Samantha James (2 page)

Lancashire
Twenty years later

He wished he could say it was good to be back in England.

Nearly four years had passed since his last visit. Of course he’d expected to return. Indeed, he’d been on his way back….

Never in his life had he expected to find his brother dead.

His wrath rose within him like a cloud of blackest rage. The very curses of hell swirled within him, fighting to be free. No, he thought. Not just dead…

Murdered
.

High atop a glossy black steed, Damien Lewis Tremayne moved not a muscle. ’Twas as if both man and steed were carved in stone. Yet even as a wracking pain squeezed his heart, he was bled with a weary despair. He stared across the dis
tant valley, but one thought crowding his mind…his very being.

He was the last of the Tremaynes.

First his father, he thought bitterly, gone those many years ago. His mother had followed but a few short years thereafter. And now Giles…

His heart squeezed. It was a vibrant spring morning—warm for the month of April—rich with the colors of life. The sky was a vivid, endless expanse of blue. Across the meadow, masses of buttercup-yellow daffodils crowned the slope, like a sea of golden sunshine. The air was sweet with the scent of country air and morning dew…. But if the cold of winter ran in his veins, the darkest shadows of night dwelled in his expression. And it was the blazing winds of a tempest that fired his soul.

It was to him—to Damien Lewis Tremayne—that the responsibility fell…no, not as the new Earl of Deverell—but as the brother of a man who died violently, for no reason, at the hands of another….

He would find his brother’s murderer.

And he would see Giles’s death avenged, for he must not fail.

He
would
not fail.

It was as that very resolve crossed his mind that at last he turned his mount to ride away. ’Twas then that he saw her—a woman watching him from beneath the shade of a gnarled oak tree. She was seated on a coverlet spread upon the ground, her legs tucked beneath her skirts. In one arm a large sketch pad lay propped; in her hand was a piece of charcoal.

Their eyes caught. As she realized she’d been discovered, her hand stilled. She hugged the pad to her breast, somewhat guiltily, he decided.

Damien approached. He stopped within several paces of her, then dismounted and crossed to her. The woman remained where she was, the slender column of her neck arching as she watched him come to a halt. Her wide, unwavering regard made him feel as if he were the very devil himself come to life. Why he should cause such a reaction, he didn’t know. Though he was well aware that he was taller than many a man, he was garbed in a loose, white shirt, dark breeches and boots—surely such a picture as he presented should not frighten the chit.

“Hello,” he murmured.

Her lips parted. For an instant he thought she would refuse to speak. But speak she did, in a low, musical voice that made him realize she was not frightened at all, perhaps merely wary.

“Good morning, sir.”

One corner of his mouth tipped upward. He sought to further put her at ease. “I couldn’t help but notice you watching me. Were you sketching me?”

There was just the slightest hesitation before she replied. “Yes. Yes, I was. I do hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” he returned smoothly. He dropped down to his haunches. “May I see?”

She hesitated, her distress obvious—her reticence even more so—but finally she relinquished the drawing.

Damien studied it. Though it was not yet
finished, with bold, stark lines she had managed to capture every facet of his dark mood—his rage, his utter bleakness.

He disliked it. He disliked it intensely.

Slowly his gaze returned to her. “I should very much like to have it.” He wasted no time conveying his wishes.

“Oh, but such a hastily done piece is hardly worth keeping.” With a shake of her head, she objected just as staunchly. “I should be embarrassed to part with such a mediocre effort.”

He remained pleasant, but adamant. “On the contrary, miss. It’s really quite good, and I wish to have it. The price is of no consequence.”

“Oh, but it’s not money I’m interested in, sir. ’Tis—’tis simply not for sale.”

A fleeting solution buzzed through his mind. He considered keeping it, withholding it from her, for he was not a man to display his emotions for all and sundry to see; it was as if this girl had glimpsed a part of him he would far rather keep hidden. He felt—oh, as if he’d been caught in some illicit act.

From the corner of his eye he saw a small cart and pony grazing nearby. It would be simple indeed to whirl and mount his stallion, then ride off; if he were on horseback, she would never catch him.

One dark brow arched. “You’re very modest,” he observed.

