The market in nearby Balesborough was held in the village square.

At ten o’clock the following morning, Richard strolled with Jacqueline down one of the alleys formed by parallel lines of stalls. An explosion of color surrounded them—the bright hues of the bunting strung around many stalls, the myriad shades of the wares displayed, and the cheerful scarves many local women had tied about their hair clashed and contrasted with the more sober browns, tans, greens, blues, and blacks of the crowd’s attire. As at any market, scents of all sorts assaulted their noses, and a cacophony of voices engulfed them—the calls of stallholders eager to attract passersby to their wares, and buyers commenting on said wares or haggling over prices. All in all, it was a good-natured roar.

Richard did his best to shield Jacqueline from the inevitable jostling of the largely happy throng. Many of those passing, certainly those better clad, recognized the mistress of Nimway Hall and smiled and nodded or bobbed in greeting. Time and again, Richard glanced back, keeping a protective eye on Elinor and Mrs. Patrick; with baskets on their arms, the older ladies were following in his and Jacqueline’s wake, but were wont to become distracted by the offerings and stop to chat and buy.

Most of the household had traveled to the market; Richard spotted their now-familiar faces here and there, eagerly examining this or that. Even Cruickshank was there. As far as Richard knew, only Hugh and Freddie remained inside the house.

Richard was, therefore, pleased when, on scanning the crowd, he spotted Sir Peregrine Wallace standing in the shadow of one of the walls bordering the marketplace. If Wallace was there, he couldn’t be at the Hall, searching for the orb and making trouble for Hugh and Freddie.

As far as Richard could discern, Jacqueline was there primarily in support of her farmers and their families. On first entering the market, she’d paused to have a word to the town clerk, who had been standing with a board and a list to one side. She’d smiled and thanked the man for ensuring the Hall’s farmers had good positions that day. The man, small and unprepossessing, had bloomed in the light of her approbation.

Subsequently, with Richard keeping station by her side, she’d joined the throng examining the wares displayed. Although she occasionally paused at some stall not held by one of her people, to exchange greetings and comment encouragingly on the wares, her principal goal was clearly to halt at—and thus draw attention to—the Nimway Hall estate workers’ stalls. They found both woodcutter families; the Hammonds were doing a brisk trade in their smaller carved toys, while there were several farmers waiting to purchase handles from the Tricketts’ stall.

As they moved on down the avenue, the sights and sounds, the noise and the colors took Richard back to his childhood, to markets he’d attended with his parents at the villages attached to their various estates. He’d always liked markets.

Amid the bustle, several of the Nimway Hall estate people spotted him and smiled and nodded. One of the lads he’d helped with the withies grinned and waved. Richard smiled back and felt a pleasant warmth unfold inside him.

Jacqueline met and spoke earnestly with the alderman in charge of deciding the arrangement of stalls at the fair, impressing on that gentleman the importance of assigning various positions to her farmers. Richard helped by looming supportively, making the alderman just a touch uncertain; he caught the man’s eye and, when the good fellow agreed to do as Jacqueline wished, smiled approvingly. No words had been needed; the man had understood.

Together with Jacqueline, Richard strolled on, heading down the next line of stalls, while that warmth inside him grew and spread.

Jacqueline paused to speak with Mrs. Higgs, who was standing behind her stall—a board on trestles, one half of which was covered with swaths of cloth, the other half with hanks of yarn.

Richard tucked his thumbs in his belt and waited, then the glint of silver at the next stall caught his eye. Buckles and horse brasses were displayed enticingly. After a glance at Jacqueline showed she was absorbed and would have to pass him in order to move on, he strolled over to examine the buckles.

He selected a pair of handsome shoe buckles in chased silver and had just handed over the coins to the metalworker when, from the corner of his eye, he saw Jacqueline abruptly turn and step back from the neighboring stall.

Her back was to him; he shifted and looked around her, surveying the gentleman she’d swung to face.

Corpulent, extravagantly overdressed, and overtly pompous, the gentleman stood before her, his coat of bright blue straining over his stomach; as Richard watched, the gentleman flourished a lacy white handkerchief and swept Jacqueline a leg—one better suited to the French court than a village marketplace in Somerset. “Miss Tregarth, your servant, my dear.”

The man’s voice was high pitched, almost childishly piping.

Richard bit his lip. Although he couldn’t see Jacqueline’s face, her reaction sang in the rigidity that had afflicted her.

Also in the frostiness of her tone as she said, “Sir Godfrey. I’m surprised to see you here, sir.”

