Hunter Of My Heart

“You’re a surprise. What shall we call you? The marking on your head says that stallion of mine is a lusty one.” Turning, the filly tried to suckle the riding crop tucked under his arm. He laughed, a deep rumble coming from his chest. “Oh, no. You’ll get no nourishment from this thing. You want this.” Placing the crop on the floor, he gently guided the filly to the mare’s udder.

By claiming the filly, Sabrina felt certain she had found Hunter Sinclair, Earl of Kenilworth, the estate’s owner. His softly spoken words and gentle touch reinforced the newspaper’s accounting of him. Bless the Times. “Lord Kenilworth?”

Swinging around, he stared at her with wide green eyes. “Yes?”

“May I speak with you?”

His brow creased. As he stood, he picked up his riding crop and brushed the straw off his buff trousers. “If you’re looking for a position, speak to the housekeeper.”

The motion of his hand drew her gaze to his muscular thighs. Quickly she reversed her perusal. His towering height and broad shoulders, emphasized by the short cape layering his greatcoat, made him look formidable. She gripped her braid and finally pushed it over her shoulder.

From her reticule, she retrieved a folded paper and handed it to him. “I’m Sabrina Beaumont, from Maison du Beaumont of London. This bill explains everything.”

He snapped open the parchment and read. “I owe you six thousand pounds for women’s frippery? I pay my debts, Miss Beaumont, and this one isn’t mine.” Kenilworth flicked the paper between his fingers and held it beneath her chin. “Besides, the last time I wore a nightgown, I was a babe.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Her mouth parted and closed before she wrested her gaze from his well-shaped lips. “Your lordship, you or your man of business approved these expenditures. You’ve been in Barbados. Perhaps you’re unaware of this debt or didn’t receive my letters. Or forgot! I have something else.”

Digging into her reticule, she produced his promissory note. She cautiously held the paper close to her chest as he read. Unease prickled her skin. “Sir. How long does it take to absorb one line?” She slipped the evidence into her reticule.

Kenilworth’s green eyes narrowed, emphasizing the high bridge of his nose. He pointed a finger at her. “That’s a forgery. What deviousness are you plotting? Who sent you?”

With his accusations ringing in her ear, she stepped backward. “What are you talking about?” She couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice. This was not the man the Times described.

His eyes turned cold and hard. “I dislike surprises, Miss Beaumont, but welcome justice. I’ll give you one minute to tell me who concocted this alleged debt. Otherwise, I’ll take you to the authorities for trespassing, forgery and extortion.” From his waistcoat pocket, he retrieved his gold watch.

The set of his chiseled jaw conveyed no sign of compassion, but his hard look fueled her determination. “All I know is that you owe me six thousand pounds.”

“Thirty seconds.”

She considered a strategy but knew she couldn’t execute it. “If you won’t listen, I’ll take this issue to court!”

Exasperated, she turned as if to leave, but an iron grip caught her wrist. His touch made her heart jump. Still she raised her chin and pulled her arm from his hold.

Kenilworth slid his crop through his fingers. “Go ahead. Take me to court.”

His frigid timbre sent a chill down her spine, but from the ruffians she occasionally encountered on her errands, she had learned to show a tough demeanor. She glared at him. “The populace will think you made false promises. That you’re cheating a poor merchant. My accusations will taint your reputation, hurt your political aspirations.”

He whacked his thigh with the whip.

She winced.

Kenilworth pointed his riding crop toward the barrel next to her legs. “Sit and start talking. Don’t spin a tale.”

What happened to the gentle man who cooed to a newborn filly? Sabrina sat, but only because he granted her a chance to speak. “The debt is eight months old. As you saw for yourself, the note said to contact your man of business for payment. I couldn’t find him.”

“How did I accumulate such a debt?” His tone was very dry.

Shifting, she bunched her cloak in her hands. “The debt is for the gowns you allowed your three mistresses to purchase.”

“I doubt that I’d forget one mistress let alone three. You should have given your tale more thought. Right title, wrong man. Until recently, my grandfather on my mother’s side carried the title.”

She gave him a tight smile. “Sir, your family history is of no interest to me, only the money you owe me.”

“A lesson in my family history is exactly what you need. Seven months ago, my grandfather died. He was seventy-four years old, bedridden for the past two, and incapable of satisfying a mistress.”

