horses for you,’ Adam said. ‘Your mare’s had a fright. It was perhaps a little unwise of you to ride up here. Don’t you know there are quarry workings nearby?’
‘How can one ignore the hateful things?’ she shuddered. ‘Always so busy. So noisy.’
‘Particularly at the moment, yes. But they provide work and wages for many men, and food for their families.’
She stared up at him as if he talked a foreign language, then said, ‘Excuse me. You’re in my way.’
He did not budge. ‘Quarries are no place for sightseers,’ he pointed out. ‘I’m trying, incidentally, to find out exactly what you’re doing up here.’
He saw her tip-tilted nose wrinkle a little at his open-necked shirt and the dust on his boots. The old, familiar bitterness surged in his veins. So. Some lordling’s wife, to judge by her mount and her attire, and the wedding band on her finger. She was the kind of woman who would look down on him—until someone enlightened her as to who he was.
He was damned if he was going to be the one to tell her.
She darted sideways to pick up her crimson hat then went marching off towards her horse again, clearly wanting no more conversation with a man she’d dismissed as a labourer. Something clenched warningly in Adam’s gut as he absorbed the way she carried herself. Noted the way her pert little behind swayed under that luxurious fabric.
He called after her, ‘Didn’t you come up here with a companion or a groom?’
She swung round, her face still pale. ‘I like riding alone. I like being alone.’ She carried on stubbornly towards her mare, holding her hat with one hand and the red velvet skirt of her habit in the other. He couldn’t help but notice small, neatly turned ankles in little leather halfboots.
Her dappled mare had trotted off again, away from her. Goliath watched, interested, and Adam called his big horse over. ‘Here! Goliath!’
Goliath came and the little mare did, too; Adam caught the mare’s reins and stroked its dappled silken neck. The woman walked back to him reluctantly.
‘I’ll help you up if you like,’ Adam offered. ‘Then I suggest you get off this private land before dusk falls. You could break your neck riding home once the light starts fading.’
‘Private!’ she breathed. ‘Why, Mr Davenant has no more right to this land than—’ she swept her ungloved hand expressively ‘—than those black crows circling above the trees!’
A sudden cool breeze chilled the perspiration on his back. He said, ‘I believe Mr Davenant bought this land a year ago, quite legally.’
She tossed her head. ‘Money will buy anything, and anybody. And—legally? Some would think otherwise.’
Hell! This time Adam felt the heat surging through his blood. If she’d been a man he’d have floored her for that!
But she was a woman all right. Her face was piquant even in defiance, her body all slender curves …
Damn it. This was no time to be distracted. Adam said, ‘Are you querying his right to this land?’
She faced him coolly. ‘I assume you probably work for him, so I’ll limit my words. I’ve not met Mr Davenant, but I’ve heard enough to know that he was not born to wealth and it shows.’
Adam hissed out a breath. ‘Tell me. As a matter of interest, if you did chance to meet Mr Davenant, would you use those words to his face?’
She shrugged her shoulders, but he noticed she’d gone a little paler. ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘He is no friend to my family. What else have I to lose?’
The sun passed behind a cloud; the moorland grasses shivered. ‘You’ve clearly not lost your pride, ma’am,’ Adam said at last. ‘May I escort you on your way?’
‘I know my way very well, I assure you!’
He clenched his teeth and said with icy politeness, ‘Then will you—condescend to let me help you mount your horse? Or are we going to stand here till the sun goes down?’
She hesitated. ‘My thanks.’
His mouth pressed in a thin line, he put his big hands round her waist and lifted her easily into her saddle. Then he went to check her mare’s bridle—and give himself time to cool down.
She was feather-light. She was icy with damned arrogance. She’d set his pulse racing with rage—and a flicker of something else even more dangerous.
He looked up at her and patted her dappled mare’s neck. ‘All set,’ he said flatly. ‘You’d best be off.’
She nodded her head in curt thanks, then without a backward glance she rode swiftly and competently down the path.
Adam Davenant shrugged on his coat and watched her go, his gaze narrowed.
How her pretty green eyes had glittered with contempt when she spoke his name. Mr Davenant has no more right to this land than those black crows circling above the trees.
She hadn’t recognised him. But one thing was very clear—she hated Adam Davenant like poison. He’d already guessed who she was. If his guess was correct, she had a brother who was heading for big, big trouble. With him.
Chapter Two
London—two months later
Belle Marchmain rather distractedly picked up a length of pink ribbon from the display on the counter, then put it down again in the wrong place. Apprehension shadowed her dark-lashed green eyes as she said at last, ‘I’m sincerely hoping this is some foolish jest of yours, Edward.’
Outside in the Strand the May dusk was starting to fall and lamplighters with clanking ladders were hurrying about their business. Normally Belle relished this time of quiet after a busy day. Once her shop’s doors were locked she would wander possessively amongst the bright lengths of silk and taffeta, herself resplendent in one of the boldly extravagant costumes that were fast making her one of the most talked-about modistes in London.
But just now, her current attire—a striped jacket of black and green over a matching taffeta skirt, with green satin ribbons adorning her luxuriant black curls—seemed ridiculously flippant. Futile, in fact, in the face of approaching disaster.
Belle was twenty-seven years old and had learnt to cope with much in her life. The humiliation in slow, steady steps of her once-proud family. The death of her husband five years ago. But now sheer, blind panic threatened to close in.
It had been no surprise to see her brother, of course, at her glass-paned door, ringing the bell impatiently. She’d known he was in London for two weeks, staying at Grillon’s Hotel in Albemarle Street—’catching up on business and old friends,’ Edward had told her blithely when he called on her a few days ago.
He’d certainly been spending money. Grillon’s was expensive and so were the new clothes he was sporting: new boots, a new silk waistcoat, a new coat of blue superfine and smart yellow