“Why,” the gentleman replied, waving his handkerchief in an all-encompassing gesture, “the pleasures of the country called to me, my dear.” The man’s rather beady eyes, sunk between puffs of flesh, fastened avariciously on her. “As I believe you know, my dear Miss Tregarth, I count meeting your fair self as one of those pleasures.”

“Indeed?” The ice in Jacqueline’s tone would have quenched the pretensions of a satyr, but appeared to have little effect on Sir Godfrey.

Eyeing the other man, Richard felt it safe to assume that Sir Godfrey was one of Jacqueline’s would-be suitors. Richard was about to step forward to Jacqueline’s side, but then in the same frigid tone, she stated, “Be that as it may, sir, I fear I must deprive you of my company as I really have far too much to do.” She gave a curt nod. “Good day, Sir Godfrey.”

Sir Godfrey gaped like a landed trout.

Jacqueline spun about, saw Richard waiting, a pair of buckles in his hand, and immediately laid her hand on his arm. “Get me away from here,” she muttered, “before I say something truly indefensible.”

He smiled, all charm, but there was steel beneath. “With pleasure.” Without glancing at Sir Godfrey—now gobbling ineffectually behind her—Richard turned, and together, they continued down the line of stalls.

Once she felt certain Sir Godfrey wasn’t following, she exhaled. “He’s such a puffed-up popinjay, I took pity and smiled on him once—just once—but that was all it took to fix his attention, apparently unalterably, on me. And before you ask, I have refused him—several times!”

Richard chuckled. “In that coat, he truly is a popinjay. Does he always dress so brightly?”

“His coat today, for him, is reserved. But I don’t want to talk about Sir Godfrey.” He was one who tried her patience to its limit. “That said, he hates feathers—they make him sneeze.” She pushed on Richard’s arm, directing him to their right. “Let’s go and view the animals.”

His deep chuckle caressed her ears again—sending pleasant shivers down her spine—but he obliged and led her toward the area given over to the feathered and hairy.

Once there, she drew her hand from his arm—not because she wanted to but because she knew she ought to. In perfect harmony—and needing no conversation to maintain that state—they strolled the long line of animals. Most were of little interest to her, but toward the end of the line, she came upon a group of four black ewes. She dallied, studying the beasts, then when the owner looked at her inquiringly—hopefully—she stepped forward and asked from where he hailed and what the size of his flock was, while she bent and ran her fingers through the sheep’s fleece. The wool was fine—as fine as any she’d come across.

Straightening, she looked at the four sheep. “There’s someone I believe might be interested in these. I’ll find him and send him over.” She met the owner’s eyes. “I suggest you might want to hold them until he sees them. If he wants to add them to his flock, he’ll pay a good price.”

The owner bobbed gratefully. “I’ll wait for him if I can. Your name, mistress?”

“I’m Miss Tregarth of Nimway Hall, and the man I’ll send over is Farmer Higgs.”

“Thank you, miss.” The owner beamed and bobbed again. “I’ll wait right here.”

Jacqueline turned to find Richard watching. He arched one black brow. “Higgs?”

She nodded as she joined him. “He’s been looking for some blacks for a while, but most have too-coarse fleece for his—and Martha’s and Mrs. Higgs’s—needs. Those”—she glanced back at the four sheep—“might be just what he’s looking for.”

Richard swung around to return to the Higgses’ stall just as a gentleman came hurrying down the aisle, his protuberant gaze locked on Jacqueline.

She saw him. Her eyes widened, and she stepped closer to Richard—almost into him.

His protective instincts flared.

To all appearances oblivious of Richard’s presence, the gentleman halted before Jacqueline and swept her an obsequious bow. He was more soberly dressed than Sir Godfrey, but his fixation on Jacqueline seemed every bit as acute. “My dear Miss Tregarth. Well met, my dear lady.”

“Lord Wootton,” Jacqueline acknowledged, her tone flat.

“My dear, my dear—I’m delighted to find you here!” A beaming smile wreathed his lordship’s face. “I knew you would come, and so, of course, I came, too—it will be my greatest delight to escort you around the stalls—”

“Lord Wootton—”

“No, no—I insist! A pretty lady such as yourself needs must be escorted, and who better to do so than one who has her best interests at heart, and who, moreover, wishes—”

“My lord—”

“Indeed! Just so!” Wootton beamed fit to burst. “That’s it, exactly, my dear. Why”—Wootton waved wildly—“the day is so fine and has only grown finer for me!” He prosed on, describing the wonders of his imagination.

Richard had to admit he’d never seen or heard the like. He now fully comprehended Jacqueline’s aversion to would-be suitors.

