What You Propose (Anything for Love #2) (3 page)

Anna glanced around the neat garden. A narrow pathway in the shape of the cross split the grass into four equal segments. There were numerous benches dotted along the route and depending upon the time of day she supposed one had a choice of sitting in the sun or the shade.

"It's very peaceful here," she said gazing up as the sun warmed her skin. A wave of contentment rippled through her as she inhaled the clean air. "I imagine this is a rather pleasant place to sit in quiet contemplation."

"I've never spent that much time out here," he replied gazing up at the cloudless sky as though only noticing its beauty for the first time.

"I'm surprised. You strike me as a man who enjoys being out of doors."

"Why?" he said with a smirk. "Did you make that assumption based on the scruffy nature of my dress?"

"No," she remarked casually. "Your skin has a bronze glow to it. The faint lines at the corners of your eyes suggest time spent squinting from the sun."

"What, so now I dress like a beggar and have the face of a man in his dotage. You are brimming with compliments, Miss Sinclair."

He had the face of a pirate plundering the high seas: fearsome and determined with a courageous charm. "You have the face of a man who is not frightened to work for what he wants."

A smile touched the corners of his mouth, and he inclined his head. "Then I withdraw my objection and pay homage to your insight and skills of observation."

Ah, another little clue he had unwittingly revealed.

He was proud of his work and wanted others to recognise the achievement. Any ordinary man would not think it worth the mention. Mr. Danbury's lineage must surely embrace at least one member of the aristocracy. Perhaps he had an estranged relative who despised how he lived here.

"Having a keen observation has been key to my survival," she replied, dismissing the grotesque vision of Victor filling her head. Whilst at the monastery she should try to stop being so suspicious of people's motives. She should not be so quick to strip back each word or comment; she should not be so quick to judge.

Aware of Mr. Danbury's curious gaze, she wandered over to the well and peered inside. A ray of light reflected off the water far below. "Hello!" The word echoed and she couldn't help but chuckle. It had been a long time since she'd been free enough to express such a simple thing as joy.

"One of the servants will assist you should you need to draw water," Mr. Danbury said as though she lacked the skills necessary to lift a bucket.

Anna swung around to face him. He was standing with his arms folded across his chest. "We had a well in the village at home," she said calmly. "Once, I overheard someone say that a highway robber had hidden his loot at the bottom before racing off across the green. It was just a tale, but I would often raise the bucket in the hope of finding treasure."

"You grew up in the country?" He seemed surprised.

"I did," she replied but had no intention of revealing anything more. "Shall we continue with the tour?"

He nodded and strode off along the path.

"We eat in the refectory," he said leading her into a room long enough to seat a hundred men. "There is no formality when it comes to dining. Sometimes the servants sit with us. Sometimes I eat in the chapter house. You may do whatever you please."

Anna sighed. "Whatever I please or whatever pleases me?"

He gave an impatient wave. "Are they not the same?"

"No. But never mind."

They continued in silence. After a brief glance at the parlour, the
reredorter
: a room for washing and seeing to one's
toilette,
they continued to the upper floor.

"There are no fireplaces up here, and it can get cold at night. I've converted the old dormitory into small rooms. It helps minimise the draughts." He stopped outside an oak door, one of a handful situated along the corridor, his hand gripping the handle. "You may use this room for the duration of your stay. It is basic but should be adequate for your needs."

Anna waited for him to open the door but he seemed hesitant.

"Are we to go inside?"

"Of course." He shook his head, opened the door and gestured for her to enter.

Anna felt a sudden flutter in her chest at the wonderful sight before her. The exposed stone of the exterior wall had a golden hue. Accompanied by the pale yellow drapes, the room felt warm and welcoming. The wrought-iron bed called out to her aching limbs, and she couldn't wait to snuggle into it and let the strain of the last few days melt away.

"I'm afraid there's no mirror—"

"I won't need one," she interjected.

"There are more blankets in the chest if you're cold and the brazier at the end of the hall can be brought in if needed. However, I ask you not to fall asleep whilst it's lit."

As a girl, she would have thrown her arms around him to express her gratitude. As a woman with a hardened heart, she merely smiled.

"Thank you, Mr. Danbury. The room is more than adequate." She noticed the candlestick on the side table. In London, it would be dawn before she crawled into bed. Here, she would have to find something to occupy her mind at night. "Would you happen to have any books I may borrow?"

He narrowed his gaze. "You are free to look over my personal library and take anything that interests you. Come down to the chapter house when you've settled in. As you leave the chapel, it is the first room on the left."

"I feel I must thank you again for your hospitality."

He made no comment. It occurred to her that perhaps he'd had little choice in the matter. Either way, she appreciated his generosity and offered a smile as he inclined his head and left the room.

Anna closed the door behind him and pressed her back to it as she surveyed the chamber. It had been years since she'd had a good night's sleep. There would be no constant banging above stairs. No piggish grunts of satisfaction echoing along the hallway. No gut-wrenching pain at the thought Victor might come home.

It suddenly hit her again — Victor was dead.

No matter where she ate or slept, no matter how hard she tried to forge a new life, she would always have his blood on her hands.

The memory of his last gasp for breath would haunt her forever.

Chapter 3

Marcus sat back in the chair, propped his feet up on his desk and perused the sealed letter in his hand. He recognised the elegant script and the circular heraldic mark pressed into the wax. Miss Sinclair had been his guest for a little over a week; this was the second letter to arrive for her from Dane.

