The Husband Hunt (2 page)

Wendell rubbed his face to hide a smile. Arabella Minton was the local heiress to whom Knight had been unofficially betrothed since childhood. Everyone knew Knight could have done better in his choice of a bride, but he'd never seemed inclined to look. Arabella knew him in all his moods and did not appear to be the type of woman who, as a wife, would make excessive demands.

As it turned out, Arabella no longer appeared to be his type at all. While Knight was risking his life in the Peninsular campaigns, Arabella had shocked her friends and family by marrying a Devon baron and businessman named Anton Rathbone. No one was surprised at her lack of loyalty to her childhood sweetheart. Arabella was not exactly well liked in West Briarcombe. But Anton, in terms of height, was half the man Knight was and sported twice his girth, which left many people scratching their heads in surprise that she had chosen the rotund Rathbone as her husband.

Wendell pulled a straight face, winking at Olivia. "I know for a fact that Knight's feelings for her are dead. Burned to a crisp." He glanced at his friend, his wicked grin creeping back. "Ashes of Arabella."

Olivia hesitated before indulging in an uncharacteristic moment of spite. "The Annoying Arabella."

"Excuse me." His handsome face revealing no emotion whatsoever, Knight plucked the brandy decanter from Wendell's hands before his friend could pour another drink. "It is past midnight, time for all badly behaved dukes to be in bed, and my personal life is not open to discussion."

"It still grieves him to talk of her," Olivia said, giving her brother a sympathetic look.

Melvin grunted. "He's—"

The sharp report of a pistol outside the house brought an abrupt end to the conversation. Olivia pulled away from the startled squire, her shawl fluttering to the carpet. Wendell rushed up to the window behind Knight and pushed her out of the way, shielding her with his body.

"Now, that," Knight said quietly, "is a very talented badger indeed."

Catriona settled down
in the shrubbery and watched Thomas dart across the lawn, a barrel-chested figure in tattered tartan. She knew it stung his pride to bring her here to England. He resented asking anything of the Sassenachs who had robbed his family of dignity and fortune, but as he himself had admitted:"Yer half brother is drinkin' himself to death and liable to hurt ye in his bad spells. Yer Uncle Diarmid is gone, and these people, English or no, are yer kin, albeit indirectly. They're yer own, Cat. They'll take care of ye. I'm too old to serve ye much longer."

She fumbled on the ground for her portmanteau, spilling its contents in the dirt. A miniature hand-mirror glinted in the moonlight, and she picked it up, recoiling at her silvery reflection.

She had never envisioned making her social debut on English soil looking like such a guttersnipe. But then nothing in her life had ever followed a proper path. She was illegitimate to begin with, a come-by-chance child. Her noble father had died without ever acknowledging her, and she had inherited her hardworking mother's gift, or curse, of prophecy, which tended to make her even more of an outcast.

Not that her gift did her much good. It never came to her when she needed it, such as now when she was anxious to know how her English relatives would receive her. Foretelling the future wasn't a talent a young woman could brag of to attract a beau. In fact, it frightened all but her closest friends away.

"You, Catriona Beatrice Grant," she informed the unsmiling face in the mirror, "are an anomaly of nature, and you look like hell. I wouldn't let you into my fine Rutleigh mansion. I wouldn't even put you in my privy."

She reached down in the dirt for her brush, noticing that there wasn't a single weed in the manicured flower beds. Not one dandelion dared to show its sunny head, which, along with the ring around the moon, Catriona regarded as a portent of bad things to come. If the people who lived on this estate were that particular about their garden, they would certainly not appreciate the more unconventional aspects of her past.

Suddenly, a man appeared on the front lawn with a musket. Had Thomas given the signal? she wondered in horror. Had he been taken hostage by English aristocrats while she stared at her disreputable self in the mirror?

The shrubbery that concealed her parted, and she slowly raised her head, staring up into a musket barrel. "Please don't shoot me," she said in the calmest voice she could manage. "I know my appearance is rather unexpected, but I am Sir Lionel's long-lost cousin from Scotland. We had planned to go to his estate first, but then we learned of his passing, and that I could find her ladyship here. The dogs frightened me, you see, and that was why I deemed it prudent to wait."

She fired the pistol straight into the air to summon Thomas. A few seconds later, he pushed through the bushes to frown at her. "Put down that weapon," he said in an undertone. "The old gardener has only come to help me bring up yer things."

Catriona stared in concern at the elderly man who had stumbled back in the shrubbery, blinking in disbelief. "Well, it's a good thing neither of us shot the other." She frowned at Thomas. "You never gave me the signal."

"Aye, I did. Ye were off in that other world, no doubt, or frettin' with yer damn hair."

