‘Lucas, you are no villain. You believed you were doing what was right.’

‘How can you say that?’ He shrugged her off. ‘How can you defend me?’

‘Because if you were truly wicked you would not feel like this.’ Her hand touched him again, this time on his cheek.

He opened his eyes. Annabelle was kneeling beside him, her face just inches below his own, and there were tears in her eyes. He shook his head.

‘No. I am my father’s son—’

‘You are your own man, Lucas.’

She cupped his face, gently pulled him down to her and kissed him. It was balm to his wounded spirit and he responded, holding her against his heart, allowing himself to forget everything except the relief, the joy of having her in his arms.

AUTHOR NOTE

‘Feisty’ is a word that is often applied to heroines these days. A quick look at the online dictionary gives us these two definitions: (a) having or showing exuberance and strong determination, and (b) being touchy and aggressive.

I wanted my heroine to be neither of the above. I envisaged Annabelle as a very ordinary lady, well brought up by a loving father, and with a sweet, caring nature that makes her a favourite with everyone. The danger is that such a heroine might well be (oh, heavens, dare I say it?) a little boring.

However, we all know that adversity can bring out unexpected traits in people, and Annabelle is challenged by a great deal of adversity when she meets Lucas. He is an ex-soldier who for the past fifteen years has thought of nothing but revenge upon the man he thinks has wronged him. He sees Annabelle as a weapon he can use against her father, but he soon discovers that she has a core of steel beneath that soft exterior.

This whole story came about because of two places I pass regularly. One is a turning called Burnt Acres Lane and the second is a ruined ancient house. At one time it was a substantial manor house, but has been abandoned and partially burned down, so that now only the stone walls and a few roof timbers remain. Whenever I pass this sad old ruin I long to rebuild it, but since that is not possible for me I have done the next best thing and turned it into a story! So was born Morwood Manor, a house struck by tragedy—but, hopefully, if my hero and heroine can overcome their differences, Morwood can once more become a lovely family home.

Happy reading!

About the Author

SARAH MALLORY was born in Bristol, and now lives in an old farmhouse on the edge of the Pennines with her husband and family. She left grammar school at sixteen to work in companies as varied as stockbrokers, marine engineers, insurance brokers, biscuit manufacturers and even a quarrying company. Her first book was published shortly after the birth of her daughter. She has published more than a dozen books under the pen-name of Melinda Hammond, winning the Reviewers’ Choice Award from singletitles.com for Dance for a Diamond and the Historical Novel Society’s Editors’ Choice for Gentlemen in Question. Sarah Mallory has also twice won the Romantic Novelists’ Association RONA Rose Award for The Dangerous Lord Darrington and Beneath the Major’s Scars.

Previous novels by the same author:

 THE WICKED BARON

 MORE THAN A GOVERNESS

(part of On Mothering Sunday)

 WICKED CAPTAIN, WAYWARD WIFE

 THE EARL’S RUNAWAY BRIDE

 DISGRACE AND DESIRE

 TO CATCH A HUSBAND…

 SNOWBOUND WITH THE NOTORIOUS RAKE

(part of An Improper Regency Christmas)

 THE DANGEROUS LORD DARRINGTON

 BENEATH THE MAJOR’S SCARS*

 BEHIND THE RAKE’S WICKED WAGER*

 *The Notorious Coale Brothers

And in M&B:

 THE ILLEGITIMATE MONTAGUE

(part of Castonbury Park Regency mini-series)

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Bought for Revenge

Sarah Mallory

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To TGH

Chapter One

‘The terms are very favourable, Mr Havenham. Messrs Powell & Son say their client is willing to pay the full asking price for Morwood and is ready to settle immediately.’

Annabelle looked hopefully towards her father to see how he would take this news.

‘And what is this client’s name, Mr Telford?’ she asked. ‘Do we know him?’

The lawyer adjusted his spectacles and studied the paper in his hand. ‘A Mr Monserrat. Not a local man, I think.’

Mr Havenham sighed, the gold tassel on his cap dancing merrily as he shook his head.

‘No one in Stanton has any money to spare. What with the war, and then last year’s poor crops, it is a bad time for everyone.’

