching that he could not ease her grief.

“There were lots of flowers.” She drew the bulbs out of the ground and set them in the box.

“Let's rescue them.”

Hope and gratitude blossomed in her eyes, as glorious as the first flowers of spring. “I can do that, Edmund.”

He gave her a feigned frown. “Must I explain again how such a request could destroy nearly a thousand years of our country's society?”

“No. Please don't!” She picked up the small box and stood. “I appreciate you helping me with this, Edmund.”

“You have helped me often, so I am only returning the favor.”

“We need not keep score.” She motioned for him to lead the way. “That's not what a friend does.”

There was that word again. Friend. He should be glad that she considered him a friend, but her saying so annoyed him in a way he could not explain.

He was glad that she kept talking about the flowers she had planted near the vicarage. Most of them must have been destroyed while the fire had been doused and when the vicarage had been torn down, but she had faith that some had survived.

After she pointed out where he should dig, Edmund went to work. The bulbs closest to the cottage were charred lumps, but a few had been protected by the cold ground. He kept digging, ignoring how sweat dripped off his forehead and trickled down his spine. It felt good to be doing something that required no thought, only hard work. Soon the small wooden box was filled to overflowing and a second was becoming full, too. The wind shifted and turned cold as it came off the bay. The sweat that had run down his back became a cold sheen, and he shivered in spite of himself.

“We have enough,” Vera said.

“Let me finish this area, then we can return to Meriweather Hall.” He pushed the shovel to break the ground and heard a clunk. “What...?”

“What is it?”

“Just a moment.” Leaning down, he shoved the dirt aside. Something twinkled in the sunlight. He picked up a flask. “It is silver.” He turned it over. “The only marks are the silversmith's ones.” He tipped it to allow her to see the tiny indentations on the top. “The JB over the WW is for James Barber and William Whitwell, who work in York, as you can tell from the cross mark next to the lion mark. The tiny Y after it means it was made in the early part of this decade.”

“You can tell all that from those tiny marks?”

“My business was importing exotic woods, but occasionally a client asked for fine metals or art. I had to educate myself so that neither I nor my client was cheated.” He looked from it to her. “I assume it does not belong to you or the vicar.”

“No. We never had anything of such fine quality.”

“Yes, its
qualityship
is undeniable.”

She gasped and pressed her hand over her mouth at the word his cousin had first heard one of the smugglers use to mean his leader.

“I need to examine this more closely,” he said. “It may have something about it that will pinpoint the identity of the man giving the smugglers their orders. If he were here and ordered the fire set in the church, he may not have noticed that he dropped his flask.”

“Or someone else could have dropped it.”

“That is also a possibility.” He put the flask under his coat before calling the man to come and get his shovel; then, taking the two boxes of bulbs, he led her back to the carriage.

As soon as they reached Meriweather Hall, Edmund went into the room near the chapel. Vera had paused only long enough to give the boxes of flowers to one of the footmen and then followed him.

“Close the door,” he ordered over his shoulder as he strode past the table where her sketches for the church were spread out across the top.

From a shelf near the window, he picked up a tortoiseshell case. He opened it and drew out an oval silver-edged magnifying glass. Setting the flask on the table, he aimed the glass at it.

“What do you see?” Vera asked as she leaned on her hands on the other side of the table.

“Actually it is what I don't see that is curious.” He ran his finger over the plain area within engraved scrolling. “Usually there are initials within the scroll.”

“But there are none here.”

“Not any longer.” He watched color wash from her face as he said, “They have been sanded away. It could have been by use, going in and out of a pocket, but I doubt that. The rest of the flask doesn't show the same amount of wear. Someone removed the initials to hide who owns it.”

“Can you get any other information from it?”

“I am going to try.” He stared down at the silver flask. “Trust me, Vera, I am going to try.”

“I do trust you.”

His head jerked up at her soft words, but she was already leaving the room. Because she had said too much or because he had?

Chapter Nine

T
he maid knocked as Vera was about to get ready for bed. It had been a busy day with making preparations for her brother's first service in Meriweather Hall's chapel. She had struggled to write his sermon, unsure which lesson to include. He had been busy tending to parishioners in the village and had asked her to take over the task which she knew he despised.

She had considered verses from the twelfth chapter of Luke:
“And this know, that if the goodman of the house had known what hour the thief would come, he would have watched, and not have suffered his house to be broken through. Be ye therefore ready also: for the Son of man cometh at an hour when ye think not.”
But she guessed some people in the congregation would believe her brother spoke of the smugglers invading their village rather than of their Savior entering into their hearts.

She had prayed about using a passage from First Corinthians, third chapter: “
For we are laborers together with God: ye are God's husbandry, ye are God's building. According to the grace of God which is given unto me, as a wise master builder, I have laid the foundation, and another buildeth thereon. But let every man take heed how he buildeth thereupon. For other foundation can no man lay than that is laid, which is Jesus Christ.”

That seemed to be a lesson that would not infuriate the smugglers who sat with them like lions among the lambs. Usually, once she decided on the lesson, she could write the sermon easily. Not today.

