The Forest Lord (11 page)

Laughing at him.
At the humble mortal he pretended to be.

He glanced deliberately around the threadbare sitting room. "I'd say that you need help here, your ladyship."

"Indeed. Have you a mind to assist our maids, Mr. Shaw? Perhaps our household is not fine enough for your liking."

"I can do whatever is needed," he said. "But you'll find that my talents lie elsewhere."

She chose to ignore his innuendo, if she could recognize it in an itinerant laborer. But he thought she had. He thought she was even more disturbed than before.

"You will have ample opportunity to display your skills,"
Eden said, rising. "Mrs. Byrne is acting steward at the moment, so you may discuss the terms of your employment with her. She will decide what requires your immediate attention." She glanced at the older woman. "I believe there is a gardener's cottage available—"

"Aye," Mrs. Byrne said.
"Old Coddington's cottage."

Hartley shuddered inwardly at the thought of being trapped within man's walls. "I'll sleep in the stable."

Eden
smiled. "Mrs. Byrne, I believe that I will have my luncheon now, when you have finished with our man of many talents."

"Aye, my lady."
She took Hartley's arm and steered him toward the door. "You're that lucky," she whispered when they were in the hall. "I thought she'd taken you in dislike. You'll wish to watch that saucy tongue of yours, lad. Our mistress is a lady of quality, used to fine
London ways, and she'll brook no insolence." She paused just outside the doors to the servant's wing. "
Aye,
and she's suffered more than a bit, as well.
Lost her husband and her
London house.
Hartsmere is all she has left, so don't make it the harder for her. Leave off your bold glances and remember your place."

Lost her husband.

Hartley stopped in his tracks.
Eden had married, then. He had not even considered the possibility, though he knew he should not be surprised. By the customs of men, she would have needed a father for her son, a respectable name to bear into mortal society. She would have sought a husband who did not care if she had lain with another, who would accept her son as his own.

"Who was he?" he demanded.

"Who was who?" Mrs. Byrne peered into his face. "What's wrong, lad? You look as though you've just met your worst enemy."

"Who was her husband?"

"Mr. Spencer Winstowe, younger son of the Viscount Dillamore, and two months dead. Why would that be interesting you, now?"

Why, indeed. Why should he care if she'd chained herself to the first mortal who would take her?

But his vision was red, and behind the scarlet haze he saw her wrapped in this Winstowe's arms—her husband, her mate—taking him into her body, gasping and crying aloud as she had done with her first lover.

Now Winstowe was dead. Mortal mourning was as brief as everything else in their lives. Though
Eden wore the black of sorrow, she seemed to dismiss her husband's passing as easily as she'd forgotten Cornelius Fleming.

"Did she love him?" he asked.

"And what business is that of mine, or yours?" Mrs. Byrne narrowed her eyes. "Best banish all such thoughts from that handsome head if you want to stay at Hartsmere."

Hartley clenched his fists, allowing
himself
to feel the pain of nails biting flesh. "The boy, Donal—is he the lady's only child?"

Mrs. Byrne gave a start. "Donal is not Lady Eden's son. He is the grandson of her uncle, who lives in
Ireland and has taken ill. She is caring for him."

Not her son? Was that what she claimed? Yet another
lie,
and one that only increased Hartley's anger. Was she so ashamed of her own child that she refused to acknowledge him, as if he were some grotesque changeling?

"The family resemblance is striking," he said between his teeth.

"Enough. As her ladyship said, we've the details of your work here to discuss." She opened the servants' door and ushered him through, ending the conversation.

For the time being.
Hartley had many questions yet to be answered, and if Mrs. Byrne refused to cooperate, there were others who would. He'd decided to use no enchantment to steal Donal from Hartsmere, but that did not prevent him from putting Tod to work. The hob could listen in on every servant's conversation within the house and never be detected.

As for Lady Eden Winstowe, she was
his
.

After a day in consultation with Mrs. Byrne and
another night in her musty bed,
Eden determined to begin restoring Hartsmere immediately.

The doctor had come and gone, Claudia remained in her room, Donal was with Nancy—who had younger brothers of her own, and was serving as temporary nursery maid—and Eden could not imagine herself remaining within these walls another minute. She had planned to wait for the new steward's arrival before venturing out among Hartsmere's tenants and dependents, but it had become clear that finding one might take longer than she had hoped.

With Hester's help,
Eden changed into her riding habit and sent Armstrong to the stables to see that her mount was saddled and ready. She and Claudia had each brought one riding horse, the most reliable animals in Spencer's once-grand stables. Her own mare, Juno, would hardly be a challenge for the new groom.

Hartley Shaw. She stopped in the midst of pulling on a glove and wet her lips. Of course it was not the desire to avoid him that made her almost dread seeing him again. Why should she avoid him? His bold green eyes held no power over her, nor his broad shoulders and splendid form the means to impress one who had seen the very finest the
ton
had to offer.

Yet during the interview, when he had gazed at her with that mocking gleam, she had briefly imagined that she knew what he was thinking. She had envisioned herself naked, open to his view, near shameless as only a married woman of Society could be, reveling in his admiration, in being wanted, in sheer masculine lust. He swept her up in his arms and carried her away to the stables, to a bed of clean straw. She watched him undress, removing the plain laborer's clothing as if it were the work of Bond Street's finest tailor, and felt her heart pound with a lust that matched his own.

