A week later, Michael stood with his shoulder propped against the open door of the cottage. He watched in cynical silence as Vivien knelt beside the old man lying on a low bedstead in the corner. She didn’t fuss about the rough brick floor or the likelihood of soiling her fine blue riding habit. She took a dose of comfrey powder from the leather pouch at her waist and administered it to the ailing tenant.
“There now,” she said, stroking Owen Herrington’s age-spotted hand. “Take one pinch of the powder each morning and evening, and you’ll soon feel well enough to dance jigs at the harvest celebration.”
“Will ye promise to be me partner?” the old man asked, a twinkle in his rheumy eyes, a toothless grin splitting his leathery face.
“It will be my pleasure,” she said, laughing. “But only if you tell me more tales of giants and witches.”
“’Tis a bargain, and I’ll get the best of it. I’ll squire the comeliest girl in the county.”
“Owen Herrington, bide yer tongue.” His stoop-shouldered wife left her spinning wheel to shake a gnarled finger at him. “His lordship will be thinkin’ ye’re flirtin’ with the lady.”
Michael concealed a grimace. These simple folk couldn’t see past Vivien’s pretense of philanthropy. But he could. Her actions were designed to make him view her as a worthy person so he would sing her praises to the Rosebuds. It would be a cold day in Hades before that happened.
To his immense satisfaction, he had learned that very morning of evidence that the Gypsy was stealing from him. He had only to procure the tangible proof when they returned to the Dower House.
Hiding his impatience, Michael fixed an affable expression on his face as he strolled to Vivien and extended his hand to her. “Miss Thorne may flirt as she wishes,” he said. “She’s free to choose the partner of her liking.”
He could tell by the flare of fire in those velvety brown eyes that she’d caught his meaning, that he intended for her to come willingly to his bed. As he helped her to her feet, she flashed him a little taunting smile. “You’re right, of course,” she murmured. “I won’t be bullied by any man.”
Her brazen look had a searing impact on his body. It was an effect he had experienced many times this past week. With the finesse of a seasoned temptress, she’d trifled with him, teasing him and yet keeping him at arm’s length, cleverly avoiding his ploys to corner her alone. She had eluded even the Rosebuds’ obvious attempts to push them together.
The Rosebuds wanted her to marry a gentleman. That was why they’d planned the house party for a week hence. But Michael had the ugly suspicion he was their man of choice. Little did they know, he had a very different plan for her.
As Vivien strolled across the one-room cottage with its stone walls and thatched roof, he turned his attention to Owen Herrington. No longer beefy and robust, the old man looked shrunken, his knobby fingers clutching at the patched coverlet. Something twisted inside Michael, a regret that he had been so long out of touch with his tenants. “When did you take ill?” he asked.
“Nigh on a month ago, milord,” Herrington said, with a respectful bob of his gray head. Unlike the ease of manner he’d shown to Vivien, he lowered his eyes deferentially. “With milady’s potion, I’ll soon be back to work.”
“You needn’t labor in the fields. You’ve more than earned your rest.”
“I’m strong yet, milord,” he protested almost fearfully. “These old hands can still mend harness and sharpen tools and such.”
Michael held back an order to desist all work. Herrington clearly had too much pride to consign himself to a rocking chair by the hearth. Leaning down, he gripped the old man’s bony shoulder for a moment. “You’ll always have a home here. No matter what happens.”
Herrington worked his shrunken mouth as if unable to find the words to express his appreciation. He slid a glance up at Michael, then looked down again at his hands. “Thank ye, milord,” he mumbled. “Ye’re most kind.”
Michael noticed the old man’s hesitation, and wondered if there was another topic he wished to broach. Then he spotted movement out of the corner of his eye, and he saw Vivien walk to the single window, where she admired a length of cream-colored homespun. Little Mrs. Herrington twisted her fingers in her apron, glanced over at the two men, and then whispered something to Vivien.
Clutching the fabric, Vivien leaned closer to the old lady, listening intently, offering a muted comment now and then. The misty light of late morning etched her fine features. At first glance she looked like a gentlewoman in her elegant riding costume, yet closer inspection revealed a disdain for convention from her ungloved hands to her careless coiffure.
If the Rosebuds insisted she wear a bonnet, Vivien would discard it the moment they were out of sight. She didn’t seem to mind that the sun had tinted her skin to a golden sheen. He could see a trace of copper in her black hair, unusual for a Gypsy, yet somehow it suited Vivien. She simply didn’t fit any mold.
Michael resented her ability to charm the farmers, the villagers, the servants, everyone they met. Though they must have heard the rumors, people warmed to her friendly manner, and she soon had them believing in her sincerity. They seemed to forget she was a Gypsy so long as she dressed like a lady. At times, Michael too found himself lulled into enjoying her companionship, trading witticisms with her or discussing the latest book she’d read.