‘Waterloo was more than a year ago, Papa,’ said Annabelle. ‘And I know last summer was particularly bad, but the worst of the winter weather is over now and that always makes me feel hopeful. With a little economy, and the new mortgage Mr Telford raised for us on Oakenroyd, we shall come about.’

‘Exactly,’ agreed the lawyer. ‘And the money from the sale of Morwood will pay off most of your creditors.’

‘But not the gambling debts,’ said Samuel. ‘I should never have gone to Harrogate.’ The regret in her father’s voice made her heart ache, but Annabelle said nothing. Her father had gone to the spa town to take the waters, leaving her to run Oakenroyd, and he had returned with his health no better and his purse several thousand pounds lighter after being persuaded to enter the card room of the Dragon Hotel for several nights running.

Mr Telford shifted uncomfortably and sifted through the papers in his hand.

‘No, not those. But I have had some correspondence with your, er, creditor at Harrogate. He is willing for you to pay off that loan in instalments.’

‘But that is very good,’ declared Annabelle. ‘Once Burnt Acres—I mean Morwood—is sold and we have settled the other debts then we shall be able to pay him off, too. It will mean careful management for a few years, but nothing we cannot cope with.’

‘I agree, Miss Havenham.’ The lawyer nodded. ‘That is the reason I think you should consider this offer very seriously, sir. If we act now then the sale of Morwood can go through before Lady Day.’

‘But to sell Burnt Acres,’ sighed Samuel. ‘After all this time.’

Annabelle turned to him, taking his hands.

‘Papa,’ she said gently, ‘We both love Morwood, with its trees and the ruins of the old Manor, but you know we have never made use of it as we should. Indeed, it is because it is so wild and neglected that I love it, but Morwood is the least profitable of your lands, and we must sell something.’

‘We were very fortunate to find a buyer so quickly,’ added the lawyer. ‘And one who is willing to pay the full price.’

‘Then I suppose it must be.’

‘Indeed it must, Papa,’ said Annabelle. ‘We have no choice if we are to continue living here at Oakenroyd in the style we have come to enjoy.’

Mr Havenham straightened his shoulders.

‘Very well, Mr Telford. Draw up the contracts. We will sell Morwood.’

The tree began to fall and Lucas stepped back, listening to the satisfying crack as the remaining section of trunk broke away. There was the swish of the branches sweeping down to the ground, the flutter of startled birds, then silence as everything settled once more. He lowered his long-handled axe and was contemplating his handiwork when the thud of hooves made him look round.

A rider was cantering towards him through the trees, a woman in a nut-brown riding habit mounted on a powerful grey horse that sidled and snorted as she drew rein. He guessed who she was, of course. No one else would be riding in this place save the daughter of its owner. The man he had vowed to ruin. Lucas had removed his jacket and waistcoat while he worked and he glanced at them now, knowing it was impolite for any gentleman to greet a lady in just his shirt. But she was the daughter of his enemy and he would not show her any courtesy. He watched her approach, acknowledging with reluctant appreciation the expert way she brought the powerful animal to a stand just feet from him.

‘What are you doing?’

Her voice was low and musical, the tone not unfriendly, but Lucas was not minded to reply in kind.

‘I should have thought that was obvious.’

Her brows went up. She said with a touch of hauteur, ‘Have you asked permission to cut down trees on this land?’

He regarded her in silence, knowing his cool stare was an insult. She frowned and it was with no little satisfaction he noted the spark of anger in her grey eyes. ‘Well?’

He rested the axe against the newly felled tree trunk. ‘As a matter of fact I haven’t spoken to anyone about it.’

‘Then I think you should cease work here until you have done so.’

He allowed himself a smile and took a step closer. ‘Oh? And are you going to make me stop?’

‘I shall report you to the steward.’

‘I don’t think so.’ He reached out and caught the reins. The grey’s ears came forwards and the animal snorted nervously.

‘How dare you. Let go immediately.’

She kicked her heel against the grey’s flank, but Lucas kept a tight grip on the reins and the animal merely sidled.