All that had flashed in her mind in the sitting room while he told her of his many "talents." For years she'd pretended to be exactly what the
ton
judged her: an exciting, audacious woman who skirted the outermost edges of propriety with devil-may-care abandon. Yet never had she been so tempted to scorn the rules as she was now: to accept as lover a total stranger, a man of no rank who dared to cast his eyes above his station.

Spencer had taken her like a beast in rut on their wedding night. Why should she want more of the same?

Because she had known something better, once upon a time.
Because she knew it would be better with Hartley Shaw.

Her servant.

If she had lost a great love with Spencer's death, this mourning might have seemed more real.
If they had shared more than a name.
If she had truly drowned her loneliness in Society's pleasures, as everyone believed… as she wished to drown it now.

She closed her eyes and leaned heavily against the chipped Queen Anne dressing table. It was to banish such thoughts that she had been so determined to ride out on this winter's day. Perhaps the bleakness of the countryside would remind her that her mourning was far from over.

She tossed back her head and laughed. Self-pity was dull and frightfully odious.
Not at all the thing.

And she had Donal.

She looked in on him before she went downstairs.
Nancy scrambled up from the floor as
Eden entered the small room they had set aside for the temporary nursery. The maid's face was screwed into an expression of vexation and bewilderment.

"My lady," she said, bobbing a curtsy. She cast a nervous glance toward the window. Donal was perched on a wobbly chair pushed up against the wall, nose and hands pressed to the glass.

"Is something wrong,
Nancy?"
Eden asked.

"No, my lady."
Nancy wiped her hands on her apron and hunched her shoulders. "We
was
playing right along, my lady, when he just stopped. He pulled the chair to the window, and just keeps staring out—won't listen to me, my lady." The maid bit her lip. "I'm sorry, my lady."

"It's all right,
Nancy."
Eden stared at Donal's rigid little back. He reminded her of nothing so much as a caged animal dreaming of freedom. She could not bear to see him so.

"He needs fresh air," she said. "I will take him out."

"Thank you, my lady."
Nancy curtsied again and began to gather up the few toys
Eden had located in a battered chest in the attic.

"Donal,"
Eden said, moving up behind him. "Would you like to go for a ride?"

He turned about so fast that she feared he would fall.
"A ride?
On a horse?"

She had no pony suitable for a child of his age—another lack she must remedy. They would have to take the estate's old four-wheeled dog cart, which Mrs. Byrne had assured her was still in working order, used as it was for twice-monthly visits to Ambleside, when weather permitted, and sometimes to the curate's or the smithy.

It would certainly be put to the test now.
Eden hoped that she was up to driving it over the rutted, muddy roads.

The other challenge was taking Donal down to the stables and changing her previous instructions.

She tugged at the sleeves of her riding gloves. "
Nancy, I shall be gone for an hour or two."

"Shall I dress Master Donal?"

"Thank you. I shall do it myself."
Eden picked Donal up and carried him to her room, where his few clothes were kept. His former guardians—she would not call them parents—hadn't seen fit to send him with much in the way of necessities. The tiny
village
of
Birkdale
surely had a woman capable of sewing up a child's clothes, but Donal required the kind of wardrobe that could only be found in a larger town such as Ambleside.
Another journey to be made.

Unlike most boys his age, Donal was amazingly well behaved as she dressed him and bundled him up in his jacket. He looked a perfect ragamuffin, but she could not have loved him more.

Do you love me, my son
?
she
longed to ask. But she dared not. How could she expect so much after less than a day? It was miracle enough that he'd accepted her nearly upon their first meeting.

But he looked directly into her eyes, and his own held such an expression of trust that she felt dizzy with gratitude. She hugged him, not too close, and took his hand. His fingers curled about hers. She sighed with sheer happiness.

Juno waited, saddled and ready, in front of the house, but her new employee was not in attendance. She pressed her lips together, suspecting some subtle, fresh impertinence.

Donal released her hand and walked up to the mare's head, stroking her velvet nose. She lipped at his fingers. Before
Eden could suggest that they take Juno back to the stables, he had already turned down the drive, marching off to the rear of the house with Juno trailing at his heels like an obedient dog.

Eden
laughed. Was every child so full of surprises, or was Donal simply different? She sobered immediately, remembering his reckless unconcern in facing Atlas. All the time she had been rushing about Society like a madwoman, Donal had been alone. She knew he had been alone, left to make his own way in learning about the world. Someone must teach him the difference between friendly beasts and dangerous ones.

Shaw could teach him.

Trust Donal with a stranger? Yet Shaw had virtually saved Donal's life, and the boy had taken to him quickly. Donal needed a man to look up to—

What he
needed
was a father.
A father—a man to fill a father's role—of blood and rank.
Donal could never learn the ways of Society, or of his true place in it, from a servant.

Eden
found herself at the stables with no memory of the walk. Donal was perched atop Juno, balanced on
Eden's sidesaddle, while Hartley Shaw held him in place with a firm hand. The boy was smiling as he so seldom did, delighted with his position above the rest of the world. Shaw smiled as well, with what
Eden judged was genuine warmth.