old memories. The Owlets had worked at the great house for generations. It was a timely reminder that he would have to take care in the village, there were many such families who might well recognise his lanky frame. Grace Duncombe had no idea of his true identity, but she clearly thought him a rogue, set upon taking advantage of her kindly father, which was why she was housing him in this garret. That did not matter. He was here to find out the truth, but he must go carefully, one false move could cost him his life.
* * *
It was Grace’s habit to rise early, but this morning she was aware of an added urgency. There was a stranger in the garret. She was quite accustomed to taking in needy vagrants at the vicarage, giving them a good meal and a bed for the night, but Mr Peregrine disturbed her peace. She was afraid her father would invite the man to breakfast with him.
As soon as it was light Grace slipped out of bed and dressed herself, determined to make sure that if their guest appeared he would not progress further than the kitchen. When she descended to the basement she could hear the murmur of voices from the scullery and looked in to find Mrs Truscott standing over the maid as she worked at the stone sink in the corner. They stopped talking when Grace appeared in the doorway.
‘Ah, good morning, Miss Grace.’ Mrs Truscott looked a little flustered as she came forward, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘I was just getting Betty to wash out Mr—that is—the gentleman’s shirt. So dirty it was, as if he had been travelling in it for a week. We didn’t heat up the copper, not just for one shirt, Miss, oh, no, a couple of kettles was all that was needed and look—hold it up, Betty—you can see it has come up clean as anything. All it needs now is a good blow out of doors and it will be as good as new.’
‘Did Mr Peregrine ask you to do this?’ asked Grace, astounded at the nerve of the man.
‘Oh, no, Miss Grace, but I could see it needed washing, so I told Truscott to fetch it off the gentleman at first light, saying I would find him a shirt from the charity box to tide him over if need be, but he said he had another to wear today, so all we have to do now is get this one dry.’
Betty had been nodding in agreement, but she stopped, putting up her nose to sniff the air like a hound.
‘Begging your pardon, Mrs Truscott, but ain’t that the bacon I can smell?’
‘Oh, Lordy yes.’ The housekeeper snatched the wet shirt from the maid’s hands and dropped it into the basket. ‘Quick, girl, it will be burned to a crisp and then what will the master say? Oh, and there’s the bread in the oven, too!’
Grace stepped aside and the maid rushed past her.
‘Give me the shirt, Mrs Truscott, I will peg it out while you attend to Father’s breakfast.’
‘Oh, Miss Grace, if you are sure?’
‘I am perfectly capable of doing it, so off you go now.’ Smiling, she watched the housekeeper hurry back to the kitchen then, putting a handful of pegs in the basket on top of the shirt, she made her way outside. The sun was shining now and a steady breeze was blowing. Grace took a deep breath. She loved spring days like this, when there was warmth in the sun and a promise of summer to come. It was a joy to be out of doors.
A clothes line was fixed up in the kitchen gardens, which were directly behind the stable block. As she crossed the yard Grace heard the noise of the pump being worked and assumed it was Truscott fetching more water for the house, but when she turned the corner she stopped, her mouth opening in surprise to see their guest, stripped to the waist and washing himself.
Her first reaction was to run away, but it was too late for that, he had spotted her. She should not look at him, but could not drag her eyes away from the sight of his half-naked body. The buckskins covering his thighs could not have been tighter, but although he was so tall there was nothing spindly about his long legs. They were perfectly proportioned. He had the physique of an athlete, the flat stomach and lean hips placing no strain on those snugly fitting breeches, but above the narrow waist the body widened into a broad chest and muscled shoulders, still wet and glinting in the morning sun. He bent to pick up his towel, his movements lithe, the muscles rippling beneath the skin. As he straightened she noted the black beard on his cheeks and watched as he flicked the thick dark hair away from his face. Droplets of water flew off the tendrils, catching the light. Like a halo, she thought wildly. A halo for a dark angel.
‘Good morning, Miss Duncombe.’
Her throat had dried. She knew if she tried to speak it would be nothing more than a croak so instead she inclined her head, frowning in an effort not to blush. She forced her legs to move and walked on, feeling very much like one passing a strange dog and not knowing if it was going to attack. The line was only yards away from the pump and, keeping her back to him, she concentrated on pegging out his shirt. Her fingers felt stiff, awkward and her spine tingled at the thought of the man behind her. She had noticed faint scars on his body, signs that he had not lived a peaceful life.
* * *
It was very quiet, perhaps he had gone, after all he had finished washing himself and it must be cold, standing in this chill wind, naked...
‘Thank you for going to so much trouble for me.’
She jumped at the sound of his deep voice. She turned to find he was very close, towering over her. He was towelling his wet hair and with his arms raised he looked bigger and broader than ever. The skin beneath his ribcage was drawn in, accentuating his deep chest with its shadow of dark hair. What would it be like to touch him, to run her hands over his skin and feel those crisp, dark hairs curling over her fingers?
Shocked, Grace stepped back and hastily picked up the washing basket, holding it before her like a shield while she tried to gather her scattered wits. She must answer him.
‘It was nothing. We c-cannot have you going about the village like a beggar.’ She began to move backwards, as if she was afraid to turn her back on him. ‘Once you are dressed Mrs Truscott will serve you breakfast in the kitchen.’
He kept his eyes on her, his look dark, unfathomable. She felt like a wild animal, in thrall to a predator.
‘Then I had best make myself presentable.’
She swallowed.
Pull yourself together, Grace!
‘Yes. Please do. And do not take too long about it. My servants have a great deal to do today.’
From somewhere she found the strength to turn and walk away. She wanted to run, she could feel his eyes boring into her and a shiver ran the length of her spine. She had never met anyone who made her feel so ill at ease. Or so deliciously alive.
* * *
When Grace went down to the kitchen later she found their guest sitting at the table, enjoying a hearty breakfast. Mrs Truscott was also there, but Grace’s relief at finding that she was not alone with the man was tempered by the housekeeper’s behaviour. She was standing at one end of the table, watching the stranger with a look of motherly satisfaction while he addressed his plate of bacon and eggs. It was understandable, thought Grace, fair-mindedly, for the stranger had clearly made an effort to clean himself up. His hair was still damp but the dark curls were now brushed and gleaming and his lean cheeks were free of stubble, making him look much younger.
And much more attractive.
He looked up at that moment and she blushed.
‘Good