One glance at her face showed her jaw clenched tight; he suspected she was grinding her teeth.

Then Wootton stated, “So you must allow me to know best and grant me the exquisite pleasure of escorting you through the marketplace.”

“Lord Wootton!”

“And I have reserved a room at the inn for a private nuncheon.” Undeterred, Wootton reached for Jacqueline’s elbow.

She flinched back.

Simultaneously, his features hardening, Richard stepped forward, partially interposing himself between his over-eloquent lordship and the madman’s object of affection.

Wootton’s grasping hand landed on Richard’s forearm.

Wootton jumped as if scalded. Then stared as if he truly hadn’t noticed Richard—large and looming as he was—standing there.

Richard nearly rolled his eyes but suppressed the impulse in favor of capturing and holding Wootton’s pale and now wide-eyed gaze. Letting menace seep into his voice, he stated, “I believe Miss Tregarth has been endeavoring to make clear to you that she has other calls on her time.”

He glanced along his shoulder at Jacqueline, faintly arching his brows in question.

Lips tight, Jacqueline confirmed his words with an exceedingly curt nod. “Indeed, my lord. I fear we must leave you to your own devices—forthwith.”

Boldly, she claimed Richard’s arm, sternly quelling a frisson of reaction when he closed his hand, his palm warm and strong, over hers, anchoring her fingers on the fine fabric of his sleeve.

Grace and majesty combined, he nodded to Wootton. “If you’ll excuse us, we must get on.”

Richard swept her past Wootton and on; head high, she pretended not to notice his lordship’s goggling as he watched them go.

Once they’d moved out of earshot, head still high, she explained, “I’ve never been able to get it through his head that I am simply not interested in being Lady Wootton.”

“I now see what you meant about your decisions regarding such as he being easy—he’s plainly uninterested in being the husband of the guardian of Nimway Hall.”

She tipped her head in acknowledgment. “Indeed.” She looked ahead. “And now we really must hurry and take word of those black sheep to Higgs.”

Richard obligingly increased his pace.

They threaded through the crowd, with Richard shifting his broad shoulders this way and that, carving a way through the increasing press. They fought their way to the Higgses’ stall. Higgs had been sitting on a stool behind his wife and his sister, minding their purse and supplies, but at the news that there were four fine-wool black sheep among the animals for sale, he quickly drew several coins from the purse and slipped them into the pouch at his waist, then with the two women shooing him on, he bobbed a bow to Jacqueline, tipped his hand in a salute to Richard, and hurried off toward the area where the animals were tethered.

Jacqueline agreed with Mrs. Higgs’s fervent hope that her man would be in time to purchase the beasts. Turning away, Jacqueline shared a warm—faintly triumphant—smile with Richard, then she tipped her head along the aisle, and they resumed their wandering.

They’d lost Elinor and Mrs. Patrick long ago, but came upon the pair a few minutes later. The two older ladies had halted at one end of the market, in the shadow of a wall, to examine some lace Elinor had bought.

“See?” Smiling, Elinor held out the lace to Jacqueline. “It’s just what I’ve been looking for to trim my blue silk.”

While Jacqueline duly fingered the lace and exclaimed over its quality, Richard stood beside the three women and, raising his head, looked out over the marketplace and the still-surging crowd. There were three exits from the square, with two watchmen stationed at each, which probably explained the lack of cutpurses in the throng. Yet for ladies such as Jacqueline, the threats did not come from the beggars but from those far better dressed.

Richard was conscious that, while he’d been thoroughly amused by both Sir Godfrey and Wootton, he’d also taken definite pleasure in seeing both men summarily dismissed. Courtesy of the past days, he’d already felt protective toward Jacqueline—an instinctive protectiveness he’d excused, telling himself he would feel the same for any pretty maid.

Yet what he’d felt through the recent encounters had been far more intense. More specific, more focused.

More dangerous and deadly.

Part of him would have been only too happy to have drawn his sword on either man.

Neither, of course, had warranted such force; Jacqueline had dismissed one, and he the other, without resorting to anything beyond words and, in his case, presence.

Still, some darker part of him wished it had been otherwise.

Yet the most disturbing aspect of feeling so on edge was that he couldn’t recall ever reacting so strongly—not over a lady or anything else—before.

He sincerely hoped he and Jacqueline would encounter no more of her would-be suitors; he hoped the idiots would notice him with her and have the sense to draw back. The last thing he wanted was to cause a scene, yet if they persisted in troubling her, he suspected he would.

The clock on the tower of the village church tolled the hour—midday had arrived.

