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‘You may call me Miss Cherroll.’ The rules she’d studied fled from her, except the one about the curtsy and she could not force herself to do it. She took the arrow.
She only wanted to leave, but her limbs hadn’t yet recovered their strength. She controlled her voice, putting all the command in it she could muster. ‘You’re not what I expected.’
‘If you’ve been talking to Warrington, I suppose not.’ He tilted his head forward, as if he secluded them from the rest of the world. ‘What is he fed for breakfast? I fear it curdles his stomach—daily.’
‘Only when mixed with entertainments not to his liking.’
‘Well, that explains it. I can be quite entertaining.’
‘He claims you can be quite...’ She paused. His eyes waited for her to continue, but she didn’t think it prudent, either to Warrington or the duke.
The duke continued, taking in the words she didn’t say. ‘Not many are above him, and, well, I might give him the tiniest reminder of my status, when it is needed.’ He shrugged. ‘Our fathers were like brothers. He thinks he has become the old earl and I have not attained the grandness of my sire. My father did limp—and that knee was the only thing that kept him from perfection. The injured leg was the price he paid for doing the right thing. He once thrust himself between someone and the hooves of an angry horse.’
‘I would not be so certain of the earl’s opinion.’ She paused, softening her words. ‘He says you are quite the perfect duke. A duke from heel to head.’ Warrington had stared at the ceiling and grimaced when he spoke.
‘A compliment. I’m certain. From Warrington.’ He shrugged. ‘Too many things distract me from perfection. I just trudge along, doing what I can. Hoping to honour the legacy my father left behind.’
He turned to the other man, sending him along. ‘I’ll see Miss Cherroll home.’ Taking a step towards her, he paused when she moved the pointed tip the slightest bit in his direction. ‘Assuming she doesn’t do Warrington a boon and impale his favourite neighbour.’
When he stopped moving, she relaxed her hand.
‘I will manage well enough on my own.’ She turned, pulling the skirt’s hem from a bramble, and moved closer to the bow. ‘I know the way.’ She heard her own words and turned back to the duke and leaned her head to the side. ‘I have been lost here before.’ She pulled the bow into her hand, freeing it from the thorny brambles clasping it.
‘I would imagine so. Wicks claims you are here more than he is. I might call on you,’ he said, ‘later today to assure myself you arrived safely home.’
She shook her head. ‘Please don’t. Warrington is always claiming I bring home strange things from my walks.’
‘My dear, I’m a duke. He won’t be able to say a word. It’s a rule of sorts.’
‘You truly don’t know him well, do you?’
‘Well, perhaps he might grumble, but his good breeding would insist he appear welcoming. At least in your presence.’
She held the nock end of the arrow as if she were going to seat it against the bowstring. ‘You’re right in that my English father named me for the Roman goddess of war. And, it’s said I’m completely lacking in the ways of a proper Englishwoman. But I do remember one phrase. “I am not at home.”’
‘Miss Cherroll. I would think you’d not mind sharing tea with me seeing as you have already shared my property.’
She shook her head. ‘I have been called on before. I have not been at home.’
‘Ever?’
She firmed her lips and shook her head.
‘Why not?’
She didn’t answer his question. She could not speak of her memories aloud. Putting them into words brought the feel of the rough fingertips to her neck.
His brows furrowed. Even though she knew a proper lady didn’t scurry along the trail, she did, leaving the duke standing behind her.
* * *
Rhys Harling, Duke of Rolleston, sat at his desk, completely unmoving. Wicks stood in front of Rhys, repeating the same words he’d said two days ago and the two days before that. Rhys hoped the air would clear of the man’s dank scent when he left.
Wicks waved the arrow like a sceptre. His lips didn’t stop moving even when he paused to find new words.
Wicks rambled on, falling more in love with his discourse as he continued. If the gamekeeper were to be believed, the woman created more mischief than any demon.
It had been five days since Wicks had caught the woman. The gamekeeper had approached him twice to discuss the lands and could not keep from mentioning her.
Rhys interrupted, his voice direct. ‘She did not try to impale me. Neither her teeth nor her eyes—which are not rimmed by devil’s soot—show brighter than any other’s in the dusk and she is not as tall as I am. You cannot claim her to be something she is not. I forbid it.’
‘You can’t be faultin’ me for lookin’ out for your lands, Your Grace.’
‘I don’t. But she’s the earl’s guest. You must cease talking at the tavern about the woman.’
‘Who told you?’ His chin dropped and he looked at the floor.
‘Who didn’t tell me?’ Rhys fixed a stare at the man. ‘Wicks, you should know that words travel from one set of ears to the next and the next and before long every person who has shared a meal with someone else has heard.’
‘She does stick in my craw, Your Grace.’