The implications made her heart skip. “I’ve three letters of promise signed by Lord Kenilworth. You hold the tide and must honor the debt.”

He slipped the paper she had given him into his frock coat pocket, then patted it. “Evidence for extortion. I’ll not honor a debt that isn’t mine, but I’ll seek justice.”

“You’ll pay me, or I’ll...” What could she do?

“You will what?” Kenilworth tapped the whip against his palm. “So far, I could charge you with trespassing. Extortion. Swindling. Exploitation. Forgery. Defamation.” He paused. “Do you know what those words mean?”

Sabrina straightened and thrust her chin forward. “In four languages.” She enunciated the words. “Five if you count English!”

Kenilworth looked unimpressed. “They also mean that if you’re guilty, you’d go to prison or hang.”

Thunder boomed.

The thought sent a chill down her spine. Anger and frustration clashed. Clutching her reticule, she sought mercy in his cold eyes. They appeared like green ice chips. Afraid for the twins’ well-being, Sabrina pressed her point. “Milord, you might have reason to be suspicious, but I swear, I speak the truth. I used my savings to pay your bills. I’m in quite desperate financial straits.”

He frowned. “Would you give the money to a stranger?”

So the rumors were true. He distrusted outsiders. “No, but—”

“Nor will I. Now. Leave and I’ll forget this affair.”

At his dismissal, she heaved a frustrated breath but wouldn’t retreat. Her father, who had been a military strategist, said no one won a battle until one side stood alone. She wasn’t dead yet. She had no choice but to continue with her feigned strategy. “I’ll go straight to court.”

He pressed his face close. For a fleeting second, she noticed an emotion not spawned by arrogance. Fear?

“Really? If you’re telling the truth, who and how will you pay for a defense?”

Sabrina couldn’t seek more legal help for lack of funds and because of her false identity. According to her solicitor and the only other person who knew her secret, she would commit perjury if she used the Beaumont name. Now if she used her real name, her grandfather would find her again because of the publicity. Despite this, Kenilworth’s staunch refusal fueled her ploy.

“Maybe I’ll request that you pay the legal fees.”

“You want to use every opportunity to demand money from me, is that it?”

She pursed her lips. Perhaps he disliked the notion of settling in court. Could she goad him into paying her where honesty and reason had failed?

“Imagine the Times headline. ‘Earl of Kenilworth Cheats Poor Merchant.’ Now, that would be a scandal in these unsettled political times. Parliamentary reform has England in an uproar. The news would contrast with their recent portrayal of you.”

He stared at her hard, then rammed a hand into his trouser pocket. “An investigation should settle this matter. I’ll start with some questions and forward what I learn to my solicitor.”

Investigation?

A tremor skipped down her spine. What if he succeeded in revealing her heritage? What would happen to the twins?

Maybe answering a few questions would satisfy his curiosity. What choice did she have if she hoped to get the money? She said a quick prayer and asked forgiveness if she had to lie for the twins’ sake. “If I can answer them, I will.”

He nodded and slowly walked behind her. “You’re a couturiere? I’ve never seen one dressed in such plain attire.”

“I usually work in the back of the shop. Ledgers. Organizing the fabrics for orders. Why spend money on expensive clothes?”

When he snorted, Sabrina sensed his closeness and edged forward. Why did he cause her pulse to race? He had been so gentle with the filly. Though calmed by the thought and feeling no cause for alarm, she wanted to bolt off the barrel. Instead, she rose with her back straight. She felt like a rabbit running from a fox, all cunning, sleek and too sure of himself. How could she convince him he owed her the money without an investigation?

“Pray that you’re not lying. They hang people for lesser crimes than those I’ve mentioned. I’d hate to see a noose around that lovely neck.” With the crop, he traced an arc beneath her chin.

The smooth leather felt cold against her skin and caused gooseflesh. Sabrina had an irrational urge to pull up the collar of her cloak. His hooded eyes reminded her of a bird of prey scouting for its next meal. “Noose? I’d hate it more.”

Although he smiled faintly, his eyes remained cold. “Well, I don’t need the court to decide if a debt exists. Nor do I need them to order me to pay if it does. I’ll decide both issues based on my investigation. Justice, Miss Beaumont. I want justice.” He retraced the arc.

She touched the clasp at her throat. A rope...he was serious! Her palms grew damp.