With relief in sight, he turned to the three women. “Ladies—shall we repair to the inn to enjoy our luncheon?” He’d bespoken a private room at the inn before they’d started wandering the stalls.

Elinor beamed at him. “Thank you, dear. I confess I will be grateful to rest my feet.”

With a quite genuine smile in return, he ushered the three ahead of him to the inn at one corner of the square.

He moved to enter the inn first, but a quick glance around revealed no likely causes of interruption. He stepped back and waved the ladies in, then spoke to the innkeeper, who had seen them and came hurrying up. The man beamed and bowed them to the private parlor set aside for their use.

The meal passed uneventfully. Richard relaxed at the head of the small table and listened to the three women exchange comments and observations on all they’d seen, with Elinor and Mrs. Patrick essentially reporting to Jacqueline. He was left with the impression that the guardian of Nimway Hall kept watch over the local population, even those who lived beyond her pale.

At the end of the meal, he ushered the ladies out into the tap and paused to settle the account with the innkeeper, adding several coins in thanks for the man’s swift service and the excellent food.

In a group, the ladies had ambled to the inn’s front door. As Richard rejoined them, bringing up the rear, Jacqueline led the way out.

Jacqueline had taken only a single step over the inn’s threshold when a strong arm collected her, and she was bodily swept to the side. Perforce, she stepped off the inn’s stoop—it was that or fall—but she immediately dug in her heels, halted before the front wall, and swung to face her accoster.

“Miss Tregarth.”

Shocked, she found herself staring at Sir Peregrine Wallace’s dissipated countenance.

“My apologies, my dear lady, but I’m delighted to have a chance to speak with you.” His body shielded her from the inn’s doorway. He smiled ingratiatingly at her, his handsome but dissolute face the picture of neighborly helpfulness. “I realize, of course, that you now have water in your lake, but with the lake being so distant from your farms on the Levels, I strongly suspect you’ll find that ferrying water from it will simply not serve. However, the lake on my farm, Windmill Farm, is on the same level as your farms and mill. Much easier for water to be carted across, you see?”

Sir Peregrine’s brown eyes glittered with expectant triumph.

Jacqueline drew in a tight, furious breath.

“And I understand”—Sir Peregrine’s expression turned commiserating—“that your stream is nearly dry.”

She caught and clung to her temper; her gaze on Sir Peregrine’s face, she fought to keep her expression unreadable. She, Hugh, Richard, and Elinor had agreed they had insufficient evidence to make an accusation against Sir Peregrine, but perhaps if she encouraged him to explain, he might say enough to reveal his involvement in the dastardly scheme. Reining in her anger, she clasped her hands at her waist and, lowering her gaze yet watching his face from beneath her lashes, murmured, “Well, sir, as to that…” She let her words fade and waited, willing him to misinterpret and speak further.

Sir Peregrine swallowed her show of meekness whole and smiled as if all was progressing as he wished. “Indeed, my dear Miss Tregarth, there’s nothing to fear in being frank with me. Nothing at all.” He waited until she raised her gaze and again met his eyes, then went on, “I fully comprehend how anxious you must be, what with your guardian helpless to lift the weighty burden of the estate from your shoulders. I assure you, my dear, that all I wish is to see your farms prosper, and if, in time, you come to see me as a friend on whom it’s safe to lean, I would be more than happy to fulfill such a role.” He held her gaze and pointedly said, “You have my deepest regard.”

Clearly, he intended to make her indebted to him, then offer his hand in marriage.

She allowed her lips to curve. Resolutely.

Sir Peregrine blinked.

“I’m unsure, sir, from whom you got your news.” She kept her tone even, her accents cool and matter-of-fact. “However, our stream is now running strongly. We discovered that some blackguard”—she paused to let the word sink in, her eyes steady on his—“had created a cunning set of tunnels that diverted the waters of our stream. Rest assured that the damage has been fully repaired and the stream returned to its customary flow. And as the area in which the diversion was constructed lies within Balesboro Wood and is thus a part of the Hall estate, my people will be keeping a close eye on the stream and all who approach it from now on.”

Sir Peregrine’s face had fallen; the change was almost comical. He stared at her, then when she arched her brows, pointedly inviting a response, he stuttered, “T-Tunnels? I’m sh-shocked. Quite shocked.”

He was, too, and then chagrin crept into his eyes.

She couldn’t stop hers from narrowing. “What’s more, Sir Peregrine, two nights ago, we had a disturbance at the Hall. In the small hours. A would-be burglar who was surprisingly clumsy—he fell over the furniture and was forced to flee.” Her gaze unrelentingly fixed on his face, she firmed her chin and asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

His eyes flew wide, and he recoiled. “What? No!”

