Page 4

He drew closer, giving me ample opportunity to study him. Towering over me on a horse the color of midnight, the man assessed my bedraggled form from head to toe. His gaze dropped to the ground where my unfortunate picture lay. When he raised his head, his eyes narrowed.

“Your paper?”

“Yes, it is. I believe your horse is about to crush my drawing. Would you be so kind to remove yourself so I may retrieve it?”

I met his bold gaze with one of my own. His clothes, though marred with mud, were serviceable rather than stylish, from the Hessian boots to the buckskin breeches clinging to his legs.

A simple knotted cravat and fitted coat hinted at something finer, and his clean-shaven jaw, though as dimpled as the satyr’s, clenched and unclenched.

Flinty eyes, almost black within the gathering darkness, stared at me.

He was younger than I first surmised, and upon closer inspection, I recognized the military cut of the coat.

Pain stabbed in my chest when I noticed the brass buttons.

But this man was nothing like Daniel with his round cheeks and gap-toothed grin.

Without a word, the stranger dismounted.

He snatched up the damp sketch of Bacchus and limped toward me.

Of course, as fate would have it, the soggy paper chose that moment to unfurl into its full glory, providing a glimpse of the smirking god.

The stranger glanced at it, one black eyebrow arching in question.

“Interesting. An acquaintance of yours?”

“That is not your concern,” I responded coolly, my frustration at odds with his limp. Had he sustained a recent injury? The frostiness of his tone drowned out any sense of pity.

Clearing his throat, the man offered me the paper, and I was careful not to wrinkle it as I took it.

I did not care to explain the drawing or the mosaic within the field.

Nor could I help noticing how his greatcoat emphasized the stranger’s broad shoulders.

He appeared equally intimidating on the ground without the benefit of his mount.

A gentleman, perhaps—judging from the cut of his clothes—but not a dandy.

He tilted his head, indicating the lane ahead. “How much farther on this cursed road until I reach Hawthorn Abbey?”

“You have less than a mile to traverse, sir. There are holes ahead and should your horse stumble into one—” I let my warning slide into the space between us.

The horse snorted as if in agreement. Curiosity made me want to ask who the man was and why he felt the need to travel so recklessly. Instead, I bit the inside of my cheek.

“Is nothing tended here in this godforsaken place?” His icy gaze dropped to my stained gown, his censure clear, as if the careless state of my dress extended to the state of the roads.

I flinched at his disdain despite my best effort to appear calm. “The farmers of Bramnor work hard and contribute their share to the turnpike trust.” Unfortunately, with the rising costs of farming, the fund reserved for roads and bridges had shrunk in recent years.

“Clearly their efforts are not enough.”

Ire bubbled up at his caustic response. “It is also the responsibility of the lord to tend to his community’s needs.

And since Lord Hawthorn passed away two and a half months ago, we have yet to meet his heir.

One can only hope he will be an improvement, though I don’t hold to it considering previous experience with the Hawthorn family. ”

A harsh laugh—a bark, really—exploded from the stranger. He tipped his beaver hat up to better view my face. “Your opinion is duly noted. Pray, just who might you be, other than a woodland sprite sent to misguide my way?”

I wasn’t in the habit of handing out my name to strangers, and I had no intention of doing so this evening. “I must bid you good evening if you are to arrive at Hawthorn Abbey at a decent hour.” I edged closer to the field. He was boorish and demanding—all qualities I disliked in a man.

“The hour certainly isn’t decent for a miss to walk the roads alone.

” The stranger pursed his lips as he mounted his horse.

With a grimace, he settled into the saddle.

Once astride, he pulled on the reins and turned his horse as if to accompany me.

Was he concerned as a gentleman or curious in a predatory sort of way?

“It’s not a long walk. My father waits for me.” With my art trapped beneath my left arm, I retrieved my bonnet. Unfortunately, my hair, though still pinned, remained uncovered, with loose strands playing about my face.

“Your father! What kind of man lets his daughter roam the countryside alone at night?” His faint mockery made me bristle.

I tugged the bonnet onto my head with a violence that surprised me. How could I hide my identity? He would soon know my name if he spent any time in Bramnor.

“Good night, sir,” I replied firmly as I resumed my walk home.

A few of my brushes lay hidden within the long grass, but I would rather suffer three enormous bottles of cod-liver oil than scrounge on the ground for my precious tools in front of him.

I would return to search for the lost brushes tomorrow morning.

He didn’t follow, and before long, I heard the rhythmic pounding of hooves once more before they faded into the distance. My pulse, however, didn’t slow with his disappearance. Instead, it raced through my veins until my heart rattled.

I was sick with dread that I had just met the new Lord of Hawthorn Abbey.