Small, white teeth caught the fullness of her lower lip. “Modest?” she repeated, her tone light. “Nay, sir, simply honest. ’Twould be robbery
were you to part with money for this piece—and it not yet finished!”

Damien struggled for patience. Why was she being so stubborn? For the first time then he looked at her…really
looked
at her.

Her beauty was like a blow to the belly.

She was exquisite, though in a quite unfashionable way. Her gown was rather faded and old, the laces of the bodice undone against the heat; the rounded neckline revealed smooth, unblemished skin that had acquired a light tan. Clearly she was not a London miss who never faced daylight without bonnet or parasol. Nor was her hair a riot of curls, as was the current vogue. It tumbled down her back, sleek and straight, so dark it was almost black. Her feet were bare, small, pink toes peeping out from the hem of her dress, reminding him of a gypsy.

But it was her eyes that held him spellbound, and his own narrowed in unguarded appreciation. In all his days he’d never seen eyes the color of these. They were extraordinary, their hue deepest violet-blue.

The color of heather in full, vibrant bloom…

Who was she? he wondered. A girl from the village? And where had she learned to sketch so well? A natural talent? Surely it was so, he mused. But she was well-spoken. Perhaps she was a maid at Lockhaven Park, whose owner he was to visit that very afternoon. At the thought, something knotted within him. He was not looking forward to his meeting with Miss Heather Duval, mistress of Lockhaven. He had a very
good idea what he would encounter—a shrewish, calculating virago whose looks would undoubtedly match her disposition. No wonder the chit had yet to find a husband.

Ruthlessly he pushed the thought aside. He would much rather not think about Heather Duval. Indeed, what he wanted was to take this vision of loveliness back to his room at the inn and make love to her until the very instant he had to leave.

Ah, yes, he thought, feeling desire stir his loins and tighten his middle. If this lass were willing, he would strip away every last stitch of clothing from her, bury his heartache—and his hardness—in the depths of her body. Indeed, he could think of no better way to banish the darkness from his heart.

“Do you have a name, lass?”

Again that hesitation, as she surveyed him from beneath the cast of long, thick lashes. “Alice,” she murmured at last.

“Well, Alice, are you certain I cannot convince you to part with it?” In truth, the sketch no longer mattered. Oddly, he found himself reluctant to leave. He even wished she would invite him to stay and sit with her.

A hint of rose had come to her cheeks. “I think not, sir,” she said softly.

“Then it seems I have no choice.”

He returned it to her, dimly speculating that she would be small in stature, for her shoulders were narrow, her waist slim, her hands scarcely larger than a child’s. He wished she would rise,
for he had a sudden urge to see her move. She would be all lithe, perfect grace as she walked—and he could almost feel her beneath him in passion’s dance, her limbs slim and curved and wildly erotic.

As if to tempt him further, a sudden breeze arose, molding her gown to her body, revealing the thrust of firm, young breasts.

Her color deepened as she discerned his gaze on her bosom. Her free hand fluttered upward as she sought to shield herself from his perusal.

“Come now, Alice. There’s no need to hide such loveliness.”

She was clearly distressed, though for the life of him, Damien could not imagine why. Surely he was not the first man to pay her such attention. “You, sir,” she said breathlessly, “are quite forward.”

And alas, he was quite regretful, for he was not a man to shower his attentions where they were not wanted.

He smiled slightly. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “But I shall trouble you no further, Alice, and I shall bid you good day. ’Tis my hope we’ll meet again, and perhaps you will let me make amends.”

He rose and, with a low bow, he left her. It was but a short ride back to the Eppingstone Inn, where he’d taken lodgings. Built of brick and timber and stone a hundred years earlier, the inn was a resting place for travelers, a gathering place for villagers who sought respite from their drudgery in the idle hours of the evening. Wide, rough-hewn planks covered the floors, pitted and
gouged and showing the signs of many a guest and many a year. The smell of ale lingered in the air, even in morning’s earliest hours, yet it was not unpleasant, for it mingled with the scent of meats roasting in the kitchen.

