Page 8 of The Passionate One (McClairen’s Isle #1)

“I miss London terribly,” drawled Edward St. John. “I don’t doubt I shall go back for the season. A year seems a long time in the country. You’ve had a season, Phillip. Cut quite a swathe, I believe.” His manner, though mild, hid a barb.

Phillip flushed slightly and quaffed the rest of his ale. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and motioned the innkeeper’s son, Andrew, over to refill his cup. “Yes.”

Edward turned to Ash. “I’ve met your father, you know,” he said. “In fact, I spent two weeks at Wanton’s Blush a few years back. Quite a fascinating man, your father.”

They were ensconced in the only private room The Ploughman boasted. The others of their party had left. Only Phillip Watt, John Fortnum, St. John, and Ash remained.

“Isn’t he,” Ash murmured noncommittally. He was not surprised that St. John had found his way to Wanton’s Blush. He wagered incautiously and ostentatiously. A plump little pigeon like St. John would certainly have attracted Carr’s far-ranging notice.

“It made quite an end to what was a grand season.” St. John looked around to make certain that his audience was suitably impressed. When no one responded, he finished scooping the small ante from the center of the table into his pocket.

Ash stretched out his leg, mentally tallying the wealth of jewels bedecking St. John’s exquisite persimmon-colored silk jacket. It was amazing St. John had escaped Wanton’s Blush apparently unscathed. Few did.

“You were regrettably absent, however.” The little spark of malice in his eyes told Ash that St. John was well aware Ash had spent that season in a French gaol.

“I had prior commitments. Or rather, I was committed previously.”

St. John burst out laughing and Phillip frowned, disliking being excluded from the joke. Men like St. John always enjoyed excluding others. Wearily, Ash waited for St. John to relate the amusing story of his incarceration.

How would Rhiannon react when the tale reached her? Would she find it vastly diverting to know she’d nearly been throttled by a gaol rat? Or horrifying? He was curious, he told himself, no more.

He glanced up to find St. John regarding him with a bland smile. Apparently he’d decided to keep the matter their little secret. Doubtless because as men of the world they understood the humor in his having been a prisoner while these country louts could never appreciate the jest.

Not that Ash appreciated it himself. But he appreciated men like St. John. They were so easy to anticipate. Ash nodded at him, promising himself that St. John would pay for his sport … and for reminding Ash of Rhiannon when he’d almost excised her from his thoughts.

“Your father, now there’s a gaming man,” St. John went on. “Unhappily for you, you don’t seem to have inherited his luck with the cards. Happily for me, however.”

“Yes,” said Ash, “he’s a rare devil all right.” He plucked a wrinkled brown apple from the bowl at his side and began paring the soft skin with his stiletto. He was in no hurry; he had nowhere to go.

Today he’d primed the pump for his future gambling by establishing himself in the others’ eyes as a fellow with questionable skill and no great luck. When he eventually left Fair Badden, his newfound companions would shake their heads over his belated good fortune, never bothering to tally the slow but steady stream of money that had made its way into his purse. No one would be the wiser. No one would be hurt.

He had to stay focused on that, on his hidden talents, on maintaining his persona as an entertaining companion, a bon vivant who tarried amongst them for a few short weeks.

“Exactly, sir,” St. John said, “devilish.”

“How did you meet Carr?” Fortnum asked.

“I was in Scotland staying at the home of some mutual acquaintances. He was there and invited me to stay at Wanton’s Blush. How could I resist?” St. John held up his hands. “It’s magnificent. A miniature London with all its varied pleasures.”

“I didn’t like London,” Phillip Watt suddenly put in.

“Oh?” St. John asked, openly amused. “Pray tell, why?”

“Why should I go elsewhere for what I already have here?” Phillip leaned his great blond head back and beamed like some Adonis. “Fair Badden has everything I want.”

Ash glanced at him. Doubtless within five years Watt and Rhiannon would have littered the rural landscape with little golden godlings and goddesses. Ash looked away. He’d always hated mythology.

“I have fine wine to drink,” Phillip went on, winking at Ash in a friendly manner, “when the tide is right. Prime horseflesh to ride as well. Fine fellows to be my companions. And damn pretty girls.”

“To ride?” St. John snickered.

“Aye!” Watt laughed, a shade too loudly.

Ash’s wandering attention abruptly sharpened on Watt. The bloody fool would probably give Rhiannon a case of the pox on their wedding night.

“I agree with Phillip,” John Fortnum put in. “Not about the ladies.” His ears turned pink. “About the other thingies. I hear London is a dangerous place these days. Packs of young aristos roving the streets like mad dogs, assaulting good people. Damned impertinent.”

St. John shrugged. “It’s not as though violence hasn’t found its way here. Watt’s own bride-to-be was nearly killed not long ago.”

Ah, yes, Ash remembered. The shallow furrow across her cheek. Another inch and the eye socket would have shattered, the clear hazel green eye rendered sightless.

“They never apprehended the man who did it?” he asked.

“No. He hasn’t been caught,” Phillip answered tersely.