She rose to her feet, whispering as she did, "What did you tell them about me?"

Thomas positioned himself in front of her like a bodyguard. His voice was a low growl in her ear. "Not everything. Just enough to ease yer entree, lass."

"They're going to find out sooner or later," she said worriedly. "You know James will trace me here, if he hasn't already. I could swear we were being followed in Carlisle."

"Perhaps."

"I do not wish to deceive my new relations."

"Just leave everything to me, lass. I got you here sale and sound, did I not?"

"That remains to be seen," she said, staring past him.

Her attention had been diverted by the black-haired man in evening dress who strode with authority across the lawn. There was arrogance in the set of his broad shoulders, and even though she could not yet see his face, she imagined it to be a study in the unyielding Sassenach nature, a lord who lived to conquer and crush anyone who dared to cross his path. As she had done.

"What the devil has happened here?" he demanded.

She shivered in reaction to the imperious depth of his voice, which he had scarcely raised for effect. It was restrained and wonderful, low-pitched and full of power, like thunder breaking above the moor. Even Thomas seemed to stand in awe.

The gardener said, "It was all a misunderstanding, my lord. No harm done."

"Misunderstanding?" The owner of the impressive voice glanced at Catriona, his tone registering frank suspicion. "I thought you had caught the housebreakers. Did I or did I not hear a shot?"

He had reached her now. He was tall enough that she had to step back to examine his face, and even then she could not decide exactly what lay beneath the composition of shadows and chiseled angles. Perhaps she was better off not knowing. His eyes were iron-gray, cool as mist; the only hint of softness in his features was his wide, sensual mouth, and even that was overpowered by the harsh symmetry of his bone structure.

"Well," he said, circling the silent group with his hands clasped behind his back. "Have we all been struck dumb by lightning? Is anyone going to answer me?"

No one spoke.

Catriona studied Thomas from the corner of her eye, but he, too, seemed to have turned to stone. "It was I," she said at last, her voice insubstantial in the silence. "I shot into the air to summon my servant."

"You—and
who
are
you?"
He turned on his heel to regard her.

Their eyes locked, and for a moment she felt tempted to throw herself at his mercy and tell him the truth. But there wasn't a trace of understanding that she could discern in his unyielding gray eyes, and she was spared the humiliation of such a melodramatic gesture by Thomas, who had finally gathered his wits.

"Look at her carefully, my lord. Do ye no see a resemblance?"

The man stared at her until color mounted in her cheeks.

Her hair was tawny red, abundantly thick and curly, a perfect foil for those soft golden-green eyes and finely drawn features. She smelled faintly of—it was a nice smell, actually—herbs and flowers and earthy things. Her clothes certainly weren't impressive—a blue woolen dress beneath some sort of purple-gray plaid that women probably wore in the north. He might have labeled her an attractive female had she not gazed back at him with that challenging stare that brought out a rather beastly impulse in him to rattle her composure.

"What is the ragamuffin supposed to resemble?" he asked with a dismissive shrug. "And why are there armed intruders in my garden?"

Catriona glanced at the gardener, expecting him to explain exactly what had happened, but he merely hung his head in silence, clearly intimidated by his master's wrath.

"I think that this is a matter for her ladyship's ears alone," Thomas said cryptically.

The man blinked in amazement. "Are you referring to
my
sister?"

"Aye, my lord. Lady Deering, that's who we've come to see."

"Whom," Catriona whispered, nudging him in the side.

Thomas looked blank. "What?"

"Whom
we've come to see."

"Mercy," he said with a shrug of impatience. "Does it matter?"

The viscount snorted. "I'm not taking either of you anywhere near her ladyship. Besides, you've come too late. The gypsies were here last summer with their lurid claims that they could contact her ladyship's late husband."

Catriona ground her teeth, tempted to inform him that
she
had never had dealings with the netherworld, and she wasn't a gypsy, either. But he didn't look as though he would listen; he was more concerned with protecting his sister, which only made Catriona think of her own miserable half-brother James, who did not give a fig anymore whether anyone lived or died, including himself, and how it was because of him that she was there, standing before a man who made her feel entirely unwelcome.

"Let's go, Thomas," she said, lifting her portmanteau with a weary sigh. "It was a bad idea to come without writing first."

The old man looked at her in bewilderment. "We canna go. We've nowhere to go." He glanced up into the viscount's forbidding face. "Ye canna turn her away."

"Of course I can," Knight said without emotion, and then he glanced at the three servants who were witnessing this unexpected drama. Or, rather, he glanced at two of them; Howard, the young footman, was halfway to the house, presumably to fetch reinforcements for this minor dilemma.

