Page 26

T hat evening was to prove one of the most frustrating of Piers’s life. The night, however, turned out to be far more fruitful.

He’d kept out of the way while Belinda was fussed over and scolded before being carried upstairs by a hefty gentleman by the name of Silas.

After that, everybody useful was either upstairs or busy, and it was a drearily long wait for someone to take his request for a room for himself and stabling for the pony.

A rosy-cheeked country girl brought him his ale and took his order for dinner before disappearing off to prepare a chamber for him.

At least the inn wasn’t full—it wasn’t market day in nearby Tavistock and there were fewer visitors to the area at this time of year.

By early summer, there wouldn’t be a room to be had for miles.

Fresh, country air was considered beneficial to city dwellers, and Dartmoor had plenty of it—except for the mining areas with all their smoke, dust, noise, and noxious spoil heaps.

Piers’s mine, Wheal Betty, meant everything to him.

It produced galena, an ore of lead which, once refined, could be used for shot.

Extracting this mineral from the ground was one way of wreaking vengeance on the French rebels who’d murdered his family and he would continue to do so, despite Belinda’s disapproval.

The lead was sold and ultimately made its way to the shot towers at Bristol.

Thus Piers could help the government to protect Britain’s shores, as well as her interests in Europe.

Some years ago, he’d considered a commission in the Army, so he could look the French foe in the eye.

However, common sense told him that it would take just one lucky shot to remove him from the battlefield, possibly having only taken a handful of the French blackguards with him.

No—his mining activities were more useful in the long term and had the additional benefit of supplying work for the local inhabitants.

Where was that dratted innkeeper? Piers glared at the mantel clock and wondered if he was ever going to get any news of Belinda.

It had surprised him that nobody came to make a fuss of him.

He was not only her rescuer, but also the man who’d won her hand.

Unless, of course, she hadn’t told them about the betrothal. ..

Damnation! How was he to know how to behave, or what to say, if no one came into his private dining room but kitchen hands? If Belinda hadn’t kept to their agreement, he might take a false step and end up red-faced and foolish, with his pride severely dented.

He’d just pushed his chair back, determined to go on the hunt for somebody, when the serving girl returned, carrying a tray loaded with soup, a hunk of bread, and a hot pasty with vegetables.

Settling down once more, Piers resigned himself to a further wait while he sated his hunger, and hoped they’d provided some food for Belinda, too—she’d eaten very little at the parsonage, he’d noticed.

The soup was delicious—very delicate in taste for country fare. Doubtless Belinda had been sharing her culinary skills. The pasty was hearty, as he’d expected it to be, and he waited impatiently for the things to be cleared away, hoping it might be one of the Tragos who came to perform the task.

It was almost half an hour after nine when his little maid returned. By this time, he’d fretted himself into a state of indigestion, still not knowing if he was fake-engaged to Belinda Bellamy or not. Enough was enough.

“Can you ask your master or mistress to come in and speak with me? I’d gladly share a glass of whatever they prefer with them. At my expense, of course.”

The lass looked frightened. “Oh, sorry, sir, but they’ve all gone to bed.”

When he looked shocked, she added, “It’s often the way here, especially when there’s a lot of work to be done on the farms and so on.

Master and Mistress like to get up at the crack of dawn, to offer breakfasts and so on.

Maisie and me, and Silas, don’t mind staying up a bit later to close everything down for the night.

There’s a fire and hot water in your room, sir. Are you wanting anything else?”

“No, no, nothing. Actually, yes. A drop of brandy, if you have any.” He’d need something to help him sleep, not lie tossing and turning and fuming at the fact that Belinda had let him down. If that was, indeed, the case. Now he knew how Damocles must have felt with that sword hanging over him.

When the brandy came, he swilled it back quickly, then wondered if he should go and join the stragglers in the taproom. Maybe some other time—it wasn’t that he had anything against chatting with farmers or miners, but there was a lot on his mind right now.

“Shall I show you to your room, now, sir?” The serving girl, now carrying a lighted candle, stuck her head round the door.

“Thank you—if you would.”

He was led along a flagstone passageway and up a set of narrow stairs to a dark corridor with several doors leading off it. As the maid opened the door to his chamber, he asked, “Do you know if Miss Bellamy has retired yet?”