“Shouldn’t wonder that he will be soon,” Fortnum said. “Stupid bugger.”

“How so?” Ash asked.

“Well, look at who he picked to rob.” Fortnum’s face was alive with disgust. “An open carriage carrying two ladies on a fine afternoon. What did he hope to get? Tiaras?”

“I thought Mrs. Fraiser was well-to-do,” Ash said.

“Aye,” Fortnum answered, “she is. But she wouldn’t be sporting what finery she owns in the afternoon. Maybe they do so in London, but in Fair Badden we keep out glitter for candlelight.”

St. John, openly bored with the turn of conversation, picked at a hangnail.

“Perhaps he thought they carried deep purses,” Ash suggested, his thoughts whirring.

“Why would he think that?” Fortnum asked. “Simple carriage. Unescorted ladies. What raises my hackles is that even after the driver whipped up the horses, the bastard shot at the ladies. He needn’t have done that.”

Ash allowed that he had a point.

“The blackguard had a mask on,” Fortnum continued. “He wasn’t going to be identified. If me and my dad hadn’t been on the road and heard the pistol shot …” He trailed off, shaking his head.

Incredibly it sounded as if the carriage carrying Rhiannon and Mrs. Fraiser had been specifically targeted. Ash frowned.

He sighed gustily, as though the ways of evil men were beyond the ken of his civilized understanding, and rose from the table. Casually he collected his jacket and depleted purse. But as he took his leave of the others, he was already composing a letter to Thomas Donne.

Scottish expatriate, enormously wealthy, suave and perennially bored, Donne had little allegiance to anyone or anything. But he did have a supreme desire to find ways to fritter away the hours. He just might consider the challenge of finding out what he could about a Highland orphan interesting enough to accept.

The afternoon sun glanced off the whitewashed wall of the Fraiser’s manor, warming the garden. On the grassy path separating vegetables from herbs, Rhiannon sat rolling Stella’s silky ear between her fingers.

The young bitch yawned hugely, displaying large white fangs and a long, curling pink tongue. Then, grumbling, she stretched her great gangly body across Rhiannon’s lap, moaned in contentment, and fell asleep once more. Rhiannon smiled. So fierce a bloodline this hound had, yet so tamed by simple kindness.

Like Ash Merrick.

For a moment, earlier that day, when she’d struggled beneath him, she’d been truly afraid. Yet when she’d called to him and touched his face he’d shivered, shivered. She wondered when last he’d been touched without violence or threat of pain.

Which was absurd. He was a London gentleman and a very handsome one at that. Many women must have explored the texture of his glossy black hair and caressed his lean, beard-shadowed cheeks. Yet, where had those scars on his wrists come from? How to account for them?

Disconcerted by her thoughts, Rhiannon fondled Stella’s other ear. The truth was she was drawn to Ash Merrick. She should be ashamed. It smacked of disloyalty. Yet … well, what if she was?

What harm could it do? She was not so stupid as to confuse fascination for some more permanent emotion. She was simply intrigued by the discrepancies she saw in him: the glib tongue and watchful eyes; the shabby raiment and aristocratic manner; the fine-boned hands with the battered wrists and callused palms. What woman wouldn’t be interested? That didn’t mean she would be anything less than a faithful and attentive wife. When the time came.

As Phillip would be a husband. When the time came.

She knew Phillip had occasional assignations with some of the village women. That they might not have ended wasn’t surprising. Phillip was gloriously handsome and genial and generous and—

“Rhiannon! Ah, there you are. Good.” Edith Fraiser came bustling around the corner of the house, her cap fluttering in the breeze. She stopped by Rhiannon and glanced around.

“He’s not here,” Rhiannon said.

“Good,” Edith replied, nodding. And then, eyeing Rhiannon suspiciously, “Who’s not here?”

Rhiannon blinked in feigned innocence. “Who do you think is not here?”

Edith blustered. “Phillip Watt, of course. Who did you think I meant?”

“Phillip, of course,” Rhiannon replied and then ruined the virtuous response by laughing at Edith’s doubtful expression. “Dear, dear, Mrs. Fraiser, your concerns are groundless—whatever they may be.”

“You know me too well, Rhiannon Russell,” Edith declared, spreading her skirts and dropping down beside Rhiannon like a roosting hen. She looked at Stella still snoozing contentedly. “Spoil that hound, you do. ’Tisn’t natural. It’s a beast, not a baby.” A sly smile overtook the disgruntled expression on her face. “Soon enough you’ll have your own babes and yon hound will be back in the kennels where she belongs.”

“Never,” declared Rhiannon. “I’m faithful, I am. Something you might recall,” she added gently, “when misgivings send you flying from the house without your shawl.”

“Humph,” Edith said. “I see the way you circle Mr. Merrick. Like a shy colt spying an offered apple, wary but sure that the extended hand holds something sweet. Take a lesson from that colt, Rhiannon. More often than not the hand that holds out the apple is hiding the one what holds the noose.”

Rhiannon laughed. “You are wise and knowing, but your imagination is running wild. I assure you Mr. Merrick has no desire to trap me with a noose or anything else.”

