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Becky rose to her feet. “Nelda?”
“Aye, Nelda.” Molly lifted her white-capped head, her blue eyes brimming with tears. “I was ashamed t’ tell ye before, but now I see I must. Ben wasn’t alone when ’e came home last week, Becky. Me son ’ad a lass with ’im. Nelda’s gonna ’ave ’is babe.” A watery smile brightened her face. “Me first gran’babe.”
Becky’s understanding mixed with disgust. She thought of his kiss and rage fired within her. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The man was a rutting goat!
Becky reined back her anger. “Where’s Nelda now?”
“Next door with me sister, Clara. I ’ad no place fer ’em to sleep, an’…” She tugged on Becky’s skirt like a hungry tot begging for a crust. “Please, Becky. I ain’t askin’ ye this time. I’m beggin’ ye to give Ben a job.”
A lump formed in the back of Becky’s throat.
“If ye don’t, I’m afeared Ben’ll turn to thievin’. If the sheriff catches ’im, then what’ll Nelda and the babe do?”
Becky glanced at the dear woman, and her heart melted. Besides, she had no choice. The crofters knew it was her duty to provide for them and their kin. “Very well, Molly. When Ben comes home, tell him to see Geer about a job weeding in the turnip fields.” At least she could keep the rogue a safe distance from the womenfolk. Besides, who knew what might happen to all of them when the new owner of Thornwood Hall arrived in two weeks? Everyone might be out on their arses.
The old woman beamed. “You’re a saint, Mistress Becky. A blessed saint for not forgettin’ yer promise to yer mum an’ da. How proud they would’ve been to see ’ow ye take care of us.”
The mention of her parents brought the familiar tug of sadness to Becky. It had been almost a year since they were stricken by the plague, along with her older sister, Betty. “Of course I’ll take care of the crofters. You’re my family. I’ll never forget that I was a crofter’s daughter.”
“Botherin’ with us, when ye ’ave yer ’eart full of yer own troubles.” Molly tucked back a gray strand under her white cap, her expression serious. “What ’ave ye figured to do when Sir Whatsis ’ighness comes t’ take over ’is property?”
“It’s not his property, Molly. Sir Nicholas Sinclair’s been awarded my property. I don’t care what the king dictates. In my heart, Thornwood Hall will always belong to me, Peter, Baby Harry and Aphra.”
“Aye, but yer brothers and sister will be grown one day. Ye should remarry and have yer own babes. Peter’s almost a man. Aphra will be leavin’ the nest ’fore long. Ye don’t want t’ end up like me in yer old age.”
Becky chuckled. How she loved this dear soul, who had been like a second mother to her since her parents’ death. “You’re hardly lonely with your growing family,” she teased, thinking of the added grandchildren Ben would surely breed for Molly to raise.
Molly shook her head, as though she knew she was talking to a lost cause. “You need to marry a man who’ll take care of ye.”
“That’s why my mother wanted me to marry the old general. Poor man was dead in less than a year, and I still have to manage on my own. Besides, no man will marry me with a baby brother and a sister who’s unable to speak. He’d insist they be turned over to an orphanage, or worse. Marriage isn’t the answer, Molly.”
Molly’s brows knitted together. “I ’eard Willoughby knew of a gentleman offering to buy the estate from Sinclair.”
Becky had heard the rumor, too. Willoughby had a keen business sense, almost as astute as her own. He leased the river rights for his livestock from Thornwood Hall, but that was no guarantee he’d continue to do so unless he made friends with Sinclair. But there was no reason to worry Molly about it.
“Sinclair might keep the property and ask me to manage it,” Becky answered with confidence, despite the wrench of fear in her stomach. She dared not reveal her plan to frighten any prospective buyers away, including Squire Willoughby. Not yet, anyway.
“You and the other crofters have nothing to worry about, Molly. I’m taking care of everything.” She winked, then put on her riding gloves while she strode toward the cottage door.
“I’ll see that your sister has extra bedding brought around for Nelda, and I’ll tuck in a basket with a ham joint and an extra bowl of eggs,” Becky said.
She was rewarded with Molly’s broad smile. “God bless ye, Becky. Yer mum an’ da would be so proud of ye.”
No need to upset Molly with the facts. If Becky’s plan failed, the new owner would throw out the old, frail crofters who couldn’t pay their rents, thus forcing them to join the bands of paupers who went on the tramp for food, only to be greeted by scorn and little charity.
