of the hall was an enormous fireplace with logs ablaze. A long wooden table, capable of seating a score of people, dominated the center of the room. A dozen lavish pewter candleholders bathed the room in light.
“Lord Stamford.” Pembroke’s cultured voice broke the silence.
Quenton Stamford stood in front of the fireplace, staring into the flames. At the sound of Pembroke’s voice, he turned. The hound at his feet stood and issued a warning growl.
This time Olivia could see the man much more clearly than on her earlier meetings in a dimly lit hall. A dark angeL The thought jolted. He was very tall, with wide shoulders and narrow waist. The elegantly tailored jacket couldn’t hide the ripple of muscle along his arms and shoulders. Dark hair curled over the collar of his shirt, framing a clean-shaven face that might have been handsome had it not seemed so stern. His jaw was square, with a hint of a cleft in the chin. In his hand was a silver goblet. Both his hands and face, she noted, were bronzed by the sun. From his years aboard ship, no doubt.
As always, his eyes, so dark and piercing, held her when she would have looked away.
“Miss St. John and the lad are here.”
He swung his gaze to the older man. “Thank you, Pembroke. You may tell Mistress Thornton to hold off serving until my brother joins us.”
“Aye, my lord.” Pembroke stepped discreetly from the room and closed the doors.
“Will you have some ale, Miss St. John? Or some wine?”
“No, thank you.” She wasn’t aware that she was squeezing Liat’s hand until he glanced up at her. At once she relaxed her grip. Then, annoyed that their host hadn’t even acknowledged the child, she said boldly, “Perhaps Liat would like something.”
He arched a brow. “Would you, boy? What do you drink?”
“M-milk, sir.”
“Ah yes. Of course. I shall tell Mistress Thornton.”
The door opened and the housekeeper bustled in, looking more frazzled than usual. Her dustcap was askew, ready to plop in her eye any moment. Her stained apron hung at an awkward angle, attesting to the fact that she’d been forced to deal with more than her usual duties.
Behind her walked one of the groundsmen, a village youth with a strong back and bulging muscles. In his arms he carried the lord’s frail brother.
“Ye’ll set Master Bennett here by the fire,” the housekeeper ordered.
When that was accomplished, she began directing two serving wenches in her usual shrill manner.
“Not there, you mewing miscreant. Lord Stamford sits at this end of the table.”
Olivia winced, then glanced at her host. He showed absolutely no emotion as his housekeeper continued to browbeat the servants.
“The china here. The crystal there. Not that one. His lordship prefers ale with his meal. Give me that, you pribbling flax-wench.” She sent the two servants back to the kitchen while she finished preparing the table herself. When it was finished she was sweating profusely and dabbing at her forehead with the hem of her apron.
“Ye’ll let me know when ye wish to eat, m’lord?”
“Aye, Mistress Thornton. And would you tell Cook that the lad prefers milk?”
“Milk?” She glanced at the boy, then muttered under her breath, “The lad desires milk.” In a louder tone she called, “I’ll send a servant to the cowshed at once.”
“Thank you, Mistress Thornton.”
She bowed her way out.
With the housekeeper gone, an awkward silence settled over the room and its occupants.
“Miss St. John, Liat, I understand you have already met my brother, Bennett.”
Olivia smiled. “Yes. We had hoped to share a meal together tonight in Bennett’s room. But this is much nicer, don’t you think, Bennett?”
He stared at her in stunned surprise, as though he couldn’t quite believe that she was speaking directly to him.
“I hope we’ll be friends.” She offered her hand and he had no choice but to accept her handshake. The fingers touching hers were limp and pale and trembling.
In his innocence, Liat blurted, “Why doesn’t he answer you, ma’am?”
“My brother can’t speak,” Quenton said simply.
“But I heard...” she began before Quenton cut her off with a warning look.
“He may make a few unintelligible sounds when he is asleep, but awake, he is incapable of speech. Would you care to take a seat?”
He indicated several chairs around the fireplace. Olivia perched on the edge of one. Liat climbed up to another, then settled himself back against the cushions.
Quenton was determined to be civil, if it killed him. “I’m told you lived in Oxford, Miss St. John.”
“Yes.” She felt a wave of pain that caught her by surprise. How she missed her home and her parents, and the friends she had known for a lifetime.
Quenton was watching her closely. As was his silent brother.
“Did your father teach at the university?”
She nodded, not trusting her voice. She swallowed twice before managing, “He was a professor of botany and zoology. My mother and I acted as his assistants.”
“You assisted him? In what way?”
She flushed. “In very minor ways, I assure you. He taught me the names of plants and animals. When he took me into the fields, I was expected to watch for certain species, and collect them for his students.”
“I see. And did you go into the fields often?”
“Every weekend.” Her smile bloomed. “I did so enjoy those times. I thought...if you wouldn’t mind, that is, I’d like to take Liat for walks around Blackthorne and see if he might learn the names of some of the plants and animals.”
He glanced at the lad. “Would you like that, boy?”
“I...suppose so, sir.”
“Good. Then you have my permission, Miss St. John.” His eyes narrowed. “I must insist, however, that you stay away from the cliffs.”
“The cliffs?”
Before he could respond there was a knock on the door, and the housekeeper entered, followed by her serving wenches.
“Come, Miss St. John. Liat.” Quenton signaled to the village youth, who hurried forward to carry Bennett to a seat at the table.
Olivia was left to ponder the wide range of emotions she could read in the two brothers’ eyes before they had turned away so abruptly. A brooding, simmering fury in Quenton’s. And in Bennett’s,
