Chapter Two

His grandfather hadn’t told him there were so many damned trees. Thousands. And Gate was supposed to find just one with a heart carved on it. In a week! He’d promised his father and uncle he’d have the duke back home in London in time for Christmas Day dinner.

“No way in hell,” John Cabot Gatestone mumbled to himself as he rode into the village. This was no little hollow in the middle of the woods as his grandfather had described it. It was a full-blown forest.

The air was frigid and still. Dry, earthy scents of woodlands were all around. Twilight had caught up with him as he’d expected it would, but The Inn at Dewberry Hollow wasn’t difficult to find in what appeared to be a thriving little town. It loomed straight ahead at the end of the road.

The center of the tall, wide-stone manor house was flanked by smaller wings on each side with mighty-looking turrets standing like sentinels at each corner. It was a welcoming beacon to a man who’d spent most of a long day in the saddle. Lamplight glowed from some of the windows on the lower floors. Gray smoke puffed into the dusky sky from two of the several chimneys poking out of the roof. The inn was grand and a complete contrast to the rows of much smaller thatch-roofed houses and shops making up the main thoroughfare.

Snuggled away in northeastern Berkshire, the inn was known all over England as a place where kings, queens, and dukes were once received for public visits and private affairs. Duels had been fought on the grounds behind the garden walls for a variety of reasons: card games that ended badly, a man’s family honor, and women. It was rumored that over the years several military generals had gathered at the house to plan and study their strategies for implementing battles and winning wars.

On their journey to the hollow, the duke had told Gate the history of the house and how it became a successful and prestigious inn. A young viscount inherited the massive structure close to half a century ago and soon discovered he didn’t have the income to keep it in a flourishing state. Since it was only a day’s carriage ride from London and already a favorite meeting place for noblemen and gentry, the viscount decided to open it as an inn and make guests pay for the privilege of staying at the highly regarded place.

And they did. Gate’s grandfather had been one of them. Before and after he married.

The quaint village of Dewberry Hollow was situated on the southern edge of a wide valley floor between two tree-covered hillsides that were dark with woods. Ash, oak, maple, and more birch and evergreens than he’d ever seen anywhere. The dense forest was probably rich with small and large game and most likely the reason the young miss had been hunting there.

Trekking through such coppices looking for wild animals or birds was usually something a man would do, but Gate knew of women who were quite skilled with guns as well as bow and arrows. Though he was sure the miss he’d met hadn’t been hunting all day. He’d caught the invitingly fragrant scent of her skin and the fresh-washed smell of her lush, dusky-summer blond hair that she’d fashioned into a long attractive braid.

Gate admired a woman who knew how to shoot, wasn’t afraid to get on her knees to tend to a wounded man, and had the courage to offer a strip of her petticoat without embarrassment when it was needed. She hadn’t shivered at the sight of blood or been intimidated by him. Her countenance had remained calm and controlled in spite of what she’d done, proving she was confident, and strong.

Looking at her delicate beauty, he wouldn’t have known she was a hearty woman of the land, natural as a spring day, and cool as a thawing brook kind of belle. Her skin was unblemished, with rosy cheeks, full pink lips, and sparkling green eyes that had challenged him more than once with boldness and determination. Her speech was no different from that of the ladies in some of London’s most famous drawing rooms. If not for the short carbine and worn cape and gloves she wore, he would have sworn to anyone she was a highborn lady of the ton.

Gate remembered the appealing show of defiance in her expression, and how the span and narrow curve of her waist was just the right size to fit into his embrace. She was tall but not towering, lean but not bony, firm but not hard, and so temptingly feminine. It had been a few heady moments when he held her close. Desire had surged strong within him to do more than just hold her. He wanted to wrap her securely in his embrace with both arms and feel her lips yielding in passion beneath his. He sensed she had the same desirous impulses about him—if only for a few seconds.

Most of all, he remembered the first things seen in her expression when he was kneeling beside her were compassion and concern for Hornbolt.

The miss was enticing to be sure. But not available for him to pursue, he groused silently. The Duke of Notsgrove had a strict code of conduct for everyone in his family when it came to the staff of his household, or anyone else’s.

They were to be left alone.