"In that case," Catriona said hesitantly, "you should give this to Lady Deering. It belonged to her husband. He said it would bring me luck. It hasn't."

Knight stood in silence as she removed a brown silk pouch from her cloak. Inside the bag was a heavy gold ring twisted into a knot.

"Take it, and tell her that I'm sorry he died. He was kind to me. I wish I'd known him better."

He raised his gaze to hers, unprepared for the impact of those intelligent eyes in a face that was more piquant than pretty. "Where did you get this?" he demanded, taking it from her hand.

"Lionel gave it to me as a keepsake. He was going off to war."

"Lionel?" He stepped toward her, forcing Thomas off to the side. "I was not aware that he had any truck with the gypsies."

She drew a breath. "And I wasn't aware he had such a difficult brother-in-law." She was painfully earnest as she stood there, setting him down in one breath, asking for hospitality in another. "If I had, I wouldn't have come."

"Tis her ladyship ye want," the older man reminded her.

Knight glanced down at the ring. He could not remember the exact conversation, but to his regret he
did
recall Lionel mentioning his Scottish blood, the "uncouth" side of the family, and how amusing and endearingly barbaric he'd found their behavior. But this puffball of a female and her shrunken husk of a protector in their fusty plaids, well, it was too much. What was he supposed to do with them? Send them on their way, of course. He was under no obligation to do otherwise.

Except that she had Lionel's eyes, those gentle, knowing, mischievous eyes that Knight could never forget and missed more than he could admit.

"How did you come by the ring?" he asked, his voice expressionless.

"He gave it to me for healing his knee. He said I could use the ring as part of my marriage portion."

"He was my closest friend," Knight said in a clipped voice. "I never heard him mention your name."

"I never heard him mention yours, either," she said indignantly. "And I was his cousin."

"A fact that remains to be proved," he said.

She frowned. "Excuse me?"

He frowned back at her. "The usual manner for a social introduction in these parts is to knock at the door."

She lifted her brow. "And how does one, in these parts, reach the door when one is beset by attack dogs?"

His eyes glittered. "One usually does not pay a social call this late at night."

"What has happened, Knight?" a woman inquired softly behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder in annoyance, slipping the ring into his pocket. Howard had brought reinforcements, all right, but not for Knight's side. Olivia and Wendell had arrived to investigate the disturbance; they had obviously been informed that their lives were not in any imminent danger.

"Go back into the house, Olivia," he said, returning his attention to the strange pair who had invaded his privacy. "I am handling this matter."

"And not very well, either," he thought he heard the young Scotswoman murmur.

Olivia and Wendell began to angle for a position around him, making a game of it. Irritated by their interference, Knight planted his legs apart to block their way. It didn't deter them for a second. The two of them were incorrigible together, like a pair of children. Sometimes he thought he was the only person in the house who possessed any common sense whatsoever.

"Howard thought our visitors had something to do with Lionel," Olivia said, pausing to draw a breath. She was shivering in her thin silk gown until Wendell gallantly pulled off his jacket to cover her.

"They are not visitors," Knight said succinctly. "They're, well, I don't quite know who they are, or what they want."

Wendell was eyeing the old Scots servant with amused curiosity before his interest turned to the woman. Knight could almost feel his friend's male instincts go on the alert. What, he wondered, did Wendell see beneath that unattractive woolen cloak? Perhaps he needed to take a closer look.

"They hardly look intimidating, Knight," Wendell said under his breath.

Olivia was staring at the young woman's face as if making some sort of connection. "Who are you?" she asked, sounding half wistful, half afraid. And then, as an afterthought, she added politely, "Have we met?"

Catriona bit her lip. "Are you Lady Deering?"

Olivia nodded, throwing a puzzled look at Knight, who merely lifted his broad shoulders in a shrug. "Yes, but who—"

"I am Catriona Beatrice Grant, Lionel's cousin, ma'am. His uncle was the Earl of Roxshire, my father."

"The Earl of Roxshire."

Olivia looked so utterly blank that Knight dared allow himself hope that this entire long-lost relations nonsense would die stillborn before it could go any further.

"There," he said, with such profound satisfaction that everyone glanced around to stare at him. "I thought that they were imposters, carrion trying to feed off the grief of others."

Then Olivia's face broke into a radiant smile—the first genuine smile Knight had seen her give since he came home from battle. "The Earl of Roxshire? From the Borders?"

Catriona's slight shoulders fell in a sigh of relief. "Oh, aye. The same one. Your brother has the ring that Lionel gave me."

"And you are Lionel's Scottish cousin, the moor-ling he mentioned?" Olivia said in wonder.

Wendell regarded her in friendly delight. "She is family, Olivia. Roxshire's daughter. Isn't that a happy surprise?"