A fire blazed in the huge stone fireplace in the common room; the trestled tables placed adjacent to its warmth were deserted as Damien strode toward his room on the second floor. He was glad, for he was suddenly in the mood to talk to no one. Still, a peculiar restlessness plagued him throughout the next few hours.

He couldn’t put her out of his mind—Alice, the girl with the violet eyes. She possessed a sweet, bewitching beauty, a beauty that lured and enticed him in a way he’d not felt for a long, long time. He was sorely tempted to leave, to go out and search until he found her….

“Enough!” Cursing himself roundly, he vaulted off the bed and snatched up his coat. He was here for a reason—and it was not to bed a wench named Alice, comely as she was. It was time, he reminded himself blackly, to get to the business at hand.

The business of catching a murderer.

Indeed, it was this very vow that had brought him to Lancashire…that hardened his mouth and stiffened his shoulders. His feet fell like blows as he descended the smooth, worn steps of the narrow staircase.

“Goin’ out, Mr. Lewis?”

The voice came from the corner of the common room. Damien glanced up and saw the
innkeeper, Mr. Simpson, polishing silver at one of the tables. He tipped his hat to the portly, bewhiskered gentleman, leashing his impatience.

“Indeed, I am, Mr. Simpson. I am meeting Miss Heather Duval at Lockhaven Park this afternoon to speak with her about filling the position of estate manager.”

“Ah, yes. Robin passed on quite suddenly, y’know.”

A pity, that—but also a stroke of luck. It was Cameron, the investigator Damien had hired to help him find Giles’s murderer, who had learned that the Lockhaven estate manager had passed away, and that Heather Duval was anxious to find a replacement. Damien had seized on the opportunity as heaven-sent and dispatched a note to her immediately. Should he secure the position, he would have the perfect opportunity to quietly observe Miss Heather Duval…and thus await his quarry.

He tipped his head slightly. “So I’m told,” he murmured. “A pity, his death, but I confess, I’m eager to stay on in Lancashire.”

Mr. Simpson’s head bobbed up and down. “The Lord’s pocket, m’wife calls it.” He laid down a serving fork. “You’ll find no better woman than Miss Heather. She’s fair and always does well by her people. Why, a veritable saint, m’wife calls her. But that’s little wonder, considering she was raised by the Earl and Countess of Stonehurst. The earl took her in after the carriage accident that killed her parents, y’know.”

Damien nodded. Cameron had told him that
was the story everyone believed—but it was not true. No, the man in the carriage with the woman was not her husband—nor the father of the girl…

For the husband still lived, blast his rotten, dirty soul!

A fleeting shadow crossed Mr. Simpson’s features. He sighed. “’Tis really such a shame….” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head.

Everything inside Damien seemed to stand at attention. He waited for Mr. Simpson to say more, but the old man did not. He caught his pocket watch in hand and glanced at it. “Well,” he said lightly, “I’d best be off. It wouldn’t do to be late.”

“Good luck,” Mr. Simpson called after him.

Outside, he mounted Zeus, a towering black that had been Giles’s favorite mount…. There was a faint catch in his heart. God, but he would give anything—
anything!
—for Giles to be alive still….

His mood darkened, like a black cloud across the moon. Faces flashed before him as he guided Zeus down the narrow lane that wound through the village. The glances cast his way were curious, yet not unfriendly. He passed two dark-haired women selling baskets at a market stand; the pair was engaged in vivacious discussion, interspersed with laughter.

He envied them their carefreeness.

Outside the milliner’s cottage, two young boys wrestled in the dirt, rolling wildly. Damien couldn’t help but remember how he and Giles
had often indulged in such play, rough and tumbling and reckless. As children, they had been nearly inseparable, for there was scarcely more than a year between them in age. They had shared the same bedchamber. Bedeviled their tutor and plotted antics far into the night. Whispered of grand plans for the future, when at last they left their youth behind.

The glimmer of a smile curved Damien’s lips, even as a pang shot through him. Giles had often boasted that he would someday be the illustrious captain of a vast seagoing vessel with a crew of a hundred men, charting his course across the seas and making a name for himself in the far-flung ports of the world. As for himself, he had been no less daring and grandiose. He had dreamed of acquiring fame and fortune, of building an empire of land and wealth the likes of which no man had ever seen….