Edith shook her head. “Can a girl raised in my house be so green? Must be so, for from the look in your eye I see you believe your own words. It’s not that I don’t understand the temptation of him. He’s a fair way with him and he’s rare pretty, too—when he’s dusted off.” She smoothed her skirts and released a gusty sigh. “I know you think I’m only a simple country woman and so I am—”

“No!” Rhiannon burst out. “I trust your judgment above all others. I look to you for guidance.”

Edith straightened, smiling smugly. “Then be guided here, Rhiannon. Stay away from Mr. Merrick. He’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous? Isn’t that perhaps a bit strong? He’s affable and gentle and courteous and perhaps a bit more polished than we are accustomed—”

“Are you arguing with me?” Edith stared at Rhiannon openmouthed. She could not have been more surprised if the dog had spoken. Rhiannon never contradicted her. It was not like her to dig in her heels—except in matters of hunting and Stella.

Rhiannon’s smooth brow puckered and her gaze fell in equal parts abashment and militancy. “Mayhap,” she murmured, fiercely concentrating on plucking a burr from Stella’s coat. “Forgive me.”

Edith scowled. She knew what she saw and she saw a man whose gaze went dark and hot whenever it encountered the form of her darlin’ Rhiannon. More worrisome still, whenever that same man was about, she saw a young woman not given to blushing turn the color of a red sunset.

But after hearing that tone from sweet, biddable Rhiannon, she knew that to pursue the conversation further was folly. She might be used to Rhiannon’s amenable ways, but she’d also raised a strong-willed son. She recognized the obstinate set to Rhiannon’s lips. It was only surprising that the willfulness most youngsters experienced in adolescence had in Rhiannon’s case been so long delayed.

“I have a list here of the things that need doing,” she said in a neutral voice. “It’s going to be rare busy here about. There’s the young people coming here tomorrow afternoon, and Lady Harquist insists we attend her annual ball.” Edith sighed in exasperation.

Lady Harquist’s husband had been made a baronet for his patriotism during the last Jacobite uprising. He’d never actually fought in any battle, but he’d supplied the local weavers with the free wool that was necessary to make uniforms for His Majesty’s men.

Lady Harquist—nee Betty Lund—took her new position seriously. Thus each spring Fair Badden society enjoyed its one and only ball. It was no accident that Lady Harquist had set the date for her gala just before May Day.

She wished to contrast the rough-and-rowdy country entertainment with her own sophisticated party. Fortunately, Lady Harquist never realized she alone thought that in a contest between May Day and her ball, her ball prevailed.

“Who’ll all be there?”

Edith glanced up at the innocent tones. “Everyone. Including Mr. Merrick, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Not at all!” Rhiannon’s eyes widened. “You must try to overcome these prejudices.”

“Hm.” Edith studied the girl before turning her attention back to her list. “Then there’s all the arrangements to be made for the wedding itself. Your dress isn’t even half done and—”

“Oh!”

At the sound of dismay Edith’s head shot up. Rhiannon scooted back and Stella’s head landed on the ground with an audible thump. The dog cast an aggrieved look around and promptly went back to sleep.

“Hadn’t we best make plans for the May Day first?” Rhiannon asked anxiously. “I mean, the wedding isn’t until after—”

“The day after May Day.”

“Yes. Well. Still after. There’s still much to do for Beltaine night. You promised we’d bring clover wine and we haven’t even bottled it yet.”

“There’s enough to drink on Beltaine night without our adding to the general insobriety,” Edith said virtuously.

“Mayhaps, madame.” Rhiannon smiled and Edith felt her virtuous mien slip in answer to the girl’s wheedling ways. “But would you condemn our neighbors to the aching heads and roiling bellies you know they’ll suffer if they’ve only The Ploughman’s vile bran ale with which to celebrate the eve of May Day?”

“Maybe they shouldn’t drink so much.” Edith sniffed and colored, conscious that she might have on one or two Beltaine nights imbibed a bit more than was seemly herself, but unwilling to admit it to Rhiannon.

“Ach, now, dear.” Rhiannon reached over and tickled Edith under the chin, her smile conspiratorial. “ ’Tis once a year we in Fair Badden have an excuse to play at being varlets and laggards and buffoons. The rest of the year we’re too sober by half. What’s a celebration without your good clover wine?”

The girl was right. Edith herself didn’t want to get, er, festive on The Ploughman’s rotgut ale, and intend to get festive she did.

“All right, Rhiannon,” she capitulated with a grumble. “We’ll bring the clover wine but if there were less celebrating on Beltaine night mayhap we mightn’t have so many baptisms nine months hence.”

It was true, particularly amongst Fair Badden’s younger, farming population. The old custom of young people pairing up and going off into the dark woods on Beltaine night to collect hawthorn blossoms often ended with the courting couple having an incentive to move past courting to the altar. Often that incentive was a babe.

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Rhiannon said. “I’ve been Virgin Queen of the Virgin May three years running now.”

“You just make sure you keep running this Beltaine night, girl,” Edith said severely. “At least until after your wedding.”