No arguments. No excuses. No forgiveness if evidence of such bending the rules was ever presented. According to the patriarch of the family, a man’s natural, primal urges should be attended to by his wife or a paid mistress. The duke highly approved and encouraged such services.

Gate had always agreed.

He didn’t want to be the first male Gatestone to test the duke’s commitment on that no-forgiveness rule. And certainly not with his grandfather at the point he could hardly walk ten paces without stopping for a rest. No matter how tempted by the young miss. That’s why he hadn’t even asked for her name. It was best he forget about her and the thoughts of passion she’d so easily aroused in him. He needed only to concentrate on the reason for his stay at the inn. To keep his word to his family that his grandfather would be safe in Gate’s care, to find the tree where his grandparents had carved the lovers’ heart, and return the duke home by Christmas dinner.

That was Gate’s only goal. Then he could return to festivities planned in London where there would be plenty of women to woo.

His grandfather hadn’t been well since the beginning of autumn—really since Gate’s grandmother had died more than a year ago. After recently hearing the physician say his days on earth might be coming to an end in a matter of months, he decided there was one thing he needed to do before he passed from this world to join his beloved wife. He wanted to return to Dewberry Hollow and find the tree with the carving of a heart and their initials. It was something the duke promised her they would do one day. A promise often restated to satisfy his wife’s yearning, but he was always too busy with more important things.

Now the duke felt it was a task left undone and he was going to do it—no matter it was the dead of winter and on the brink of Christmastide, too. He wouldn’t be dissuaded from finding the tree, reliving the sweet memories of that time with his wife, and tying one of her favorite hair ribbons on the tree over the initialed heart.

Gate’s father, uncle, and a couple of his older cousins had all balked at the duke’s idea. It was too dangerous. He was too weak. He’d never make the journey back alive. All to no avail. The duke showed them he might be sick but he wasn’t dead. He was still head of the family. Seeing how determined his grandfather was and knowing no one could change his mind, Gate spoke up and said he’d take him.

And he’d bring him back alive.

In time for Christmas dinner.

But that was before he’d seen all the damned trees surrounding the hollow.

Gate had no problem indulging the duke’s wishes. He was the only unmarried grandson with no responsibility. Because of who his grandfather was, Gate had lived the privileged, indolent life of a wealthy young man who had no dreams or goals of his own other than the next card game, house party, or horse race.

When he was younger, Gate had resented the fact he wasn’t the heir. Not that he wanted the title. He didn’t give a damn about that. He wanted something to do—to learn about the estates, the companies, and the holdings of the entailed properties. But he couldn’t be privy to that information. No. It was only for the heir’s son, Gate’s oldest cousin who would one day be the duke. All Gate was given was plenty of money to pursue his pleasures. And he had.

Recently, though, he was once more seeking something more worthwhile to do. His carefree life of a gentleman of means had become stale. Doing this for his grandfather was important to him and gave him responsibility for a change. And he hoped it would help settle his yearnings and disquiet of wanting something more in his life.

All the duke’s other children and grandchildren had fallen dutifully in line and married long before Gate’s age—twenty-seven. Some in the family reminded him he was becoming an old bachelor. He cared not for their bluster.

Gate enjoyed dancing and conversing with the young ladies making their debuts at the beginning of each Season. Each one had charm, intelligence, and beauty. That was the problem. None of them stood out as special or different from the others. For him, it was more important to find the right lady to marry than take a wife out of obligation and ritual. He had enough traditions to follow—such as traveling with unnecessary guards.

Gate had never minded spending time with the duke. Nor did he have a problem with his arrogant, no argument allowed ways. Neither had his grandmother. She had been as sweet as the duke was querulous, but there was no doubt they’d loved each other. He’d seen it in the way they’d smiled at each other when they thought no one was looking. Gate had grown up watching the love and friendship between them and knew he hadn’t come close to finding that kind of love.

Whenever Gate married, the wanted the kind of feeling that made you want to carve a heart on a tree and put initials in it. Gate’s father and uncle hadn’t understood why his grandfather wanted to do that, or why he now wanted to go back and find it.

But Gate had.