Tense and ready to go to Jacqueline’s aid, Richard watched the scene play out from his position in the doorway of the inn. Elinor and Mrs. Patrick stood a little to the side—out of his way—both bending sternly disapproving looks on Wallace’s back.

Wallace tried to come about, drawing himself up and, judging by his tone, adopting a wounded expression. “Of course I don’t know anything about any intruder. I don’t know why you might imagine—”

Wallace rattled on, but from the stony look on Jacqueline’s face and the way she folded her arms across her chest, not to mention the increasingly belligerent gleam in her eyes, Wallace would have been wiser to save his breath.

Jacqueline let Sir Peregrine run on. Had she harbored any doubts that he was the guilty party—both over the diversion and the attempted break-in—those doubts had been well and truly laid to rest. His tone, the restlessness of his hands, and the calculating look in his eyes as he desperately tried to find some way to overcome her resistance and gain her favor all screamed his guilt.

Indeed, he sank himself deeper in her estimation with every word that fell from his untrustworthy lips. Blackguard, she had called him, and blackguard he was; she was beyond convinced of that.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Richard, standing quietly just out of Sir Peregrine’s line of sight.

Why couldn’t her suitors—any of her suitors—be like Richard Montague?

He was kind, considerate of others, willing to step in and help anyone regardless of their station. He understood her and her position, understood how to support her without trying to wrest control. He was, in Elinor’s old-fashioned way of gauging such things, a worthy man.

If only he were her suitor…

The thought made her blink. It effortlessly distracted her from Sir Peregrine—still pleading his case before her—and sent her mind careening over all the moments she’d shared with Richard over the past days…

She’d sensed a certain kinship—that of a kindred spirit—but at no time had he given her any reason to imagine he was interested in her in a more personal way.

He was a guest, a supporter; he might be a friend. He’d never stepped over that invisible line…except for those frissons of reaction she felt when he lifted her to and from her saddle, as he had made a point of doing as often as he could, but she had no grounds to believe he felt any physical attraction at all.

Then again, he was an experienced gentleman; that she did not doubt. He was also deeply honorable, and as a guest in her house…he would feel constrained by that, wouldn’t he?

Richard saw Jacqueline’s expression blank, saw her thoughts turn inward. He had no idea what had caused the change—nothing Wallace had said seemed likely to have evoked it. But Wallace saw it, too, and perhaps unsurprisingly, interpreted it as a sign that she was softening toward him.

Richard could see only a sliver of Wallace’s face, but the man’s relief showed clearly in the line of his shoulders.

Then Wallace reached for Jacqueline’s arm—just as she snapped back to the moment.

“My dear Miss Tregarth, come. Walk with me and—”

Jacqueline’s eyes spat sparks. “Don’t touch me.”

Again, Wallace recoiled, this time in response to the ice-cold fury in Jacqueline’s face.

Her gaze skewered him, and her tone resonant with authority, she stated, “I have nothing further I wish to say to you.” She lowered her arms and tipped up her head. “Kindly allow me to pass.”

Richard saw the corner of Wallace’s lips tighten. Sensed he was debating refusing to yield.

Enough. Richard stepped out of the inn’s doorway and off the step—deliberately jostling Wallace with his shoulder.

Wallace glanced his way, a scowl descending as he opened his lips to protest.

Richard trapped Wallace’s gaze, held it mercilessly, and let all he truly was—his father’s son—fill his eyes. Slowly, with a deliberation that was a statement in itself, he took the last step that set him at Jacqueline’s side. “Richard Montague.” The words rang with challenge and undisguised menace; he wished he could use his title and cow the man still further, but he bit down on the impulse and instead, with deadly calm, said, “I believe the lady wishes to pass.”

Color rising, Wallace blustered, “I say, I know Miss T—”

“Surely, sir”—Richard shifted his hand to the hilt of his sword—“you are not going to be such a churl as to insist I put you aside.” His tone made it blatantly clear he was very willing to do so and, more, would relish the doing.

Wallace paled, but something—desperation?—stiffened his spine and kept him where he was. He moistened his lips and demanded, “Who are you to threaten me? You’re a stranger in these parts.”

Richard smiled intently, the gesture designed to be anything but reassuring. “I make you no threats, Wallace. Merely a promise. I hold myself a friend of the lady’s”—pointedly, Richard looked past Wallace at the witnesses behind him and amended—“all the ladies, and I believe, sir, that you need to step aside.”

Wallace glanced behind and was surprised to find Elinor and Mrs. Patrick, both with severe expressions on their faces, within hearing distance.