Becky forced a smile as she waved goodbye to Molly, then strode purposely toward her mare, waiting at the fence.
A few minutes later, Becky rode along the hedgerow path, her thoughts tumbling around the greatest challenge of her life—Sir Nicholas Sinclair. For whatever reason, she couldn’t push back the threat from her mind.
She chewed on her lip. Aye, she’d be thrown in prison, if Sinclair knew all the facts. What if he discovered her duplicity with the business ledgers? What if he found out she kept two sets of accounts? One ledger recorded the true profits, the other—kept for the tax assessor—registered only a tiny sum of the manor’s true bounty.
But Sinclair wouldn’t find out. The servants were family, and the merchants who purchased their goods were related to her in some way. Furthermore, they were paid handsomely for their loyalty.
She was safe. Besides, hadn’t Squire Willoughby’s wife said that Sinclair was a navy man who’d return to sea when his wounds healed? Aye, he’d only remain in the country long enough to see Thornwood Hall for himself and to find a buyer.
And he wouldn’t find a buyer. For what man would purchase an estate that was haunted by the avenging ghost of her late husband, Ol’ Winky? Crops would be stunted, cattle would drop in the fields, all manner of bad luck would follow. Or so word would spread.
Usually, thinking of her plan to invent her late husband’s ghost raised her spirits. But not today, for some reason. She needed to go to the one place that always brought her peace.
Becky pressed her heels into the mare’s sides and rode across the field toward the wildflower meadow. She needed to talk to The Family.
A short while later, Becky brushed aside the sun-dried flowers from her mother’s gravestone that the wind failed to blow away from yesterday’s bouquet. Then she laid the freshly picked buttercups and blue larkspur at the foot of the stone cross.
Head bowed, she prayed silently. Afterward, she adjusted the sash, which held the general’s sword she always carried, and stepped back. Her gaze swept the tall, hand-carved headstone.
“Mum, you’d be so proud of Baby Harry. Yesterday, Aphra dressed him up in Da’s Roundhead uniform. He paraded around the study, grabbed the poker like a sword and marched like a glorious little soldier.” Her throat felt thick and dry.
“Sally is teaching Aphra to sew. Aphra tried to stick her with a pin, but I think it was because Sally had taken apart your yellow silk gown and was fitting it to her…” Becky bit back the sting of tears. To see her mother’s favorite gown in pieces had triggered a jolt of sadness in her.
Becky squeezed the hilt of her sword. “I keep praying Aphra will speak again, Mum. It’ll be a year next month since…” Her bottom lip trembled.
Becky paced back and forth. “This morning, I told Peter he could try his hand at repairing the old boat that Da had built. He gave me one of his rare smiles…” She grinned at the memory. “When Peter smiles at me like that, Mum, he reminds me so much of you. His warm brown eyes light up like yours when he’s happy.” She swallowed hard to fight back the tears while she poked at the grass with her sword. “Next month, Peter will be ten and two, and already he’s as tall as I am.” She smiled as she thought of her quiet, sensitive brother. “Remember what fun we had when Da took us to market in that boat? Peter says he remembers, but he was too young. He was Baby Harry’s age, then.”
Becky closed her eyes, the sun warming her face as the memories comforted her. “So many years ago. I wasn’t much older than Aphra, myself.”
The sun hid behind a cloud, and Becky opened her eyes. She stepped to the next grave, a massive stone cross and circle.
Her dear da. She laid a few yellow wildflower sprigs on the tufts of green grass beside the stone column. “Geer and I sold the best pieces of furniture at market last week, Da. Got three times what I had hoped for them. You’d have been proud at how I wrangled the bid. Told the story of how Cromwell, himself, had lain on the table while his aide dug a musket ball from his arm.”
She chuckled. “Those royals will believe anything.” She rubbed her hand over the carved letters on the marker. The stone felt warm in the July sun.
“Don’t worry, Da. I’ll find a way to send Sir Nicholas Sinclair back to sea before he sells our home. I’ll keep my promise to take care of everyone.”
Becky strode past the shady rise to the three distant headstones. Her older sister, Betty, lay beside their grandparents. Betty had been taken ill within a fortnight before the plague had claimed their parents.
Becky scattered the buttercups among the remaining graves. Memories rushed at her like an unsuspecting gale. She could hardly put her feelings into words.