“So, you intend to play a judge.” She batted the whip away. “Threats and intimidation won’t change the truth. I’m no simpleton.” Their eyes locked in a battle of beliefs. His shadowed jaw remained resolute, not a stubble of black hair moved.

“Are you a courtesan?”

Stinging warmth ebbed into her cheeks. She grasped her cloak to keep from hitting him. Recalling his insults, she said in French, “I don’t care if you’re the tenth Earl of Kenil-worth.” In Italian, she added, “You owe me the money.” She continued in Portuguese. “I’ll prove it!” With a flowering Spanish finish, she asked, “Is that clear?”

“Unusual. A couturiere more educated than most men I know. Who are you? What do you really want of me?”

Suddenly she realized her error. Anger had overwhelmed caution and she had revealed too much of herself. “The money.”

In French, he said softly, “Baizer moi, Sabrina.”

Her body grew hot from spinning emotions. Kiss me, Sabrina! “For six thousand pounds plus interest,” she replied in French.

“Really?” Kenilworth drawled.

“Well...”

His mouth curved into a baiting smile. “Well?”

As she considered the enormity of allowing him one kiss, she immediately berated herself. Perhaps his threats and speculations had been for naught but to somehow lead to this moment. Despite his handsome facade, she couldn’t kiss a man who thought so ill of her. She narrowed her eyes. “You can go to the devil.”

Thunder rattled the windows of the stable.

He shrugged. “You’re becoming more interesting by the moment.”

The whip’s rhythmic tap against his solid thigh reminded her of a drum in a death march. Rain pelting the roof created a chorus. She fought for a nonchalant look. “So are you.”

“What else can I learn about you, Miss Beaumont?”

What if he learned that she was the granddaughter of the powerful and wealthy Duke of Sadlerfield? Or maybe Kenilworth wouldn’t learn a thing. She had been born in Paris, and her mother had birthed the twins aboard ship and no records existed. When they arrived in London, Marga had lied to the minister at Wesley’s chapel. He entered her aunt’s name as the twins’ mother in his records. Sabrina had hidden the evidence of Alec’s heritage in a place no one would think to look. When her grandfather died, then she could take steps to help Alec claim his birthright.

Protect the twins.

“Depends what you ask.”

Chapter Two

Hunter regarded Miss Beaumont’s pale blue gaze, a fiery one that swept his face and stabbed his uncertainty. Innocent? Actress? He didn’t know, but her desperate and sincere tone gnawed at his conscience.

As thunder clapped, something nudged his leg. Startled, he looked down and suppressed a grin as the filly licked the end of his crop. “Still hungry? Go back to the stall. Your mother will get anxious if she can’t see you.”

“See to your animal, milord. Surely your questions can wait.”

Her soft voice caused him to glance up. Miss Beaumont’s piercing eyes had melted to a different emotion. Sadness? Panic? Damn his conscience. Quickly reaching for the filly, he guided her to the mare, now shifting with unease. With a few strokes, he calmed her, wishing something could settle him as readily.

Had his father found a way to leave Australia? Who else could or would impersonate Hunter? Had he coerced her into this scheme? Despite the cold panic knotting his gut, caution warned him not to speak of his father. Discussing him might lead to questions he must avoid, for in the legal world, he had committed a crime against the blackguard. Hunter had taken justice in his own hands. What could he do now? Leaning, he secured the stall’s rope closure.

“Ma chérie! The fool raced by me!”

Hunter whipped his head toward the stable door and quickly joined his guests. The intruder, a comely woman, curtsied. Water rolled off her hat brim and onto his boots as Miss Beaumont introduced them. “Oh, not an accomplice?”

Frowning, the newcomer fumbled through her valise as water dripped off the tip of her nose. “Monseigneur? What are you saying? Accomplice? Mon Dieu. Where is my handkerchief?”

Hunter reached into his frock coat pocket and offered his. “May I save you the trouble?”

“Thank you, sir, but I’ll give her mine. You might accuse us of stealing if we forget to return it.”

Shrugging, he tucked the cloth into his pocket. “A handkerchief hardly compares with six thousand pounds.”

Rolling her eyes, Miss Beaumont unbuckled her bag and snapped it open. “Marga, what happened? Please don’t tell me the mail coach left. Didn’t you wave?”