Still, the man vacillated for a second more before, reluctantly, stepping back.

Frostily, Jacqueline inclined her head and stalked past him.

Richard moved with her—forcing Wallace to take another step back. With a glance, Richard gathered Elinor and Mrs. Patrick and calmly ushered the three ladies ahead of him along the side of the marketplace toward where they’d left their horses.

He didn’t bother looking back at Wallace; he could feel the man’s gaze boring into his back.

Of the three of Jacqueline’s suitors he’d thus far met, he would rate Wallace the most dangerous. And he was perfectly certain the man wouldn’t desist. Given he’d gone to the extent of diverting her stream, Wallace was clearly prepared to act to bring about his desired end.

Richard’s buoyant sense of satisfaction over having hobbled Wallace’s heavy-handed approach to Jacqueline lasted until they came within sight of the horses.

Then reality reared its head.

What am I doing?

What right did he have to pass judgment on Jacqueline’s suitors—to decide who was suitable and who didn’t deserve her?

He was merely a guest—it wasn’t his place.

Something inside him stubbornly insisted: Yes, it was.

Jacqueline’s words of the previous day echoed through his mind. Everyone likes to have a purpose.

And on the heels of that, his unvoiced response replayed: If one had a purpose, one had a reason for living. So what was his?

What was his purpose in being there? In being?

He went through the motions of settling the three women—Elinor and Mrs. Patrick in the trap and Jacqueline on her mare—by rote. Then he mounted the gelding, and with his mind sunk in his thoughts, he escorted his small party onto the lane that would return them to Nimway Hall.

* * *

Sir Peregrine Wallace stormed away from the inn, away from the marketplace. His face a mask of black temper, uncaring of whom he shouldered out of his way, he strode to where he’d left his horse in Morgan’s care.

The sight of his loyal henchman gave Sir Peregrine pause.

His temper cooled, chilled by unnerving realization. He needed to marry Jacqueline Tregarth. There was no other way to achieve his ends.

He joined Morgan and, with a curt nod, accepted the reins of his rawboned hack. “They found the tunnels and filled them in. So now, not only has Miss Tregarth a lake full of water, but their blasted stream is running strongly again.”

Morgan blinked in his usual dour way. After a moment, he asked, “Do you want me to go and set up the tunnels again?”

Sir Peregrine thought, then shook his head. “No—that’s over with.” After several moments of further cogitation, he said, “There’s a gentleman who I gather is visiting—a family friend. He was by her side just now. From his accent, he might well be from London. I don’t want to do anything to signal my interest in the Hall, not while he’s about.” Sir Peregrine focused on Morgan. “Find out who the fellow is, where he’s staying, and when he’s likely to leave.”

Morgan nodded.

Sir Peregrine grasped his saddle and mounted. Gathering the reins, he looked down at Morgan. “Meanwhile, I’ve plans to make. Once our interfering gentleman departs, I want to be ready to act.” Sir Peregrine nodded in dismissal. “Come and tell me what you learn. I’ll be at Lydford.”

Morgan tugged his forelock. He stood and watched Sir Peregrine ride away, then turned and lumbered toward the marketplace.

* * *

Throughout the uneventful ride back to Nimway Hall, with Jacqueline and Richard on their mounts trotting in the wake of the trap, Jacqueline’s mind remained obsessed with the notion—the vision—of Richard Montague as her husband.

No matter how determinedly she tried to turn her mind away from the fascinating prospect, her thoughts slid back to contemplating the possibility to the exclusion of virtually all else around her. Given her position as guardian of Nimway Hall, it was difficult to discount the fact that Richard had, indeed, been trapped by her wood, apparently in spite of his hunter’s skills. The stories telling of the destiny of those thus trapped might be old, but were they anchored in reality, as many such stories were?

And if that was true…?

Impossible to stop herself from glancing his way, from thinking and considering and wondering.

What if he truly was her love—the man drawn to the Hall by some fated force, the man destined to stand by her side?

She knew she was attracted to him—the leap of her senses whenever they touched was impossible to deny—yet she had no grounds to believe he was equally attracted to her. That didn’t mean he might not be, only that he was better than she at concealing such reactions.

And if, moreover, he was holding back and resisting giving her any sign because he was a guest under her roof—what then? How could she learn the truth of what might already exist between them enough to gauge its potential?

The conundrum had her frowning.

The crunch of gravel under their horses’ hooves drew her back to her surroundings. Nimway Hall rose before them, the sun glinting off the leaded panes of its many windows.