He didn’t blame the gamekeeper. Rhys couldn’t remove her from his mind either. The quiver cinched her trim waist. A twig had poked from her mussed hair. The magical thing he’d noticed about her was the way her hair could stay in a knot on her head when most of it had escaped.
Rhys had known when the gamekeeper first mentioned the trespasser who it would most likely be. He’d wanted to see her for himself.
Wicks wasn’t the first person to discuss her. Even the duchess, who talked only of family members who’d passed on, had varied from her melancholia once and spoke of the earl’s sister-by-law Miss Cherroll. The foreign-born woman rarely let herself be seen by anyone outside the earl’s household and that caused more talk than if she’d danced three dances with the same partner.
‘Forget her,’ the duke said. ‘She’s just an ordinary woman who likes to traipse the trails. I can’t fault her for that.’
He couldn’t. He’d travelled over those same trails countless times, trying to keep up with his brother, Geoff.
Looking for the woman had been the first time he’d been in the woods since Geoff’s death. The gnashing ache grinded inside him again, but the woman’s face reminded him of unspoiled times.
But she was...a poacher of sorts. Nothing like her sister—a true countess if tales were to be believed. He wouldn’t put it past Warrington to keep this bow-carrying family member in the shadows, afraid what would happen if the woman met with members of the ton.
‘You didn’t feel she could near strangle a man with one look from her eyes?’ Wicks asked. ‘I could feel that devil in her just trying to take my vicar’s words right from mind. She still be trespassin’ ever’ day. Taunting me, like. She tears up my traps and she lurks out in the wood, waiting until I check them and then she tries to kill me.’
‘I’m sure she’s not trying to kill you.’
‘This arrow weren’t whipping by your head.’ He pulled every muscle of his body into an indignant shudder. ‘And since I caught her last time, she stays too far back for me to snatch her again.’
‘You will not touch her.’ Rhys met Wicks’s stare. Rhys stood.
Wicks’s lips pressed together.
‘You will not touch her,’ Rhys said again and waited.
‘I don’t want no part of that evil witch,’ Wicks said finally. ‘I looked at her and I saw the Jezebel spirit in her. I be sleepin’ on the floor and not in my bed so she can’t visit me in my night hours and have her way with me.’
Rhys put both palms flat on the desk and leaned forward. ‘That is a good plan. However, if you sleep with your nightcap over your ears it will do the same.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’ Rhys nodded.
Wicks’s lips moved almost for a full minute before he spoke and his shoulders were pulled tight and he watched the arrow in his hand. ‘Well, I’ll be considerin’ it. Floor’s cold.’
‘Do you think perhaps she is a normal kind-hearted woman, Wicks, and merely doesn’t want little creatures harmed?’
‘I wondered. But that seems odd to me. When I gave her my smile—’ He bared perfect teeth except for one missing at the bottom. ‘She didn’t even note. Just raised her bow right towards me and let this arrow loose.’
Rhys rose, walked around the desk and held out his hand. Wicks slowly placed the arrow across Rhys’s palm.
‘If you see her again,’ Rhys commanded, ‘at any time at any place, you are not to give her one moment of anything but respect. You are not to smile at her or approach her, or you will answer to me in a way you will not like.’
‘Not right,’ Wicks said, his nose going up. ‘Being shot at while doin’ my work.’
‘I will handle this. Do not forget my words. Leave her be.’
‘I will,’ Wicks said. ‘I pity her. Has too many airs to settle into things right for a woman’s place.’
Rhys glared.
‘But I be keepin’ it a secret.’ He nodded. ‘I ain’t givin’ her another one of my smiles. She missed her chance. And if she tries to have her way with me, I be turnin’ my head and keepin’ my nightcap tight.’
He used both hands to clamp his hat on his head as he shuffled out, grumbling.
Rhys studied the arrow and thought of his mother’s melancholia. How she hardly left her room, even for meals. How she talked more of people who’d passed than of her own friends, and how she claimed illness rather than go to Sunday Services. His brother’s death had taken the life from her as well. The one moment the duchess’s thoughts had wavered into the present had been when she asked Rhys if he’d heard of the earl’s guest, but by the time he’d answered, his mother’s thoughts had wavered back into the shadows of the past.
He brushed his hand over the arrow fletching. Window light bounced over the feathers, almost startling him. Raising his eyes, he saw the sun’s rays warming the room. He stood, walking to the sunlight, pausing to feel the heat on his face. He lifted the feathery end of the weapon, twirling it in the brightness.
Winter’s chill had left the air, but he’d not noticed the green outside the window until now. The woman had also worn the colours of the forest, he remembered. She’d not looked like a warrior goddess, but a woodland nymph, bringing life into morning.
He snorted, amazed at the folly of his imagination. He’d not had such foolish thoughts in a long time. Nor had he longed for a woman’s comfort overmuch in the past year. Now, he imagined the huntress and his body responded, sending reminders of pleasure throughout his being.