Maybe because the day had been an unsettling one. She had hoped that when Edmund came to dinner that evening, he would have had something to share about what he had discovered about the flask. He had only glanced in her direction upon entering the dining room, and he had shaken his head slightly. She had never had a chance to speak with him because his aunt had spent the whole meal lamenting that Lillian had returned to Sir Nigel's house.

“Just when I thought you two were becoming much better acquainted,” Mrs. Uppington had said with a look in Edmund's direction that would have quelled most men.

He had borne it with a smile. “I am sure we will see Miss Kightly soon.”

“On Sunday in the chapel.”

At that, Edmund had turned to Vera who had to shrug. She had had no idea why Mrs. Uppington had been certain that Lillian would be attending Sunday services at Meriweather Hall.

“It is Mothering Sunday, if you will recall,” his aunt had said before smiling at Lady Meriweather, who, like Vera and Gregory, seldom had a chance to slip in a single word during the evening meal. “Our hostess has invited the parishioners to stay at Meriweather Hall for a celebration feast, as she does each year.”

Vera wondered how Mothering Sunday had snuck up on them so quickly. It meant Easter was three weeks away. Time had sped past, unnoticed, while she had worked with Edmund. She'd had no time to prepare for Mothering Sunday.

“Miss Fenwick?” The maid's voice sounded as if she were repeating Vera's name for more than the second time.

Rushing to open the door, Vera swallowed her apology for keeping the maid waiting. The young woman relayed the message that Lord Meriweather wished to see her in his book room.

“As soon as possible,” the maid added before walking away.

Vera paused only long enough to check her appearance in the cheval glass. Her hair was in its usual neat bun, though a few strands curled around her face. Her light green gown was wrinkled, and she was glad that she had insisted Mme. Dupont forgo the stylish rows of ruffles that would have sagged by this time of the day.

The house was quiet as Vera went down the stairs and to the corridor leading to the book room. Was it because of the fog that had come in from the sea late in the afternoon and cut off the house from everything else, even the nearby stables? She saw no one else, not even the shadow of a servant. She eyed the suits of armor when she passed them. They were empty, of course, but she could not shake her childish trepidation that one of them would come to life and swing his weapon at her. She preferred going past the stern portraits in the other wing.

As she reached the book room door, Edmund was coming to his feet. He had left his coat over a chair, and his dark brown waistcoat contrasted with the unblemished white of his sleeves and cravat. She would have liked to take a moment to enjoy the sight of him dressed casually, but that chance vanished when he handed her a piece of paper.

“What do you think of this?” he asked.

The page was thick and brown, like the paper used in a shop to wrap purchases. The edges were torn unevenly, and the writing on it had been done with what looked to be coal. The spelling was so bad that she had to read it aloud to figure out what the words were supposed to be.

The message was short. It asked that Lord Meriweather meet the writer on the shore tonight when the moon was new and the smugglers occupied with their heinous trade far beyond Meriweather Hall. The writer professed to have information about the smugglers and their leader he was sure Lord Meriweather wanted to know.

“What do you think?” Edmund asked.

“My first reaction is that it seems too good to be true,” she said.

“That was my first inclination, as well.”

“Is this someone's idea of a joke?”

“I don't think so.” He took the paper, crumpled it and threw it on the fire. “I think it's more likely that it is an invitation to put my foot in a trap on a foggy night.”

“Do you know who sent it?”

He nodded. “Here is a second page with the precise location I am supposed to meet him. Stanley Cadman's name is on the bottom.”

“Stanley?” she gasped.

“You know him?” His mouth twisted with a reluctant grin. “Of course you do. You know everyone in Sanctuary Bay. What sort of man is he?”

“A good man, but are you sure that he truly wrote this message?”

“That is the question, isn't it?” He paced between the hearth and the rosewood desk, easily stepping around the stacks of books. “I can't trust such a boon falling into my lap.”

“Many parishioners are furious that the church was burned by the smugglers. I believe Stanley would want to help if he can.” She rubbed her hands together. “But to put such a request in writing is dangerous. He must trust whoever he gave it to would deliver without sharing it with someone else first.”

Edmund halted his pacing and faced her. “That sounds as if you think someone in this house is working with the smugglers?”

She shook her head. “I haven't seen any sign of that, but if someone chanced to see him writing the note or coming here to deliver it, he could be risking his life and more.”

“All the more reason to question the wisdom of arranging such a meeting.”

“They feel they don't have any other choice, Edmund,” she said softly.

“They? The smugglers or the law-abiding folk of Sanctuary Bay?”

“Both.” She sat in one of the comfortable chairs facing the hearth and looked up at him. “It wasn't always like this. I remember when I first came to Sanctuary Bay that the smugglers kept to themselves, never interfering in anyone's lives. Then, there was an abrupt shift. The smugglers no longer seemed content to earn money by deceiving the excise men. They began to intimidate the honest villagers, something that Gregory heard about almost immediately.”

“My cousin Sophia was sent to London, I know, when she came too close to unmasking the man who set the smugglers on that evil path.”

Vera digested that tidbit of information. Why hadn't she been more curious why Edmund's predecessor had suddenly decided Sophia needed a London Season?