Every morning for the past week, they had taken a ride on his estate. And every morning, she had insisted on stopping at each cottage and hovel they passed. In her saddlebag, she carried a pouch of herbal medicines and always had a remedy for any ailment. As if determined to win over his people, she encouraged them to confide their personal woes and joys—and other tales, too, fairy stories and old legends. She would sit raptly listening until he’d had enough of her chicanery and marched her out the door.
As he would do now.
Michael stepped toward the two women. “I’m afraid Miss Thorne and I must be leaving.”
Vivien shot him a fierce glower; he must have interrupted a choice bit of gossip. He lifted an eyebrow, daring her to disobey. Almost to his disappointment, she did not.
After laying the cloth on a chair by the spinning wheel, she hugged Mrs. Herrington. The spontaneous gesture was typical of the Gypsy. No true gentlewoman would embrace a minion, but Vivien must not have learned that nuance of proper behavior.
“Come back soon, milady,” Owen Herrington called from his bedstead. “I’ll tell ye the tale of the piskie threshers.”
A smile lit Vivien’s face. “Piskies?”
“The wee fairy folk. They like to play tricks, they do.”
“I’ll look forward to returning, then,” she said, as if she really meant it. “If you don’t mind, I’ll bring paper and pen so that I might take notes—”
“You can’t return until first you depart,” Michael quipped.
With a pleasant smile that concealed his gritted teeth, he took her arm and escorted her out of the gloomy cottage and through a small flower garden, where pinks bloomed along with a few late roses, beaded with mist. Pewter clouds scudded across the sky. The scent of impending rain flavored the air, and thunder grumbled in the distance. With any luck they’d make it home before the storm broke. Then he would find the proof of her theft, present it to his grandmother, and oust the Gypsy once and for all.
Or perhaps first he would confront Vivien. Yes. It might be gratifying if she tried to use her body to dissuade him from turning her over to the magistrate...
Under a hard push of his hand, the rickety wooden gate squeaked, then tilted askew on its rusty hinges. Pausing to straighten the gate, he muttered, “Remind me to send a man here. This damned thing should be repaired.”
“That isn’t all that needs fixing,” Vivien said tartly.
“What the devil does that mean?”
“Come away from here and I’ll tell you.” Hips swaying, she minced toward the towering elm tree where their horses were picketed.
Michael stalked after her. He shouldn’t let her irritate him. Better he should concentrate on his favorite fantasy...lowering Vivien to the grass, reaching beneath her skirts, coaxing her wildness into passion, a passion for him alone. Once he’d had her, he’d be rid of this seething frustration.
Her manner disdainful, she waited by her gray mare for him to boost her into the sidesaddle. Like a gentleman, Michael allowed her to place one dainty half-boot in his linked fingers as she mounted. Unlike a gentleman, he slid his hand beneath her hem and up the smooth length of her silk-stockinged calf.
Vivien inhaled a quick breath that lifted her lush bosom. For an instant, she stared down at him and her eyes widened, mirroring his desire. She felt soft. Warm. Willing.
Then she slapped the reins, and the mare danced away. “Don’t do that,” she said sharply.
He laughed, pleased to elicit a genuine reaction in her. “This is my land, and I’m the master here. I can do as I please.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to abuse people.”
“I never abuse my women,” he said in a honeyed tone. “In truth, they’ve been known to beg for my attentions.”
“Then the women of London are silly sheep, bleating in stupidity.”
“They’re well-satisfied cats, purring with contentment.”
“You delude yourself. You, with your elegant clothes and gorgio manners.” Sitting straight in the saddle, Vivien cast him a severe look. A look that bore an eerie resemblance to the inimitable Miss Harriet Althorpe.
Banishing the unlikely thought, Michael mounted his bay gelding. The horse shook its mane and snorted as if eager to go. “If your waspishness toward me is a delusion, then I’m a happy man.”
Her fingers tautened around the reins. For once, she didn’t respond with a saucy remark designed to entice him. “You are a pig,” she stated, narrowing her eyes and glaring fiercely. “No, that would be an insult to pigs. You’re a snake for the way you treat people.”
What had wrought this change from coquette to carper? “Out with it now,” he said easily. “Who do you imagine I’ve wronged?”
Vivien didn’t reply at first. Leaning down, she spoke a soft command and the mare trotted along the narrow, winding lane that meandered across the windswept moors. When Michael drew up beside her, intending to demand an answer, she asked a terse question of her own. “How many years has Owen Herrington worked for your family?”