That’s why he was helping his grandfather risk his life to fulfill his final wish. And he was going to find that carved heart for the duke even if he had to look at every blasted tree in the hollow. And there was certainly a lot more than his grandfather had led him to believe.

With an inward sigh, Gate guided his horse around to the back of the inn where the servants’ entrance was generally located and suddenly there was a leap in his pulse, a pounding in his chest, and a catch in his breath. The miss was casually leaning against the door framing, arms folded across her chest, and softly drumming her fingers as if she’d been impatient for him to return. That sent a thump of wanting straight to his loins.

He wasn’t surprised she had the gumption to be so daring. He liked that spark of self-assurance her actions seemed to show. It heightened her allure. Whenever he looked at her, his lower body paid no mind to how the duke expected a family member to behave with servants or staff.

Warm, tender, and exciting attraction flowed between him and the miss. He’d felt it when their eyes first met and moments later when he’d realized that in his haste to see to Hornbolt he’d accidentally pressed his leg against hers. That same heat shuddered slowly and invitingly through him now, causing the same desirous response. It was heady and gratifying.

His gaze met hers as he reined in the horse. Holding her rifle in one hand, he threw his leathers across the pommel with the other and dismounted.

“Here before you, and before dark,” she said confidently as she straightened and confronted him with the attitude of a woman who knew her worth.

When she spoke, her shoulders moved just enough to entice him with languid thoughts of long, deep kisses and slow, gentle caresses before a flaming fire. She radiated a wholesomeness that drew him to the point of being fascinated with her. The natural ease with which she interacted with him was stimulating. He liked that she wasn’t awed by the fact he was a duke’s grandson. She wasn’t trying to entice him with the way she approached him. But she did. Everything about her was as natural and elating as the air around him.

“Here before me? Yes.” He took in another cold breath and deliberately looked around their surroundings. The skies were dark. Lamps had been lit over all the doorways at the back of the house. His gaze found hers again and he challenged her by narrowing his eyes in concentration. “Before dark? Questionable.”

She gave him a frown of exasperation, which was almost as beckoning as her self-assured smile. “Really, sir. It may be now, but I will have you know I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes for you.”

“That long? For me?” he quizzed with a raise of his brow and a slight quirk of his head. A teasing grin formed on his lips. “That’s nice to hear.”

Her eyes widened slightly, and her windburned cheeks turned rosier after she realized what she’d said. “So I could retrieve my gun,” she insisted immediately. “I wanted to make certain you didn’t intend to keep it from me for retribution for the accident.”

He knew she didn’t believe for a moment he wanted to keep the carbine. She was at the door because she wanted to see him again. Good. There was something much more important between them than that weapon. She was downright fetching with a bit of annoyance in her tone and looked as if she wanted to freeze him solid on the spot. It made him want to invite her to try to take the weapon again and give him another reason to touch her one more time before he entered the inn.

To tease her further, he lifted the gun in both hands and looked it over carefully. “It is well made; perhaps I would like to have—”

“Give me that,” she said with more annoyance, grasping the carbine between his two hands and giving a determined tug. “It was made especially for me. You are probably a menace to everyone who knows you. The only reason I allowed you to bring it home is because it gets heavy. I decided it would serve you right to bear that burden. So, thank you, and I’ll take it now.”

He chuckled and let go. She whirled and placed it in the corner between the door and the jamb. She was breathing unevenly when she turned back to him. He did that to her, he thought, and only then realized that his own breaths were choppy, too.

“How were you planning on getting a deer to the inn if you had shot one?”

“I would have marked the spot and sent one of the grooms to get it.”

“So, have you shot a deer before?”

“No. Not yet.” She paused. “I’ve never actually shot anything other than birds. Except for Mr. Hornbolt, and I’m extremely sorry about that.” She looked away for a moment and cleared her throat. “You’ll be glad to know as soon as I arrived I checked on him. His arm has been tended to. It will be swollen and sore for several days, but as long as he keeps it still and there’s no infection he should heal fine.”

There was no doubt in her tone. Gate nodded. He’d believed that to be the case when he’d looked at the wound and was glad to have it confirmed. Hornbolt was a gentle old soul who had been with Gate for as long as he could remember.