“Of course! I stood near the trees to stay drier. The idiot had his head burrowed into his collar like a turtle and never saw me. We’re stranded!”

As Miss Beaumont searched her bag, a gardenia scent drew his gaze downward. He caught a glimpse of a pistol. His pulse beat out of time. Had she come with dark intent?

Only one person harbored enough contempt to wish him dead. What if the debt was just a prelude of blackmail to come? Would Miss Beaumont use the gun as inducement? He watched her hands, but now she held a garment that might be a pair of drawers.

Although his concern that Randall might harm another innocent person continued to grow, the gun heightened his uncertainty and curiosity about Miss Beaumont. Why would she carry a pistol? Did someone threaten her? Who sent her? Who was she?

Rain pelted the slate roof and water gushed down the interior pipes into the horse troughs. Should he offer them shelter? As fast as the thought came, the words flowed. “You’ve missed the coach. Consider staying here.”

Briefly, Kenilworth wondered if, during the night, he would find himself facing a pistol. But his worry that they might be his father’s victims concerned him much more.

“No, thank you, milord. We’ll walk.” She pressed a handkerchief into her aunt’s hand.

As Madame Beaumont dabbed her face, she turned to her niece. “Walk to Edinburgh? We will drown!”

“His lordship refuses to pay us. I’ll not spend one night with that—” Miss Beaumont threw him a glacial look “—tyrant.”

His goading and authoritarian manner had not affected her in the least, yet to show a softer side would be disastrous. If he didn’t stay alert, her beseeching eyes could weaken his resolve. He whacked his thigh with the crop. “That’s nothing compared to what I can be if you’re lying.”

Madame Beaumont dried her brow then looked up at him with narrowed eyes. “Mon Dieu! Look at her young and honest face!” Cupping her niece’s chin, she turned it side to side.

“His imagination blinds him to all else. Isn’t that so, sir?” Miss Beaumont smiled thinly.

He arched an eyebrow. True, she possessed an innocent’s look, too young to let life harden her incredibly beautiful eyes, or etch lines on her porcelain skin. Her plaited mink-colored hair only added to her aura of youth. He had, however, learned to look past a lady’s appearance. Her connections and mind interested him more.

“First, I need to confirm your story and identity. Are you acquainted with a person who might do so? Someone of repute?”

Miss Beaumont chewed her plump bottom lip until she worked it to a rosy hue. For some reason, the chaste act seemed like something a child would do and stirred his watchful nature more.

Finally she looked up with her white teeth still gripping her lip. “Geoffrey Norton. He’s our solicitor.”

“Stay. I’ll send a message by ship to my man of business. With good wind, I might have an answer in a few days.”

“So you really plan to be judge and jury, milord? We decline your offer. I’ve no wish to visit with the executioner too.”

He narrowed his gaze. “The truth decides your fate.”

“I think monseigneur is very generous, ma chérie. We will accept his offer.”

Her pale blue eyes grew round. “Aunt Marga! An investigation might take longer. Investigation! We can’t afford—”

Madame Beaumont shook her head, and a look passed between the ladies that Hunter couldn’t decipher. “Monseigneur might use the time to reconsider. Especially when Geoffrey proves our story.”

Desperation flashed in her eyes, but she raised her chin a notch. “Considering my aunt’s condition, I might agree... if you promise to pay us before we leave.”

“No assurances, Miss Beaumont. Confirming your story and identity is a beginning. Questions regarding the debt require a deeper investigation. Your aunt’s right. I’m being generous. You could spend the night in prison.”

Her mouth opened and snapped shut. “I’ve no words to express your hospitality.”

He threaded his crop through his fingers. “Scots are famous for it. You’re staying?”

She glanced at his hands then looked up. Her dainty nostrils flared. “Only because of my aunt.”

“Wise choice.”

A short time later, his housekeeper ushered the ladies up the servant’s staircase. With his mysterious guests comfortable, he marched down the hall, which looked ghostly due to the sheets covering the furnishings. Miss Beaumont’s untimely demand irritated him anew and he yanked the covering off a Queen Anne side table. He threw the sheet onto another macabre heap.

As he entered his study, the air still smelled musty, but at least the housekeeper had cleaned this room before his arrival. His oak desk and worktables gleamed from beeswax. After removing his greatcoat, he threw peat bricks into the hearth and lit a fire. Within minutes, he penned a note to his solicitor.