“God help me, I’ll take care of Aphra, Peter and Baby Harry, just as you took care of me.” Her eyes stung with unshed tears while the memory of her sister’s high spirits rang on the soft breeze of the sunlit meadow. Her heart wrenched with loss.
A few minutes later, Becky climbed the steep hill near the cemetery fence. Scattering flowers onto the bright green blades of grass surrounding the older headstones, she moved to the last marker. She released the remainder of the wildflowers at the bottom of the stone of her late husband.
“General,” she said, addressing him by the title she had always used in his presence, although she referred to him since his death as Ol’ Winky, as he was affectionately known by everyone. “I’ll stand fast against this Sinclair fellow. I won’t give up Thornwood Hall without a fight.”
She wondered what the old general might have done if he were alive. Ol’ Winky had been almost seventy when she’d married him. Even in his dotage, his iron will and feistiness earned him respect among the shire.
She rubbed her fingers across the rough stone. “I’m sorry for the lie I’m about to tell, General. But I thought if you knew that a Royalist was taking over your estate, you’d tear off on one of your rides, like you did on the anniversaries of the great battles, your shouts echoing throughout the valley.” She smiled. “So loud even Squire Willoughby and his wife will hear you.”
For a moment, she thought she heard his low laughter on the breeze. She turned and faced the wind, the hayscented air drying her lashes. She shook her head. No, she had only imagined it. But the idea was real.
If Ol’ Winky’s ghost were seen racing across the fields, surely the sight might give pause to a prospective buyer.
Becky smiled. “The plan will work, General. Keane has agreed to dress in your uniform and ride the fields as your ghost. He’s been as upset as I have with the king awarding Thornwood Hall to a Royalist. We’ll see how Sinclair likes owning a haunted manor.”
Her smile faded when she thought of Keane. Did he truly believe he was Ol’ Winky’s son? The two men were so different in so many ways. But if Keane thought so, perhaps he felt he should have a part of Thornwood Hall, too.
Picturing Keane in her mind, on Ol’ Winky’s charger in the dark of night, even she might be fooled that the ghost of her late husband had come back to seek revenge against the new owner.
Her hand patted the gray stone, then she loosened the ribbons of her straw hat and wandered along the path toward the fence row. The wind lifted her hair on the breeze. Her eyelids closed while she delighted in the small pleasure.
She hoped to find her courage among the silent counsel, and she hadn’t been disappointed. She knew her duty. When Nicholas Sinclair arrived, she’d spread the word that Ol’ Winky’s spirit rode the fields, and when the neighbors saw his ghost, no one would dare offer for the estate. Sinclair would return to the sea, she and Keane would manage Thornwood Hall. The crofters and her siblings would be safe, and all would be well with the world.
Her horse whinnied, and she glanced up.
Although the man was more than several furlongs away, she immediately recognized the slant of broad shoulders and the limp. He ambled along the path toward her, and she wondered how long he had been watching her.
“Mistress Forester,” he said a few minutes later. Doffing his hat, he gave her a sweeping bow that was exaggerated with sarcastic ardor. “We meet again.”
“I see you remembered my name.” Her gaze fell to the blue glints of sunshine on his black hair. “Are you on your way to visit your mum?”
“I was hoping to see you, actually.” His gray eyes glittered mischievously beneath black arched brows. “I thought it best that I apologize for my…outrageous behavior.”
Becky couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Are you up to one of your tricks, Twaddle? Because if you are—”
“Fair lady, I have no tricks up my sleeve. I ask for the job you had so kindly offered. For how can I face my dear mum if—”
“And best you not forget Nelda.”
Surprise darkened the gray eyes as though he were truly caught unaware. If Becky hadn’t known better, she’d have believed he didn’t know Nelda. The man was a cunning devil!
“Forgotten Nelda so soon?” Outrage flared with disgust as she remembered how he had boldly kissed her, and her foolish response to it. Now that she had her good sense again, she’d straighten the matter out.
“Nelda, who’s big with your child, in case you’re suffering from another bout of scattered wits,” she said.
His mouth pursed carefully, but he remained silent.
“Aye, I know all about Nelda.” She wrinkled her nose. “It’s because of Nelda that I’m giving you another chance.”
“You’ve pointed out the error of my ways, dear lady. I’m here, begging you for a job.”
Becky almost laughed. She’d seen trickery by experts, and this performance was pitiful. The mischievous glint in his vibrant gray eyes told her he was no more chagrined than she was.