“Do you mean Mrs. Coyle, as was?”

He nodded. Fortunately, this girl seemed untroubled by the fact that Belinda had left the place a widow and returned apparently unmarried. But this was Devon, not London. Country people were, perhaps, more tolerant of relationship anomalies.

The girl peered at the door next to his. “I can’t see a light in there—poor dear. She must be asleep.”

One didn’t often hear a servant refer to one of her betters as “poor dear.”

“You know Belinda well?”

“Not very. I started here just as she was leaving a couple of years ago—a sorry state she was in then. All thin and mournful and given to tantrums and tears. But she’s flourishing now—although I know it’s not my place to say.

She’s that lovely—is kind to everyone, has taught Maisie a cartload of new dishes to make and improved on the old ones, and even that cur Ordulf likes her, and he’s a bit of a funny one with most people.

Sorry, sir. I’m rattling on like a bird-scarer at cockcrow. ”

He gave her his most charming smile, followed by a sixpence and laughed softly to himself when she flushed as red as a pickled beetroot and scurried away.

Then he entered his room, stoked up the embers in the hearth, and divested himself of jacket, cravat, and shoes before sinking onto the embroidered woolen counterpane of the bed.

Clearly, the maid knew nothing of his purported engagement to Belinda, or she would have said something, wouldn’t she?

Curse Miss Belinda Bellamy! Why did she have to trample on all his schemes?

She was a loose cannon, a keg of gunpowder that would explode from the tiniest spark, a contorted muddle of foolish miss and compassionate, delectable woman. Ugh!

He ran a finger around the inside of his collar, then popped it undone, and sat on the end of the bed, resting his chin in his hands as he watched the leaping flames in the fireplace.

Belinda Bellamy. Just a wall separated the two of them—for all he knew, their heads would be only inches apart when they slept.

But how could he sleep? His mind was buzzing like a hive, struggling to resolve the problem of Belinda, battling to decide what to do next about Charlotte.

Although—she had him at a disadvantage and he couldn’t act until she made her next move.

Which just left his maybe-or-maybe-not fake engagement to Belinda.

Suddenly, he was on his feet, decision made. He lit himself a candle and slipped out into the corridor. Glancing around to ensure there were no watchers, he tried Belinda’s door, found it unlocked, and let himself in. Good.

Her fire still burned in the hearth, and he could see a gleam of light coming from between the hangings that curtained the old-fashioned bed.

“Belinda—I need to talk to you.” He kept his voice soft, unthreatening, and waited, heart pounding.

The curtain was whisked aside, and Belinda, attired in matronly nightgown and cap, glared at him.

“How dare you! Don’t you even knock?” Her eyes raked his person, and her cheeks pinked. Ah. He’d forgotten he’d already started undressing. Praying she wasn’t about to scream the house down, he pulled out his handkerchief and waved it, hoping to amuse her.

“I come in peace.”

“You shouldn’t have come at all,” she snapped back at him. At least she wasn’t screaming or throwing anything. So far, so good.

“I sincerely just want to talk. But it’s chilly out here—can I join you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ll perch on the edge on the other side, on top of the bedclothes. No harm in that, is there?”

“Only if you stay there.”

“I trust you’re keeping that ankle well rested.” He settled on the other side of the bed, and saw that she’d been reading, holding the book with one hand and her candlestick with the other.

“Shall I take that for you?” He reached for the candlestick and set it on the bedside cabinet, well clear of the bed curtains.

She folded her arms. “So now I’m not allowed to read and must give all my attention to you?”

It wasn’t very gentlemanly of him to invade her privacy like this, was it? But his need to have everything resolved between them had become more urgent with every passing minute.

“Surely you value your cousins enough not to want to burn down their property?” he inquired, then wondered why his voice had a catch in it. The removal of the candle had created an intimate darkness in the bed which began to blur the boundaries between what was proper and what was not.

Belinda shifted and the bedclothes rustled softly as she drew them up to her chin, ready to hear him out.

Only—he’d forgotten what he’d wanted to say.

All he could think about was the fact that he was sharing a bed with a shapely blonde of whom he was becoming rather fond.

His body was not thinking in the same direction as his mind.