“All his life,” Michael said a trifle impatiently. “As a lad, I remember seeing him laboring at the haying and threshing. He’s one of my most loyal tenants.”
“Then may the crows pluck out your eyes for what you’ve done to him. That sick old man has sweated and toiled in your service, yet you would deny him a pension.”
Stunned, he reined to a halt. “What the devil are you babbling about? I’ve done no such thing.”
“Oh?” Fury flashed in her dark eyes. “You’ve been living like a king in London while the Herringtons and other poor folk on this estate struggle to survive. Then after they’ve slaved to feed your rich tastes, you leave them to starve in their old age.”
Anger gripped him. “That’s a lie. Who told you this?”
“Mrs. Herrington. Her husband dares not cease working because your steward told him there will be no pension.”
“Impossible. Herrington must have misunderstood.”
Her expression murderous, she walked the mare closer to the gelding. The two animals snuffled at one another, then began to crop the grasses alongside the path. “So tell me why he’s received nothing these past weeks,” she hissed. “Their only income is the pittance that Mrs. Herrington earns from her spinning. If not for that, they’d be begging for pennies at the crossroads.”
Frowning, Michael glanced back at the picturesque stone cottage with its wisp of smoke drifting from the chimney. He remembered the impression of hesitancy in the old man. Had Herrington been wanting to ask about his pension?
No. Certainly the Herringtons lived in humble quarters, but he provided for all their basic needs. Turning back to the Gypsy, he snapped, “You’re making all this up. If there was a problem, they would have brought it to my attention. Not yours.”
“They were reluctant to speak out of fear of losing what little they have.” Vivien regarded him as if he were sheep dung. “You see, milord, they don’t trust you. You’ve abandoned them for a life of leisure. They see you for what you are: a pleasure-seeking nobleman without a care for their needs.”
He felt a moment’s guilt. He’d neglected his tenants, but not for the reason she’d thrown in his face. As their horses clopped side by side, he struggled to rein in his temper. “The quarterly reports from the estate always include a generous sum for annuities. Perhaps Herrington was overlooked. I’ll investigate the matter with Thaddeus Tremain.”
Her lip curled. “Tremain. He’s the one who carries out your dirty deeds. I spied him walking on the moor yesterday afternoon. He’s a mole-faced man who picks his teeth when he thinks no one is looking.”
How like a woman to judge a man by his appearance.
“He’s a skilled accountant and business manager. If he made an error, it will be his first.”
“This is no error, but proof of your gorgio greed,” Vivien said heatedly. “The Dunstans and the Keasts have little stores in their larder. The widow Bowditch has no wood for the winter. And the Jelberts’ children were dressed in rags. Because you steal their hard-earned coin and squander it on extravagances.”
Even as his hackles rose, he thought back to the cottages they’d visited. He was chagrined to realize he’d been too busy watching the Gypsy to take more than cursory notice of his surroundings. He’d been too distracted by her ability to beguile everyone around her.
Michael rejected her wild accusations, for the only logical explanation could be that Thaddeus Tremain was skimming the profits at the expense of the tenants. By God, Michael trusted the man too much to leap to such a conclusion at the word of a Gypsy. Tremain had seen to the smooth running of the estate for as far back as Michael could remember. A confirmed bachelor, the steward was married to his work. His deft handling of the day-to-day responsibilities had enabled Michael to live in London.
Michael always took care to examine the accounts that the steward delivered in person four times per year, and he’d seen nothing suspicious. Thaddeus Tremain was dependable, honest, and discreet. In addition to his other duties, he’d provided monthly letters detailing the activities of the dowager countess. Those reassuring reports had eased Michael’s conscience.
No, the Gypsy had to be concocting this tale for a reason. This was a smoke screen, that was all. She must have realized that he’d found her out.
He urged his mount forward and stopped in front of her, forcing her to a halt. “You would accuse me of robbery,” he said in a harsh tone, “when it’s you who are a thief.”
Her black brows clashed together. “Develesa! How can you bring up those stupid accusations when your people are starving?”
Lightning flashed closer now, but he paid no heed. He watched intently for a sign of guilt, a shifting of her gaze, a faint blush. “I’m not referring to the letter you forged in order to swindle my grandmother. Or the hundred guineas a month you’ve wrung from her. I’m talking about the things you’ve stolen from my house.”
That stopped the Gypsy’s tirade, but only for a moment. In a show of innocence, her eyes widened and her lips parted. “I’ve taken nothing of yours,” she said indignantly. “Any books I’ve borrowed, I’ve returned within a few days.”
A brusque laugh grated from his throat. “This past week, Mrs. Barnsworth has been tallying the contents of the Abbey. It seems quite a few valuables are missing. A medieval icon from Russia. Several pairs of gold candlesticks. A number of silver serving utensils that have been in my family for generations.”