“You must be as careful, Edmund,” she said, then felt her cheeks redden as she realized she was giving him an order.

“I will be.”

“Not only with the smugglers, but with the fog. When it's this thick, it's easy to become disoriented and lose one's way.”

“I know. This is not my first foggy night in Sanctuary Bay.” He leaned forward and brushed his finger against her cheek. “I could say you don't need to worry, but I know you will. You care about those around you. To own the truth, I like that you are concerned about me because it shows that you have come to care about me, too.”

“You have been kind to Gregory and me.”

“I am not speaking of a ‘Gregory and me' situation. I am saying that you, Vera, caring about me is wonderful. Too bad I had not met you before I joined the army. It would have been comforting during the war to know that you were thinking of me and praying for my safety.” His fingers trailed down along her chin as he tipped it up toward him. “And I could have been thinking of you rather that what awaited me in the next encounter with the French.”

Words filled her mind, but none that she could speak. How could she allow herself to forget, even for a moment, what he had endured on the Continent? Not that she knew exactly what had happened to him and his friends, but stories of the horrifying battles were still repeated almost two years after Napoleon had been defeated at Waterloo.

“And now...” He sighed as he drew away from her. “Now I must decide if I should meet Cadman or not.”

She silenced her sigh of regret that he no longer was touching her; then she kept another from escaping as she realized the import of what he had said. He needed to make a decision, but it was an impossible task for him. Was he asking for her help? She had been making
suggestions
throughout the planning for the new church, and he had accepted them as such. Would he be as willing to listen to her thoughts on something that had no connection to the church?

She said quietly, “You should not go alone.”

“It sounds as if you think I should go.”

She could not miss the relief in his voice that he did not have to make the choice on his own. “If Stanley risked so much to get this message to you, he must have something vital to tell you.”

“I agree.” Going to the window, he looked out into the night where the land and the sea were both lost in the inky darkness. “I am not a man who turns away from risks.”

“But you must not go alone.” She came to her feet. “I will—”

“If you are going to say that you will go with me, don't bother.” He faced her and put his hands on her shoulders. “You are right about it being a risky venture, and I will not endanger you by letting you come with me into what may be a trap.”

“Edmund, I know Stanley. Gregory knows him even better than I do.”

“But he did not ask to meet you or the vicar. He asked to meet me.”

His hands gentled on her shoulders, and his eyes sparked as he held her gaze. The emotions flashing there were powerful. She could imagine the enemy quailing before him on the battlefield. But he was on her side, ready to defeat the smugglers who had taken too much from her. Not only her home, but her last remnants of security. She longed to lean against his broad chest and let his arms surround her.

She drew back and turned away. She must not make this bad situation worse by surrendering to her foolish desire to be in his arms. She must never forget—not even in the midst of a disaster—how her longing to be in a man's arms had almost ruined her brother's life.

“Take someone strong and smart with you,” she whispered, unable to meet his eyes. If he looked as bereft as she felt after putting distance between them, she could not bear it. “Promise me that, please.”

“I promise.” He stroked her arm gently, then walked past her to the door. “And I will send a message to your room as soon as I return, because I know you will not sleep until you hear what Cadman has to say.”

She had to smile. “You know me well.”

“Not as well as I hope to.” He winked and left.

As her knees grew weak, Vera sank to sit again. What had he meant by his bold wink? Her heart hammered within her, beating out a joyous melody. She longed to believe his words were an invitation to open her heart to him. She could not. She had made that mistake once already.

But Edmund isn't Nolan Hedgcoe,
came the insistent voice in her mind. He would not try to twist her heart so he could pretend he was in love with her when he used visits to her as an excuse to pay secret calls on the woman he was truly interested in. A woman who lived near the parsonage on Lord Hedgcoe's estate, so he could leave his horse or carriage in front of the parsonage without drawing further notice. Why had she believed Nolan when he said, time after time, that he wanted to take a walk by himself through the wood that separated the parsonage from the other woman's cottage? She had been so in love with him that she would have believed him if he said the sun was going to shine at night.

She rose and went to the closest shelf. She selected a book with an interesting title. Turning the chair so she had a view of both the window and the door to the hallway, she sat and opened the book.

The words blurred. Closing her eyes, she prayed for Edmund's safety as he went out into the night where the smugglers roamed as if they were the lords of Sanctuary Bay. A place she had sent him when she could have agreed he would be wiser to remain beneath Meriweather Hall's roof. Why hadn't she thought through her own decision before making one for him? If she had made the wrong one again, the price could be higher than her brother's living. It could be Edmund's life.

* * *

Lights burned at many of the windows in the manor house. If the household staff believed the lamps could hold back what hid in the darkness, they were wrong. Evil stalked Sanctuary Bay.

Edmund tossed his greatcoat to a footman without even noticing which one it was. “Where is Miss Fenwick?”

“I c-c-an f-f-find out, m-m-my lord,” stammered the footman that he now recognized as Foggin.

“Send a message to her room immediately,” he ordered as he strode out of the entrance hall. “Ask her to accept my apologies if she is asleep, but let her know I need to see her without delay.”