The Gamekeeper's Lady. Ann Lethbridge
‘It’s no jesting matter. No doubt you’d expect me to pull you out.’
Simon’s face swam before her eyes like a pudgy Ban-quo’s ghost. ‘I’d prefer you didn’t bother.’
His eyes gleamed. Amusement? ‘My, you are in high ropes.’
He was laughing at her. He saw her as a joke. A wordless fool. He was so perfect and she couldn’t string two words together. A spurt of resentment shot through her veins. ‘This was m-my p-place. You have s-spoiled it.’ She gulped in a supply of air. Her stutter was out of control. At any moment she’d been speechless. A dummy. For the second time today. ‘G-good d-day, sir.’
His face blanched beneath his tan as if somehow she’d stabbed him and the blood had drained away. His hands fell to his sides, large hands that bunched into fists, knuckles gleaming white. ‘I beg your pardon, my lady.’
An apology he scorned. She could see that in his expression.
She grabbed for Pippin’s reins. Tried to pull herself up. The horse sidled. No, Pippin. Don’t do this now. ‘Shhh,’ she whispered.
A strong calloused hand grabbed the bridle beside her cheek. Her heart leapt into her throat at the size of it. Afraid her heart might jump right out of her mouth, she drew back.
‘You’ll scare him,’ she warned.
He murmured something. Pippin, the traitor, stilled. Deveril lifted the saddle flap and adjusted the cinch. He cocked a superior brow. ‘You were saying?’
There it was, the arrogance of man. She breathed in slowly. ‘F-for an assistant gamekeeper you are very haughty.’
‘Once more I find the need to apologise.’ A rueful grin curved his finely moulded lips.
Breathtaking. Heartstopping. A smile so dangerous ought to be against the law. Her anger whisked away as if borne aloft by the breeze tossing the branches above their heads. All she could do was stare at his lovely mouth. She inhaled a shaky breath. ‘N-no. I was n-n…’ She swallowed, then closed her eyes, surprised when he didn’t finish the word. ‘I was not very polite. I am sorry.’
He bowed his head in gentlemanly acknowledgement. ‘Can I help you mount, my lady?’
Since when did assistant gamekeepers have elegant manners and glorious bodies? Every time he spoke, her knees felt strangely weak and she just wanted to stand and look at him. He made her want things young ladies were not supposed to think about. She wanted to touch him. Trace the curve of muscle and the cords of sinew. Feel their warmth.
And he wanted to help her onto her horse. ‘Thank you, Mr R-Robert Deveril.’
His eyes widened. ‘I must apologise for my earlier abruptness. I thought you an interloper.’
‘I had not heard the cottage was let.’ She frowned. She’d barely stumbled on her words. ‘We d-d-don’t have an assistant gamekeeper.’
‘I started on Monday.’
No one ever told her anything. ‘This is a lovely spot.’ She glanced around, drinking it in with a sense of sadness. She wouldn’t be able to come here any more.
‘Aye, it is. Even at this time of year.’ Slivers of amber danced in his dark eyes like unspent laughter. He really was outstandingly beautiful, despite the day’s growth of beard. Or maybe because of it.
‘You are not from this part of the country, are you?’ she asked.
An eyebrow flicked up. He smiled again, another swift curve of his mouth, instantly repressed, but still her skin went all hot and prickly. ‘I’m from the west. Dorset way.’
His accent had changed, broadened. He thought to trick her, but she always noticed every word, every inflection, in other people’s voices. How could she not? This man hailed from London, and had been educated well, of that she was certain. She mentally shrugged. It mattered little to her where he came from. She prepared to mount.
‘Allow me,’ he said.
He bent and linked his hands, then cast her a frowning look. ‘Don’t let me keep you from this place, milady. I shan’t disturb you again.’
A furnace seemed to engulf her face. ‘Th-thank you. And it is not my lady, just plain Miss Bracewell.’ She caught herself lifting her chin and tucked it back in.
His head tilted to one side as if considering her words, then his gaze slid away. ‘Yes, miss.’
She placed one booted foot in his cupped hands and he tossed her up without effort.
Tall and broad, straight and grand beside the horse, he planted his feet in the soft earth like a solid English oak. A man she would love to draw.
Naked.
The wicked thought trickled heaviness to the dark, secret place she tried never to notice. Little flutters made her shift in the saddle. Wanton urges. The kind that led a woman into trouble. Her gaze drank him in. Her heart sank. Was it any wonder she felt this way, when Slimy Simon loomed in her future? ‘Good day, Mr Deveril.’
She wheeled Pippin around.
She couldn’t help looking back one last time. He raised a hand in farewell. Her heart gave a sweet little lurch, which once more set her stomach dancing.
The horse broke into a trot and plunged into the trees. Robert could hear the sound of twigs snapping even as, utterly bemused, he followed in its wake. By the time he reached the clearing, the spirited gelding and its rider had disappeared.
A strange little thing, this Miss Wynchwood. In her drab brown clothing, she reminded him of some wild woodland creature ready to run at a sound. Certainly no beauty—her eyes were too large, the colour changing with her thoughts from the bluish-grey of clouds to the grey-green of a wind-swept ocean. Her tragic mouth took up far too much of her pixie face.
He’d wanted to kiss that mouth and make it tremble with desire instead of fear. He’d longed to release the tightly coiled hair at her nape and see it fall around her face. Pulled back, it did nothing to improve her looks. And yet she was oddly alluring.
Her style of conversation left much to be desired, though. Short and sharp and rude. Clearly a spoiled rich miss who needed a lesson in manners. Her Grace would not have tolerated such abruptness from one of Robert’s sisters.
A dull stab of pain caught him off guard. Hades. Even now thoughts of home sneaked unwanted into his mind. He stared at the mud splattering the door of his cottage. What a reckless little cross-patch to ride at such speed through the woods. He groaned. And quite likely to report him to Lord Wynchwood for taking her to task.
Damnation. What the hell had he said?
He’d been terrified she’d fall in the river, furious at her carelessness. He’d spoken harshly. He’d made her angry.
Angry and woman did not mix well.
He shouldered his way into the hut he called home and kicked the door shut. Damn, it was cold, but at least he had a roof over his head. He sorted through his bedclothes on the cot against the wall, found his jacket and shrugged into the coarse fabric. He stirred the embers to get the fire going and hung the kettle on the crane. He’d been making tea moments before running outside because he thought the walls were collapsing. Moments before he’d ripped into the girl whose family owned these woods like a duke’s son instead of a servant. He’d been scathing when he should have thanked her for the honour her horse’s hooves had paid to his dwelling, or at least kept his tongue behind his teeth.
Such a small, fragile thing making all that rumpus. A good wind and she’d blow away. And when he boosted her on to her horse, she’d weighed no more than a child. Her eyes, though, had looked at him in the way of a woman. And his body had responded with interest. He cursed.
This was the best position he’d found in over two years and he’d be a fool to lose it because of a slip of a girl.