As she and Richard trotted behind the trap around the drive and into the forecourt, she was still at a loss as to how she might learn what she was now convinced she needed to know.

Young Willie came running from the stable, with Hopkins not far behind.

Jacqueline drew the mare up at the edge of the lawn.

Richard halted the gelding a few paces away and dismounted with his customary fluid grace, then with a smile on his face, he came to lift her down.

Still absorbed with her thoughts, she hadn’t been quick enough to free her boots from the stirrups and slide down without his assistance. Steeling herself against what she knew would come, she freed her feet and gathered her skirt.

His smile widening, he reached up and fastened his hands about her waist. He gripped, lifted her, and swung her down—

Her heavy skirt snagged on the saddle.

The unexpected tug unbalanced them both.

She gasped, her eyes flying wide.

His expression hardened as he juggled her, shifting his hold.

They tipped—instinctively, he snatched her closer.

He staggered, hugging her to him as they toppled, tumbled, and fell in an ungraceful tangle on the grass.

She landed atop him, her breasts plastered to his chest, her skirt trapping his legs. She heard his breath expel in an “Oof!”

For one superb second, safety, security, warmth, and comfort engulfed her, then she realized her elbow had jammed into his stomach, causing that oof, and she squirmed to free her arm—

And froze.

As the reality of what was causing the ridge of solid pressure against her stomach impinged on her mind.

Heat rose to her cheeks. Without daring to meet his eyes, she babbled, “I’m so sorry! The train of my habit…”

Even as she wriggled, trying to shift off him, the wretched train held her in place.

“Hold still.”

She froze again. He sounded as if he’d spoken through gritted teeth.

He shifted his legs, releasing the train that had got trapped beneath them, then his hands firmed about her waist, and he lifted her up and to the side.

She scrambled and got her feet beneath her. He released her, then sat up.

Barely breathing, from beneath her lashes, she watched as he rolled away from her, then, slowly, stood.

He resettled his coat, then turned to face her and offered his hand. “My apologies—I should have checked your skirt was free.”

“No, no.” She placed her gloved hand in his and allowed him to draw her upright. “It was entirely my fault.”

It had been no one’s fault, but she couldn’t deny the incident had been most…fortuitous. Breathless and giddy she might be, but she now knew the answer to one of her questions. Richard Montague was attracted to her in very much the same way as she was to him.

She busied herself shaking out, then smoothing down her skirts.

Elinor had halted the trap by the steps. She and Mrs. Patrick had clambered down and hurried over, but by then Jacqueline and Richard were back on their feet. “Are you all right, dear?” Elinor inquired.

Jacqueline summoned a reassuring smile. “Just a tumble.” From beneath her lashes, she glanced at Richard. “No harm done.”

His gaze on Elinor, he inclined his head. “A moment of clumsiness, I regret to say.”

Did he regret it? There was a note in his voice that made Jacqueline wonder.

Cloaking the stiffness that had afflicted him as best he could, Richard waved Jacqueline on, then fell in alongside her as they followed Elinor and Mrs. Patrick across the forecourt, up the steps, and into the great hall.

He fought to keep his features impassive, to conceal the dismay washing through him. Courtesy of a decade and more of ducking the attentions of over-amorous young ladies, his instincts were exceedingly well honed in detecting that critical moment when a young lady decided to view him as husband material.

Logically, rationally, he wasn’t sure Jacqueline Tregarth had made such a decision—her train might have got caught beneath her saddle on its own.

Yet his instincts were pricking, sharp and insistent.

The questions he’d asked himself the previous day rang again in his mind. What was his purpose?

More immediately, what was he doing there—at Nimway Hall?

* * *

Sir Peregrine Wallace entered his house in Lydford via the front door. Located just outside the village, the house was a neat, unpretentious gentleman’s residence built earlier in the century—nothing on the scale of Nimway Hall and completely lacking in history.

Sir Peregrine tossed his riding gloves onto the hall table and, still smarting over the failure of his attempt to lure Jacqueline Tregarth under his thumb, strode for the comfort of the brandy decanter in the study.

Summoned by his footsteps ringing on the hall tiles, his valet, Higson, popped his head around the servants’ door as Sir Peregrine walked past. “Letter came for you, sir. I’ve left it on your desk.”

Sir Peregrine grunted, but paused to close the study door before crossing to the desk and lifting the folded parchment from the salver there. Sir Peregrine squinted at the writing, then straightened. “Dashwood.”

Reinvigorated, his expression transforming to one of hopeful eagerness, Sir Peregrine set down the letter, crossed to the tantalus, and poured a good two fingers of his best brandy into a crystal glass. Glass in hand, he returned to the desk, picked up the letter and his letter knife, then crossed to sink into the well-padded armchair angled before the empty hearth.