‘You will learn I don’t take orders from anyone,’ he growled.

‘Release my horse. You cannot keep me here.’

‘I think you will find I can do whatever I want.’

Alarm flashed across her face, but it was quickly masked. She said haughtily, ‘Release the reins. I will not ask you again.’

He bared his teeth, his next words a deliberate, taunting challenge. ‘Perhaps you should try begging me.’

Those grey eyes positively flamed now and she raised her riding crop. She brought her arm swinging down, but he was ready for her. He reached up with his free hand and caught her wrist. The horse, unsettled, reared and plunged, unseating the rider. Instantly Lucas released the reins and caught the lady as she fell.

He had braced himself for her weight and was surprised at how light she was in his arms. Her face was only inches from his own and he could see the tiny flecks of green in her eyes. For a few moments she was still, shocked, then she began to struggle, pushing against him.

‘Let me go, you brute.’

‘Brute, is it?’ With a laugh he put her down, but kept hold of her arms, for although she no longer had her riding crop she tried to beat him with her fists. His hands slid to her wrists and he forced them behind her, pinning her to him. ‘Now, madam, do you still call me a brute?’

He could feel her pressing against him as her breast heaved with indignation. The top of her head only came up to his chin. She was so delicate he thought he might crush her with one hand. she threw back her head and glared at him with an angry, fearless gaze.

‘Monster,’ she threw at him. ‘Beast… . Certainly not a gentleman!’

He hardly heard her. His eyes were fixed upon her lips. They were red and full and without thinking he lowered his head and kissed her. She froze. Then, surprisingly, she yielded, becoming soft and pliant in his arms. But only for a moment. The next she was struggling to free herself. He raised his head, shaken by his actions. He had intended to antagonise her, but had been unable to resist the invitation of that extremely kissable mouth. Desire had leapt up immediately, fuelled by that one brief instant when she had leaned into him. He had sensed then a kindred spirit, a passionate nature to match his own. But even as his body hardened and the heated blood pounded through his veins he had known an overwhelming impulse to protect, to cherish the delicate creature imprisoned in his arms.

It would not do, he had no use for sentiment and must remember that she might well be a weapon he could use against his enemy. Better to befriend her, if he could.

‘Ooh, that is, is infamous,’ she declared, struggling to free herself. ‘To steal a kiss when I am quite helpless to resist you. I shall add thief to the epithets I heap upon your head. Let me go this instant!’

He laughed, but self-preservation made him hold on to her.

‘Very well. Only stop spitting like a wildcat and I will release you. Stop it, I say.’

She ceased her struggles and stared up at him, her eyes wary. He released her and stepped back.

‘There. You are free to go, Miss Havenham.’

‘You know my name?’

‘Of course. Perhaps I should introduce myself.’

She tossed her head and turned away from him, saying over her shoulder, ‘Pray do not. I have no wish to know you.’

She began to walk to where the big grey was quietly cropping the grass.

‘Oh, but I think you should, since we are to be neighbours.’

That stopped her in her tracks. He felt a grim sense of satisfaction as she turned slowly back to face him.

‘You are the new owner? Mr Monser…’

‘Monserrat. Yes.’

‘I did not think the contract was agreed yet.’

‘I signed the papers yesterday. I have builders coming here next week, but in the meantime I thought I might remove a few of the trees that have sprung up on the drive.’

She went to collect her horse. Once she had picked up the reins she looked past him to the blackened shell of the old house.

‘The house burned down over twenty years ago. No one has been here since then.’

‘Save you.’

‘Save me.’

‘I do not know why your father bought it, if he did not plan to do anything with it.’

‘I think at one time he was going to rebuild the house. Now he says it would cost a small fortune to put it right.’ She scooped up her crop and as she straightened she looked across at him. ‘Is that what you plan to do?’

‘Yes. I plan to put things right.’

He stared at the old house. It was a stone-built building, two storeys high with a central porch and a wide, gabled wing jutting from each end. The sturdy walls were mostly intact, but the roof was missing and greenery had forced its way between the remaining blackened timbers. Ivy curled around the chimneys. the stone-mullioned windows had lost all their glass and stared like blind eyes across what had been the south lawn. It was now dotted with small trees, like the drive. It had been a fine property once, and he would rebuild it. But whether he could bring himself to live there again…

A slight sound brought his attention back to Miss Havenham. She was leading the horse away.