“That’s good to know. Just the same, I’ll check on him as well and take him a pint of ale.”

“I took the liberty of sending over a bottle of port. I thought he might want to add a splash to his pine needle tea. I hope you don’t mind. I felt it was in order.”

“Not at all. I’m sure he will enjoy it.”

“Your guards will be staying in the carriage house while you’re here. Should you need them during the night.” She paused and added a hint of a smile. “It’s the building directly behind you. All the others traveling with you will reside in the servants’ quarters, which is the building to your left.”

Gate shifted his stance. “I should explain about the guards,” he answered.

Her lips quivered into an engaging smile, causing a slow roll in his stomach that carried all the way to his shaft and heated him like a blazing fire.

“No need, sir. A duke and his family are important people and need protecting in a place as wild and dangerous as Dewberry Hollow.”

He met her amused gaze with one of his own. She was enjoying bedeviling him about the guards. If she thought it would deter the way they were feeling about each other she was wrong. His interest in her had settled deep in his loins when he first saw her and he didn’t think it was going to fade away anytime soon.

He sensed a seductiveness in every move she made, and he’d swear to anyone she was unaware of it and how it caused shivers of desire to shoot through him. He stepped in closer. The door was to her back, and though he could easily keep her from moving past him, he sensed she had no desire to bolt. It was the way she looked at him that had him believing she was as interested as he was. She left no detail in his face untouched by her gaze.

Light from the lantern hanging above them on the post shimmered attractively in her hair. He wanted to untie the ribbon that bound her tresses into a loose braid and let them fall softly around her shoulders. With great difficulty, he kept himself from bending down to claim her mouth. Now wasn’t the time, but he felt in his gut the time would come when he would have to defy his grandfather’s directive.

“I like you,” he said softly.

Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You don’t know me,” she answered with conviction that held solidly in her features.

It was an understandable assumption, but he took exception to it. “I do. From what happened with Mr. Hornbolt and how you handled the incident, I know enough to understand there’s much more to you than your delicate beauty suggests. You have an uncommon inner strength, obvious good character, and fairness.”

“And you are a man who’s standing too close to me, Mr. Gatestone. I never get familiar with guests who stay at the inn.”

“That is wise, but it’s too late for us,” he said with conviction he knew she couldn’t deny.

Her admission had him assuming she’d been too close to a guest in the past and it hadn’t ended well for her. He could understand that causing her to be wary, causing her to deny the sensations that were like thousands of fireworks shooting between them. He had his own reasons to be careful about the desires he was harboring for her, too.

But he was a man, and some things were just so instinctive they shouldn’t be denied. She tempted him greatly. When had he ever had one cause a catch in his breath and leap of his heart by just looking at her?

He hadn’t, and now with her lips mere inches from his he was fighting the urge to give into his growing ardor and kiss her.

He stood his ground and didn’t step back, but out of honor, held up his hands, as if giving her proof he wasn’t forcing her to do anything. “Push me away if you feel I’m too close.” His words were more of a whisper than a demand. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” she whispered softly, seeming caught under the same spell that held him.

He moved his gaze to her full lips, making his meaning clear before he offered huskily, “Unless you want me to kiss you.”

Her eyes searched his in the dim glow, but she didn’t make a move. She was being cautious, he decided, thinking about the offer he put before her and the ramifications of how she might react. That gave him hope she would, at least, admit to how he was making her feel. He waited and gave her all the time she wanted to decide as night continued to fall softly around them.

Finally, she inhaled a deep, steady breath. “Your grandfather is getting settled into his rooms as should you. Guests gather in the drawing room at eight. Dinner is served at half past the hour. Now, I have things to do.” She turned to open the door.

“Wait,” he said. “I want to see you again.”

She hesitated before turning back to face him. “You will soon enough. Not that it will change anything between us,” she answered, picked up her rifle, and then slipped through the doorway and out of sight.

Gate cursed under his breath.

“Such a tempting forbidden miss,” he ground out in a frustrated whisper, followed by another curse.

Was that what made her so unbearably exciting no matter what his grandfather preached? He’d never met a young woman so strong and confident. Everything about her was drawing him toward her.

Yet …

He couldn’t forget the way he was brought up.