Suddenly his foster brother, Gavin MacDuff, entered. A frown heightened the sun-etched lines on his face. Water matted his blond hair. Gavin’s rolled sleeves and smudged trousers reminded Hunter that he had promised to help unload the wagon.

“I worked and ye entertained a lass. Hardly seems fair. Now we’ve guests, I hear. What’s this about?”

“I wish I knew. I need you to take this note to London.” He folded and sealed the parchment.

“Now?” Gavin asked incredulously. “It’s raining! We’re supposed to be opening the castle. Hiring staff! What of me wedding plans?”

After handing him the letter to Jonathan Faraday, their solicitor, Hunter explained the situation. “You’re the best captain I know, and the only man I trust to do this.”

“Bloody hell! Fine time for Randall to concoct another scheme. We could wait. He might show his face.”

“No. You helped me! A kidnapper. You were the ship’s captain. I don’t know the punishment, but transportation comes to mind.”

Gavin drove a fist into the air. “I’ll strangle him myself if he ruins me wedding!”

Hunter shook his head. “I’ve already brought enough trouble into this house. If he reveals the reason he’s been in Australia, my esteemed peers might charge me with kidnapping. The Tories would embrace any chance to stop reform!”

Gavin let out a disgruntled sigh. “You think Parliament would take the case to trial?”

“I’ll not chance your life or my ruination.”

“What about the things he did to you? Were they not crimes?”

Hunter combed his fingers through his hair. “True. My word against his, and you’re my only witnesses. I doubt the law would heed an accomplice’s word. Even in a land full of criminals, Australia has a small fashionable society now.”

“Ye think he opened his bloody mouth and announced he’s the Baron of Wick? He’d risk his freedom to leave the estate!”

“Maybe he’s testing me to see if I would do as I threatened. Maybe he lied to explain his presence. He’s made me look like scum before. I must learn if he’s behind this debt.”

His friend scowled. “He’s always liked to play games, yer father. I’ll go, but watch yer back while I’m gone. This wouldn’t be the first time a desperate lass allied with the Sinner.”

Hunter lowered his face in his hands. “I’ve the worse feeling that he found a way to leave Australia. You’re the last person I want to hurt.” He pounded his desk. “Damnation! I should have found a better way to stop him. If asked, I’ll say I held a gun to your head, and demanded you sail my ship.”

“Nay! You’ll not lie to save me hide! Do ye hear me?” Gavin threw him a determined look. “In yer place, I would’ve done the same thing, and asked ye to help me.”

Despite his knotted stomach, the words warmed Hunter’s heart. “I would have agreed.”

Gavin moved forward and squeezed his shoulder. “As lads we pledged that we’re brothers, that we’d watch out for the other and share equal blame for everything. Don’t break our vow.”

“We were children!”

“Say it! No sacrifices!”

He swallowed the emotion that rose to his throat. “No sacrifices. Go now. May God be with you.”

After Gavin left, Hunter untied his cravat and leaned into his leather chair. For years, he’d rationalized his actions because he had prevented an offense against an innocent person. In doing so, he had committed a crime against a member of the peerage. He’d involved Gavin, a man with no title—although Hunter’s grandfather had raised him like his own—to help him. The thought reminded him of his mother and the loving way she had nurtured Gavin, too.

Hunter closed his eyes and tried to shake away the memories and dark thoughts. Short of another crime, he would do anything to keep his past buried. The questions remained. Had his father returned to London? If so, what did he want?

Yawning, Sabrina closed the door to her room and crept down the dimly lit hall toward the tower. Her head felt numb from worry and no sleep. She hoped the housekeeper was awake and would offer her a cup of tea.

In the turret, dawn’s light flowed through a small window and softened the stone staircase, one smoothed by time. The steps seemed to shimmer with history. Each step bore a slight indentation, proof to the numbers who had used them. With a light touch, she traced the curved wall and coolness kissed her fingertips. Even to her untrained eye, she knew the turret had breathed for centuries while the main section of the house boasted Georgian architecture.

For some odd reason, the heritage the turret represented mocked her situation. She missed the twins! Blinking away the tears, she continued down the stairs. Until the time was right, she must keep her and her sibling’s ancestry a secret.

If Kenilworth paid her when she left Keir Castle, the money would curb some worries. She hoped the messenger returned quickly. Lord, she needed the money.