‘Are you not going to ride him?’

The look she gave him was positively arctic. ‘I cannot mount without a block. I shall walk home.’

‘Let me throw you up.’ He could see the indecision in her face and added, ‘Come, Miss Havenham. Let me atone for my previous bad manners.’

‘I don’t think anything can do that.’

He grinned. ‘At least let me try.’

She did not walk away and he took that for an assent. He approached and she waited warily, murmuring to the grey as she gathered up the reins.

‘Steady, Apollo. Easy, boy.’

The horse seemed to know what was expected of him and stood patiently. Lucas ran a hand down the animal’s muzzle.

‘Apollo. A good name for him. He is a handsome creature.’

She did not reply, but placed the toe of her riding boot in his cupped hands. He threw her easily up into the saddle and she made herself comfortable, at the same time controlling Apollo with no more than a quiet word. Lucas made no attempt to help her, merely watching as she slipped her boot into the stirrup and arranged her skirts to cover an extremely dainty ankle. He stepped back.

‘I shall be calling upon your father very soon, Miss Havenham. I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again.’

‘I shall tell Papa to expect you. I will also make it clear to our people that the manor is sold and is now out of bounds.’

‘Please, feel free to ride here whenever you wish.’

She shook her head. ‘I do not intend ever to come here again.’ She looked around, as if committing the place to memory, then turned her horse and cantered away.

Lucas watched her go, a slight smile playing around his mouth. Perhaps he should have treated her more gently, but she had spirit, and he had enjoyed rousing her temper. He had enjoyed kissing her, too, although that had never been part of his plan, but she had looked so damned alluring there in his arms, how could he help himself? She was no beauty, the curls that peeped beneath her riding hat were a nondescript brown, but her features were regular and he had already discovered that her generous mouth was perfectly formed for kissing. She had a good figure, too—he recalled how well it felt, pressed against his. Smiling, he picked up his axe. How much greater would be Havenham’s ruin if he lost his daughter as well as his fortune?

Nerves jangling, Annabelle struggled to keep Apollo at a steady canter. She did not intend to slow down until the chimneys of Oakenroyd were in sight. She was shaken by her encounter with the new owner of Morwood, but not overly frightened and that surprised her. To be accosted by a strange man, one so dark and foreign looking, too, to be pulled from her horse—here she stopped herself. She must be honest. She had fallen from her horse and could have been badly injured if he had not caught her. And he had held her so easily, as if she had weighed nothing. The experience had been quite…exhilarating.

That did not excuse his behaviour afterwards, of course, when he had kissed her. She let herself go over that moment again. She could still recall the feel of his mouth on hers, and the moment when she had felt something in her leap to respond.

Outrageous!

From all she had been told, all she had read, she knew she should have been terrified at being imprisoned in those strong arms. She should have fainted quite away. Annabelle gave a little huff of impatience. She had never thought much of those heroines who burst into tears at the slightest thing and swooned as soon as a man touched them. Why, that would leave the man free to behave in whatever way he wished. Surely it was better to fight and struggle, as she had done?

And in the end he had let her go. Well, there was little else he could do. A poor start to his ownership if he was to ravish his neighbour’s daughter at the outset. She wondered if he planned to settle at Morwood Manor. As its name suggested, it had once been the major property in the area. Her father had a watercolour of the house as it had been before the fire, a substantial stone building dating back to the time of the Tudors. The wealth of its owners had declined since then, and the last owner, Jonas Blackstone, was said to have been a poor landlord. That was well before Annabelle had been born, however. Her father had bought the manor lands soon after the fire, but although he had looked after the tenant farmers, he had never done anything with the house and grounds. Morwood had remained unused and untended, and Annabelle had grown up roaming freely through the woods and the ruins. They had been her playground, but that of course was ended now. She would avoid the manor and its odious owner in future.