Curiosity burned away.

Did the marquess want the woman for his mistress? Haines had made no secret of his master's fondness for a lady named Sophie Beaufort. Perhaps he wanted to wed one and bed the other. So, why would Dane ship Miss Sinclair off to France and then bombard her with letters? It made no sense.

For a man adept at discovering information, Marcus still knew nothing more of Miss Anna Sinclair, other than what she'd told him on her arrival. The woman did her utmost to avoid him, which suited him well. Such a ravishing beauty would tempt any man, and she had a beguiling charm he felt drawn to. Knowing she was vastly experienced in the bedchamber did not help matters. Whenever she moistened her lips or arched her back to relieve her aching muscles, his rampant mind conjured all sorts of lewd images.

His attention drifted up to the clock on the mantle as it struck one.

Miss Sinclair would be sitting out in the garth as she always finished her chores by twelve. Indeed, the woman was so regimental in her routine he knew exactly where to find her no matter what the time of day.

Dragging his feet off his desk, he jumped up and strode out of the door, hovering behind a pillar in the cloisters as he decided not to reveal himself immediately.

As predicted, Miss Sinclair was sitting on the bench, the bright rays of the sun casting a shimmering glow over her honey-gold hair. Damn. He felt the same deep stirring he always felt upon seeing her and he resisted the urge to stamp his foot until the dull thud shook the tiled walkway.

In a fit of frustration, he stomped out into the garth and cleared his throat to draw her gaze from a nondescript point of interest on the grass.

"You have another letter," he said clutching the item in his hand, aware that his chest felt unusually tight, that his heart gave an odd flutter when her vivacious blue eyes met his.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Danbury." Her gaze drifted over his open shirt, up to the hair he had tied back in a queue and she offered him an angelic smile. "Isn't it a beautiful day?"

He glanced up, yet found nothing particularly enchanting, other than the woman sitting on his bench. "I had not noticed," he replied honestly. "I have been indoors for most of the morning."

Miss Sinclair tapped the empty seat next to her. "Then won't you sit for a moment."

Marcus stared at the hand resting on the wooden slats. A week ago, it had been smooth, soft and creamy, the nails clean and shaped. They had been the sort of hands a man longed to feel caress the tired muscles in his shoulders, trace circles in the fine hair on his chest. Now, chapped, red and raw at the knuckles, the nails short and misshapen, they were the hands of a woman from the workhouse.

Guilt flared.

Swallowing his apprehension, he slid into the seat next to her as though his weight would trigger the slats to snap and he would fall into a pit of spitting vipers.

She held out her rough hand, and he stared at it.

"The letter, Mr. Danbury. You said I had a letter."

Marcus shook his head and handed her the folded paper. "Do you not have anything to help soothe the sore skin on your hands?"

She examined the seal and sighed before splitting the red wax in two. "No. I must remember to buy a balm or a salve when I next go down to the village."

"If you speak to Selene in the kitchen she may have something here that will help. She is quite knowledgeable when it comes to herbs and potions."

The corners of her mouth curled up into a grateful smile, and then she turned and focused her attention on the missive.

"Shall I leave you to read in private?" he asked.

"No." The word sounded like a soft sigh. "I'm done." She refolded the paper and placed it in her lap.

Desperation gripped him, an urge to know what the hell Dane wanted with her. Why had he written to her twice in the space of a few days?

"If you leave your reply on my desk in the chapter house, I shall send it along with my own correspondence in the morning."

"There is no need. I shall not be sending a reply."

Putting pressure on the quill was sure to sting her cracked knuckles. "If your hands pain you, Tristan can be trusted to write while you dictate."

Her penetrating gaze searched his face. Why did he get the impression she had the power to see beyond his words? The thought was somewhat unnerving.

"Are you telling me you cannot be trusted, Mr. Danbury?"

Marcus shrugged. "I know how fond you are of Tristan. I assumed you would prefer to spend time in his company rather than mine."

He had no desire to sit with her conversing of poets, the hidden meanings behind paintings, and her interest in gothic novels. He would use his time more wisely. Were her lips as soft and as sweet as he imagined? Would her skill and experience coupled with her beguiling beauty make for a more stimulating encounter in the bedchamber?

"I do not wish to reply because I have nothing to say," she said, although she offered no objection to his assessment of her friendship with Tristan.

A faint sliver of jealousy crept through him.

Bloody hell.

He cared for Tristan like a brother. He was the closest thing he had to family, yet the thought of punching him on the nose and marring his fine features suddenly had some appeal.

"Here, you may read it if you wish." She offered him the letter, but he waved his hand to decline.

"I have no interest in the details contained in your private correspondence, Miss Sinclair." The lie fell easily from his lips.

"It is from Lord Danesfield. He makes certain demands, and I refuse to comply."

Damn the woman. She knew exactly how to pique his interest. If he did ever pursue a liaison with her, he was certain she would have him pining after her like a lost puppy.

Unable to resist, and telling himself he had every right to know of any demands made upon his guests, he peeled back the folds and scanned the letter with feigned indifference.

Dane's extreme anger and frustration were evident within the first few lines. As he continued reading, Marcus felt a strange sense of relief when he realised Dane had no interest in having Miss Sinclair as his mistress.

How odd that the thought should please him.

Marcus glanced up into turquoise-blue eyes tinged with guilt. "Dane wants you to tell him what you know of Miss Beaufort's disappearance. Am I right to assume his previous letter was of a similar vein?"