Leaning into the window frame, holding the arrow like a talisman, he tried to remember every single aspect of her. What she’d said and how she’d looked. Each word and moment that had transpired between them.
He pulled the soft end of the arrow up, looking at the feathers one last time before tapping the nock against the sill, staring at the reflections of sunlight.
This woman at the earl’s estate, who was willing to fight for rabbits, but could keep the servants whispering about her, might be just the woman who could bring his mother back to life. She’d already reminded Rhys that he was still alive.
* * *
Within the hour, Rhys was in the Earl of Warrington’s sitting room. The duke clasped an arrow at his side and waited as he expected he might. He moved to the window again, wanting to feel the heat from the sun streaming through the panes. Trees budded back to life. A heathen spirit might do the same for his own home.
The mantel sported a painting of three young girls playing while their mother watched. He wagered the painting was of Greece and one of the girls could have been the one on his property. Except for the single painting, the room seemed little different than Rhys’s own library.
Rhys looked out over Warrington’s snipped and clipped and trimmed and polished world, almost able to hear the laughter from years before.
Only, the laughter was not his, but directed at him.
Of course, both he and Warrington had matured now. They had left foolish prattle and childish games behind.
Warrington strode in. Rhys could still taste the medicinal the others had found in the apothecary jar and forced into Rhys’s mouth when they were children. That had to be his earliest memory.
‘Your Grace,’ Warrington greeted. The earl moved to stand at the mantel. He glanced once at the painting above it before he asked, ‘So what is the honour that brings you to Whitegate?’
Rhys held out the arrow. ‘I found this on my property and heard that you have a guest who practises archery. I’d like to return it to her.’
Rhys had never seen Warrington’s face twitch until that moment. He studied Rhys as if they’d just started a boxing match. ‘You are interested in talking with Bellona?’
Warrington’s eyes flickered. ‘I’m sure whatever she did—’ Warrington spoke quickly. ‘She just doesn’t understand our ways.’ He paused and then sighed. ‘What did she do now?’
‘I just wish to meet with her,’ Rhys said, ‘and request that she refrain from shooting arrows on to my property—particularly near others.’
Warrington grimaced and then turned it into a smile. ‘She does... Well...you know...’ He held out a palm. ‘Some women like jewellery. Flowers. Sharp things. She likes them.’
‘Sharp things?’
Warrington shook his head. ‘Never a dull moment around her.’
‘Truly?’
‘Beautiful voice—when she’s not talking. Her sister forced her to attend the soirée at Riverton’s, hoping Bellona would find something about society that suited her. Pottsworth wanted to be introduced. She’d not danced with anyone. I thought it a good idea even though he is—well, you know Potts. She smiled and answered him in Greek. Thankfully none of the ladies near her had our tutors. Riverton overheard and choked on his snuff. We left before he stopped sputtering. He still asks after her every time he sees me. “How is that retiring Miss Cherroll?”’
‘Can’t say as I blame her. You introduced Pottsworth to her?’ Rhys asked drily.
‘I’m sure she might wander too far afield from time to time,’ Warrington murmured it away, ‘but your land has joined mine since before our grandparents’ time and we’ve shared it as one.’ Warrington gave an encompassing gesture, then he toyed with what could have been a speck on the mantel. ‘We’re all like family. We grew up together. I know you and I don’t have the very close bond of our fathers, but still, I count you much the same as a brother of my own.’
‘Much like Cain and Abel?’
Warrington grinned. He waved the remark away. ‘You’ve never taken a jest well.’
‘The bull,’ Rhys said, remembering the very incensed animal charging towards him, bellowing. Rhys was on the wrong side of the fence, his hands on the rails, and the older boys pushed at him, keeping him from climbing to safety. He’d felt the heat from the bull’s nostrils when they’d finally hefted him through to the other side. Laughing.
He couldn’t have been much more than five years old.
Warrington had instigated many of the unpleasant moments of Rhys’s childhood. Actually, almost every disastrous circumstance could be traced back to War. Rhys had been lured into a carriage and then trapped when they wedged the door shut from the outside, and then he’d spent hours in the barn loft when they had removed the ladder. When they’d held him down and stained his cheeks with berries, he’d waited almost two years to return fresh manure to everyone involved. It had taken special planning and the assistance of the stable master’s son to get manure put into Warrington’s boots.
Rhys’s mother and father had not been happy. The one time he had not minded disappointing his father.
War’s face held camaraderie now—just like when the new puppy had been left in the carriage, supposedly.
‘I must speak with your wife’s sister,’ Rhys said. ‘I might have an idea which could help us both.’
‘What?’ The word darted from Warrington’s lips.
‘I thought Miss Cherroll might spend some time with the duchess. Perhaps speak of Greece or...’ He shrugged. ‘Whatever tales she might have learned.’