Annabelle stabled her horse and went indoors. She decided not to tell her father of her meeting with their new neighbour. Papa was not yet sixty, but a serious illness a few years ago had aged him considerably and she felt very protective towards him. He had always been so much more than just a father to her. Annabelle had never known Mama, who had died giving birth to her, and the loss of her only brother ten years ago had brought her much closer to her one remaining relative. Papa was the very kindest of men and had always been both her mentor and confidant. She could not lie to him and details of her encounter with Mr Monserrat would grieve him deeply, so it was best not to speak of it at all. Besides, the man had acknowledged that he had acted improperly, had he not? So she would not dwell upon it, although she would make sure he never had the opportunity to repeat his outlandish behaviour.

Annabelle found her father in the morning room, reading beside the crackling fire.

‘Ah, Belle, my love.’ He put down his book. ‘You have been a long time, I was beginning to worry.’

She glanced at the clock as she crossed the room, stripping off her gloves.

‘I beg your pardon, Papa. But it has not been so very long, certainly no longer than usual.’

‘I wish you would take Clegg with you, my dear. I am always afraid you might meet with some accident.’

Annabelle’s thoughts flew back to her encounter with Mr Monserrat. Could her groom have prevented that outrageous kiss?

‘Mayhap I will then, in future.’ Her eyes fell upon the little table beside his chair. ‘I see you have been playing chess. Have you had a visitor?’

‘Yes, Mr Keighley called and stayed to play a game.’ He chuckled. ‘I think his real purpose was to see you, but he bore your absence very well.’

‘And so he might, since it gave him the opportunity to play with one of the finest chess players in the county,’ she returned, smiling.

James Keighley was a widower and good friend to her father. Lately he had shown more of an interest in Annabelle and she suspected that he might be thinking of making her an offer. She was not sure how she felt about this, since he was on the shady side of forty and she had not yet reached one-and-twenty.

However, she knew the match would make her father happy. Mr Keighley’s fortune was not inconsiderable and he owned a substantial property some five miles away from Oakenroyd. As his wife she would have every comfort. Except one.

Annabelle might despise the lachrymose heroines of romantic novels, but she had not set herself against the idea of marrying for love. She knew it was unlikely that a strong, handsome hero would appear to sweep her off her feet or save her from some hideous fate, but she still cherished the hope that she would meet a man for whom she could feel more than a tepid affection.

Unbidden, the image of their new neighbour rose up in her mind. There was no doubt of his strength. She recalled quite clearly the powerful thighs encased in buckskins, and the wide shoulders made even broader by the billowing shirt sleeves, but in no way could she think of him as handsome. His rugged features, raven hair and coal-black eyes belonged more to a villain.

‘…my dear, you are not listening to me.’

She gave a start at her father’s gentle admonition. ‘I beg your pardon, Papa, I was daydreaming.’

‘I said Keighley has offered to take us up in his carriage when we go to dine with the Rishworths next week.’

‘How kind of him. I confess I had hoped he would offer to bring us home, even if we had to walk to Rishworth Lodge.’

Her father tutted. ‘But it should not be necessary to call upon anyone to drive us.’

‘Now, Papa, you know we agreed it is an expense we can well do without.’ She sank down beside him. ‘The cost of the coachman, plus the horses eating their heads off in the stable, was far too much, especially when we rarely go farther than Stanton these days.’

‘But to have no carriage—’

‘We have the gig, Papa, and that is more than sufficient. Now,’ she said brightly, determined to turn his thoughts, ‘I will put off my riding habit and then perhaps you will give me your arm for a stroll around the gardens. We need to be thinking about the summer planting.’

She hurried away to change her gown. There was no doubt that her father was finding it difficult to come to terms with the economies they were forced to make, but she had every confidence that in a year or two they would be able to resume their previous mode of living, and possibly even use their own carriage again. Of course, if she married James Keighley their fortunes would alter overnight. But was that sufficient incentive to marry a man for whom she felt only a mild liking? It was a vexing question.

‘But not one you need to answer yet,’ she said, frowning at her reflection as she tidied her hair. ‘Time to make a decision if and when he asks you, my girl.’