No, there was more to his ruse than a change of heart. If she stood here until All Souls’ Eve, he’d never tell her what had changed his mind. It didn’t matter. She’d find out from Molly.
“So you’re wanting to labor under the July sun from morning to night, a hoe handle breaking the soft skin on your palms?” She tried not to smile.
“My hands are hardened to work, mistress.” He opened his fists. Hard calluses covered the insides of his handsomely shaped long fingers and hands. She felt her breath catch. Her reaction was only surprise, she decided as she met his gaze.
“Very well, but I’ll never believe you weathered your hands by honest toil.”
His smile told her she was right. “I’ll take you on,” she said. “With a condition.” She thought of Molly, alone all those years, longing for her son to return. “You’ll spend the Sabbath with your mum, take her to church and do whatever she chooses to do for the day.” She watched his expression. “Agreed?”
His mouth moved as though he had tasted something bitter. “Aye,” he said finally.
“And you’ll provide for Nelda and the babe. Make plans to marry her, for a start.”
He almost choked. Becky tried not to laugh.
“Marriage is a big consideration.” He glanced back at her, his eyes like diamonds. “I’ll need more pay if I’m to become a family man.”
“Should have thought of that before you—” She stopped herself, ignoring the blush that warmed her cheeks. “Do you agree to the terms?”
“Aye.”
Something strange was afoot. Becky had dealt with sneaky devils before, but this rogue was planning something devious. The fine hairs on her arms stood up in warning. “You’ll make an honest woman of Nelda, you’ll work from dawn to dark, you’ll spend the Sabbath with your Mum?” She raised a brow, waiting.
“I’ve seen the error of my ways, and I’m here to make amends.” The corner of his mouth lifted, and the glint in his gray eyes told her he was lying through his handsome white teeth.
“One more condition.” She held his gaze. “Till the end of the month, you’ll have no credit at the Seven Swans Tavern, and you’ll stay away from Lily.”
“Lily?”
“Don’t play simple with me, Twaddle. You’ve only been back a few days, and already the servants are buzzing with tales of you and Lily and who knows of how many others?” She stiffened her spine and folded her arms in front of her. “I’ve your promise?”
He folded his muscled arms across his broad chest in mocking imitation. “Agreed.”
“Very well, Twaddle. You’ll meet the crew at four o’clock tomorrow morning by the cattle gate.” She turned toward her horse, her sword clanging against her thigh with each step.
“I think we should shake on it,” he called after her.
She stopped. The thought of touching him caused a fluttery sensation deep inside her. “Of course,” she said, bounding back toward him.
She extended her arm, but when his large, warm palm captured her small hand in his, she almost gasped. A charge like summer lightning ripped through her. He studied her, his brilliant gray eyes staring through her. His straight black lashes shadowed his cheeks, or was it the trick of sunlight on this glorious day?
She stood, lost in the smoky depths of his eyes. She felt as though she was peering at an ancient rock wall. Light and dark sparkles glittered from the depths of his soul.
“Agreed.” He released her hand.
She swallowed, then put on her hat, tugging at her hat brim to cover her nervousness. Her mouth felt as dry as hay. She nodded, afraid to trust her voice. She wiped her hand on her skirt, then strode back to her horse, forcing herself not to run like the devil.
The late-afternoon sun filtered through the alders as Nick curried his horse by the river. For the past half hour, since he had seen Becky Forester again, he couldn’t get the picture of her out of his mind. Her manner was regal, despite the faded gown she wore. Running through the buttercups, she had held her skirts as she ran, revealing the flash of shapely ankles amid her underskirts. Her hair flew behind her like black silk.
Her face reacted with surprise when she saw it was he. More than startled, had he imagined she was somewhat glad to see him?
Damn, it wasn’t like him to show conceit with a woman. She doubtless thought him some impossible rogue. It was dismay, not attraction, that had brightened her cheeks so becomingly.
Ducks quacked as they swam past, diving for their dinner amid the last lull before twilight. Nick’s thoughts returned to his task at hand. “You’re growing fat on this rich grass, Rex.” He smiled as he swept the currycomb along the animal’s back.
For a moment, Nick sensed that he wasn’t alone. Rex lifted his head, ears twitching, as though sensing something, too. Nick slipped the curry rack in the saddlebags and pulled out his pistol from the saddle holster.