Late-afternoon sunshine streamed through the window, affording Sir Peregrine ample light. After placing the glass of brandy on the small table by his elbow, he gripped the letter knife, broke the letter’s seal, and, his heart beating a trifle faster, spread open the two sheets.

As he read, his lips lifted, then he grinned. “Excellent!”

It had been a mere two days since he’d dispatched his offer to Sir Francis. That the leader of the Order of the Knights of St. Francis had replied so expeditiously suggested that Sir Peregrine had, at last, found the perfect treasure with which to beguile his way into the upper echelons of the order. Indeed, if all went as planned, he rather thought he would be able to lay claim to the position at Sir Francis’s side.

After fortifying himself with a mouthful of brandy, Sir Peregrine returned to the letter.

Dashwood wrote in glowing and laudatory vein, urging Sir Peregrine on and assuring him most earnestly that, should he succeed in securing Nimway Hall—built atop the hallowed cave of the mystical sorceress, Nimue—and further, laid his hands on the ancient orb he’d spied in the residence, which surely must be the fabled orb that had once formed the head of Merlin’s staff and was said to hold a powerful spell, then Sir Peregrine would be assured of a place of honor in the annals of the order, second only to Sir Francis himself.

Sir Peregrine paused to savor another mouthful of brandy and imagine that result—precisely what he’d hoped for when he’d first realized the significance of the local tall tales of the Hall.

After several moments of staring into space, he sipped again, then returned his gaze to the letter and read on.

Sir Francis wrote that Sir Peregrine should send him word the instant he gained possession, so that the order might put in train arrangements to suitably celebrate with an orgy of truly extraordinary extent. Even if Sir Peregrine’s claim to the Hall was via implied possession consequent on a betrothal, that, Sir Francis declared, would be enough for the order’s purposes.

Sir Peregrine turned the sheet, following Sir Francis’s scrawl. He smiled with satisfaction as he read Sir Francis’s assurances that the entire order would be waiting with bated breath to hear news of Sir Peregrine’s success, especially if he was able to seize the prize in time for the summer solstice, which—Sir Francis noted—as Sir Peregrine knew, would be marked by the order with a week-long orgy of the senses, commencing on the solstice.

Sir Peregrine blinked, then glanced at the ornate calendar sitting on the mantelpiece. It was only the tenth of June; he had time enough to lure Jacqueline Tregarth into his clutches.

Reassured, he went back to the letter to read the last two lines. He did, then, staring at the page, he sat up and softly cursed.

Sir Francis Dashwood, Grand Master of the Order of the Knights of St. Francis, had written that, regardless of whether Sir Peregrine had succeeded in seizing the goal by that time, Sir Francis would visit him at Lydford, arriving toward the end of the coming week. Sir Francis had added that Sir Peregrine would not be surprised to learn that Sir Francis wished to gaze upon the wonder of Nimway Hall, and the orb, himself. And, of course, to celebrate Sir Peregrine’s imminent rise through the order’s ranks.

“Damn!” Sir Peregrine lowered the letter and stared unseeing across the room.

By the end of next week…

Until he managed to bend Jacqueline Tregarth to his will, he wouldn’t be able to allow Sir Francis the run of Nimway Hall, much less allow the founder of the order to claim the orb—which, he knew, was precisely what Dashwood was hoping to do during his impending visit.

The incident in the marketplace replayed in Sir Peregrine’s mind.

He might have erred in his estimation of how long it would take him to charm Jacqueline Tregarth. Indeed, charm had never seemed to have much effect on the wretched woman.

Which simply underscored the sense in setting charm aside and bringing other forces to bear.

By the end of next week…

Sir Peregrine glanced at the letter, then set it aside. He wouldn’t write and put Sir Francis off; such a move would definitely not improve—and might even scupper—his chances of securing the position he was determined to claim, the one by Sir Francis’s side in all the order’s rituals.

Slumping back in the chair, Sir Peregrine sipped, then drained the brandy from his glass.

Once the interfering gentleman was no longer by Jacqueline Tregarth’s side and no one else who could wield a sword was there to defend her, Sir Peregrine would seize the moment. It was his to seize, after all.

There were well-known and well-used ways of forcing reluctant ladies to front the altar.

As soon as Morgan brought word of the gentleman’s departure, Sir Peregrine would act.

He would plot, plan, and be ready to seize and secure his future the instant Jacqueline Tregarth was once more effectively alone at Nimway Hall.