Clutching the reins, she shook her head, stirring the wisps of black hair that had escaped her chignon. “Look for your thief within your own walls, milord marquess. I’ve no use for your gorgio things.”
“They can be sold for a small fortune in gold.” Crisply he added, “We will return to the Dower House. You’ll show me where you’ve hidden the goods.”
The Gypsy proudly sat the sidesaddle, viewing him with scorn, never once averting her gaze. She said nothing more in her defense, only stared at him until he felt the annoying urge to lower his eyes.
Abruptly she snapped the reins, and the mare launched into a trot. Over her shoulder, she called, “I’ll gladly race you home, then.”
Her eyes sparked a challenge at him. She bent low over the silky gray mane, and the mare launched into a full-out gallop, veering off the path and onto the rough moorland.
“For God’s sake, Vivien!”
If she heard him, she gave no sign. With the firm seat of a born horsewoman, she went tearing over the hills, the wind snatching at her hair.
Michael acted on instinct. Applying his boot heels to the bay’s flanks, he went charging after her.
“Damned fool,” he muttered, not knowing if he meant her or himself. His muscles tensed at the tooth-jarring pace. Didn’t the wench realize it was suicide to gallop over such rugged terrain? Not that he should concern himself with her safety. If the mare caught a hoof in a rabbit burrow and Vivien broke her neck, it would be her doing, not his.
Then, just like that, he experienced a swell of savage joy, an aliveness he hadn’t felt in a great many years... perhaps never before. He reveled in the wind whipping his hair and coat, the pelting of cold droplets against his face, the flicker of lightning in the distance. He craved the chance to catch Vivien, to tame her brazen spirit.
It was the thrill of the chase, he knew. She had teased him and taunted him for days. The game had strained the boundaries of his control.
The moorland flew past in a blur, then the stubbled fields shorn of wheat and rye. Ahead, she crouched low, one with the beast. Michael was gaining on her, though he admitted that was due more to his powerful mount than to any superior skill as a horseman. Even hampered by the sidesaddle, Vivien rode as easily as a force of nature.
She hadn’t needed lessons in sitting a horse, except in the rules of proper equestrian behavior.
Rules she ignored on a whim.
A flash split the skies, chased by a roll of thunder. Energy crackled in the air, prickling over his skin. Danger added an edge to his frenzied determination, and without warning he remembered another storm, another mad chase through the countryside, that time in the dark of night. He remembered his fury and his anguish over Grace’s betrayal...
In a burst of speed, he brought the gelding beside Vivien’s mare so they galloped in tandem. The rain fell faster now, stinging his hot skin. He could see the chimneys of the Dower House in the distance. Not that he intended to go there yet. He wanted her all to himself.
“We need shelter,” Michael shouted over the pounding of hooves.
Her eyes blazed with willful defiance. Despite the fury of the ride, he felt a surge of wild heat, the provocation to bring to fruition his plan to seduce her.
Amid the landscaping of lakes and trees that formed a vista from the house, Michael spied a blur of white along the riverbank.
Cutting Vivien off, he urged her mount toward the small building. She made a face at him; then a closer bolt of lightning caused the mare to rear. His chest tightened with the dread that Vivien would fall, and there would be nothing he could do to save her.
But she clung to the gray mane, her lips moving as if to comfort the animal, though the wind snatched her voice from him. The horse calmed, and this time, Vivien let Michael guide her to the refuge.
In a clearing through the trees, the Grecian temple rose in lone splendor. The white columns were overgrown with ivy, and a peaked roof extended out over broad stone steps. Though open on all sides, the structure would protect them from the elements.
They reached the temple in the nick of time. Gusts of cold damp air buffeted them. Lightning stabbed and thunder complained. The heavens opened, and rain poured from the eaves in a silvery curtain.
Beneath the broad overhang, he dismounted and saw Vivien slide unaided from the saddle. Her chignon had come partially undone so that several long, dark hanks hung down her slender back. The damp riding habit clung to her curves. She snatched a towel out of the saddlebag and began to rub down the mare, crooning words too soft to be heard.
With a jerk, he knotted the reins around a pillar. No woman had ever caused such a furious tumult in him, not even Grace.
Glancing over at him, the Gypsy gave him that provoking smile, a blend of superiority and sensuality. “Don’t look so angry, milord. A little wetness never hurt anyone. Or do you melt in the rain?”
His temper snapped. He forgot all about his resolve to charm her into trusting him. He forgot everything but the need to master this tempestuous woman.
“No,” he said, stalking toward her. “But by God, you’ll melt for me.”