found herself holding her breath as Lord Brandon continued. “I think I understand how your father felt. When a man has seen the sun, neither the moon nor all the stars will satisfy him.”
When she looked at him like that, with her gray eyes softened to silver and her lips curving softly, Brandon tore his wandering mind back from ruinous thoughts and clasped his hands behind his back. Fool, he warned himself, take care or you will ruin everything.
Smuggler, fop, or knave, it did not matter—the man beside her was unlike any man she had ever known. But before that thought could take hold in Cecily’s mind, Brandon was speaking again.
“Here the path ends,” he said in his old die-away drawl. “Do you see the thicket that has grown around what’s left of the groundkeeper’s cottage?’Pon my honor, Lady M. should do something about this eyesore.”
With a feeling of anticlimax, Cecily looked at the tumbledown cottage. As Lord Brandon had pointed out, the place was a hideous ruin. Not even the most desperate criminals could have used it as a meeting place. She looked beyond the mess to a thick growth of alder trees and then at the muddy ground. She could see no sign of footprints. Wherever the duke’s son had gone the night before, it was not here.
“Satisfied, Miss Verving?” Lord Brandon asked.
Suddenly she wondered why she had even bothered to investigate the woods. She did not care a rush whether Lord Brandon was a smuggler or not, and Lady Marcham could obviously take care of herself.
“Thank you, I am quite satisfied,” Cecily said stiffly.
But as she turned to retrace her steps, her foot caught a root submerged in the mud. She stumbled and would have fallen if Lord Brandon had not caught her in his arms.
For a moment black eyes met wide gray ones, and the world seemed to go very still. The insect drone around them hushed, and even the wind held its peace. Cecily tried for a bracing breath and drew in not musk but a strong, clean, virile scent that was Lord Brandon’s own. His arms held her so easily, and against her softness she felt the steady beat of his heart.
For a moment his eyes held hers, and then it was as though a shutter had come crashing down. Lord Brandon blinked, smiled, and drawled, “Warned you about that mud, didn’t I? Well, no damage done, ma’am, but we should lose no time gettin’ back to the house. Unless I miss my guess, it’s past breakfast time.”
Chapter Six
L ord Brandon watched Cecily across the breakfast table and thought for perhaps the hundredth time that he had not expected his work in Dorset to be so difficult.
He had expected danger and unforeseen problems, and though he had not calculated on Colonel Howard’s interference, he was dealing with the man in his own way. Cecily, however . . .
As if aware that he was thinking of her, she looked up, and her gray eyes were dark with suspicion. Brandon blamed himself for that. The incident at the Widow’s Rock had been unfortunate, but last night on Sir Carolus’s balcony had been sheer lunacy. And he had compounded that folly this morning. If he had not come to his senses at the last moment . . .
“More tea, dear boy?”
With difficulty Brandon pulled himself back to reality and drawled, “Indeed. Where would we be without tea? A most excellent potation in the mornin’, ’pon my honor. But you are not eatin’,Miss Verving. I hope you have not caught a chill in the woods.”
Brandon had devoured a dish of kidneys and ham, lamb chops done to a turn, and eggs served up as only the skillful Mrs. Horris could cook them. Watching him, Cecily could not help wondering if she were not mistaken about the previous night’s events. Lord Brandon seemed incapable of anything more energetic than lifting his fork.
But then she looked into her grandaunt’s smiling eyes and felt her worries return. Colonel Howard was a tyrant and a bully, and he and his Riders would eventually run the brethren of the coast to
When she looked at him like that, with her gray eyes softened to silver and her lips curving softly, Brandon tore his wandering mind back from ruinous thoughts and clasped his hands behind his back. Fool, he warned himself, take care or you will ruin everything.
Smuggler, fop, or knave, it did not matter—the man beside her was unlike any man she had ever known. But before that thought could take hold in Cecily’s mind, Brandon was speaking again.
“Here the path ends,” he said in his old die-away drawl. “Do you see the thicket that has grown around what’s left of the groundkeeper’s cottage?’Pon my honor, Lady M. should do something about this eyesore.”
With a feeling of anticlimax, Cecily looked at the tumbledown cottage. As Lord Brandon had pointed out, the place was a hideous ruin. Not even the most desperate criminals could have used it as a meeting place. She looked beyond the mess to a thick growth of alder trees and then at the muddy ground. She could see no sign of footprints. Wherever the duke’s son had gone the night before, it was not here.
“Satisfied, Miss Verving?” Lord Brandon asked.
Suddenly she wondered why she had even bothered to investigate the woods. She did not care a rush whether Lord Brandon was a smuggler or not, and Lady Marcham could obviously take care of herself.
“Thank you, I am quite satisfied,” Cecily said stiffly.
But as she turned to retrace her steps, her foot caught a root submerged in the mud. She stumbled and would have fallen if Lord Brandon had not caught her in his arms.
For a moment black eyes met wide gray ones, and the world seemed to go very still. The insect drone around them hushed, and even the wind held its peace. Cecily tried for a bracing breath and drew in not musk but a strong, clean, virile scent that was Lord Brandon’s own. His arms held her so easily, and against her softness she felt the steady beat of his heart.
For a moment his eyes held hers, and then it was as though a shutter had come crashing down. Lord Brandon blinked, smiled, and drawled, “Warned you about that mud, didn’t I? Well, no damage done, ma’am, but we should lose no time gettin’ back to the house. Unless I miss my guess, it’s past breakfast time.”
Chapter Six
L ord Brandon watched Cecily across the breakfast table and thought for perhaps the hundredth time that he had not expected his work in Dorset to be so difficult.
He had expected danger and unforeseen problems, and though he had not calculated on Colonel Howard’s interference, he was dealing with the man in his own way. Cecily, however . . .
As if aware that he was thinking of her, she looked up, and her gray eyes were dark with suspicion. Brandon blamed himself for that. The incident at the Widow’s Rock had been unfortunate, but last night on Sir Carolus’s balcony had been sheer lunacy. And he had compounded that folly this morning. If he had not come to his senses at the last moment . . .
“More tea, dear boy?”
With difficulty Brandon pulled himself back to reality and drawled, “Indeed. Where would we be without tea? A most excellent potation in the mornin’, ’pon my honor. But you are not eatin’,Miss Verving. I hope you have not caught a chill in the woods.”
Brandon had devoured a dish of kidneys and ham, lamb chops done to a turn, and eggs served up as only the skillful Mrs. Horris could cook them. Watching him, Cecily could not help wondering if she were not mistaken about the previous night’s events. Lord Brandon seemed incapable of anything more energetic than lifting his fork.
But then she looked into her grandaunt’s smiling eyes and felt her worries return. Colonel Howard was a tyrant and a bully, and he and his Riders would eventually run the brethren of the coast to
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