Chapter Two

‘So, Mr Monserrat has arrived,’ said Mr Havenham.

They were at breakfast. Annabelle was buttering a freshly baked muffin and did not look up.

‘Has he, Papa?’ She kept her tone decidedly cool.

‘Yes, Telford mentioned he was the new owner of Burnt Acres, did he not? Although I suppose we shall have to call it Morwood Manor again now. He has written me a very civil letter and I have invited him to call today.’

‘Oh, that is unfortunate. I have arranged to visit old Mrs Hall in Stanton and shall not be able to meet him.’

‘But I have not yet told you the time, my dear.’

‘I know, dear Papa, but I am engaged to go on to Mrs Ford’s for a fitting for my new gown.’ She gave him her sweetest smile. ‘If I’d had more notice I should of course cry off from both these appointments, but as it is…’

‘No, no, you must go, especially to visit Mrs Hall, I would not have you backward in your attentions to such an old friend. Very well, my dear, off you go. I will give our new neighbour your apologies.’

‘Mr Monserrat, sir.’

A very correct butler showed Lucas into the sunny drawing room at Oakenroyd, and as the door closed quietly behind him Lucas took the opportunity to study the man waiting for him.

He suffered something of a shock. In his mind he saw a tall, upright man with brown hair and grey eyes, very like his daughter, but his host was an elderly gentleman, his shoulders slightly stooped and his hair silver white. He came forwards now to greet his guest. His grey eyes were smiling, but Lucas had the impression of a pervading air of gentle sadness about the man.

No sympathy, Lucas reminded himself. Havenham is your enemy. Smile, play his game of friendliness, but keep your distance.

Lucas listened to his words of welcome. They seemed sincere, uttered in a quiet voice that matched his mild demeanour. There was no hint that Miss Havenham had told him of their meeting. Surely if she had done so his welcome would have been less cordial?

Lucas took a seat, accepted a glass of wine. After all, that was the civilised thing to do. It did not imply that they must therefore be upon good terms. In the past he had shown equal courtesy to a captured French officer, knowing that if they met on the battlefield they would neither of them have the slightest hesitation in killing the other.

But this is underhand. Havenham doesn’t know you are his enemy.

The thought was unwelcome, but Lucas pushed it aside. Havenham’s conscience should tell him that retribution would come, one day. He dragged his attention back to what his host was saying.

‘I regret my daughter is not here to greet you. She is gone on a visit of duty that could not be put off.’

‘That, sir, is my loss,’ murmured Lucas. So she was avoiding him? Well, there was plenty of time to renew that particular acquaintance.

‘No, no, she is eager to meet you.’ The old man smiled. ‘She will want to see the new owner of Morwood. The house has been empty since before she was born and she has grown up running free in the grounds.’

‘Really? I am surprised you allowed her to wander so far from home.’

‘It is safe enough. She was always accompanied by a servant, or her brother, when he was alive.’ A hesitation, a flicker of pain, quickly brushed aside and Havenham continued. ‘Now she is grown, of course, she does ride unaccompanied, but I do not worry about her going there. The locals never venture on to the estate. They believe it is haunted.’ The old man fell silent, looking dreamily into the fire.

‘And is that what you believe too, sir?’ Lucas prompted him. ‘Is that why you have never done anything with it?’

‘No, but it holds painful memories for me.’ Lucas saw another shadow of pure anguish cross the lined face, then Samuel seemed to shake himself out of his reverie and said brightly, ‘But that is all in the past now. You are about to bring Morwood alive again and I am very glad of it.’

Lucas stayed for no more than the required half hour, fending off questions he did not wish to answer and making enquiries of his own about Morwood. All the time part of him was marvelling that he could sit so calmly exchanging pleasantries with a man whom he had hated for so many years. A man he planned to destroy.

Annabelle had been thankful to escape from the house and from a meeting with Mr Monserrat. She would have to meet him sometime and part of her was a little ashamed that she was putting it off, but she stifled the quiet voice that was her conscience and went in sunny spirits to call upon the elderly Mrs Hall. However, when she sat down to dinner that night she could not forbear asking her father about his visitor.

‘I am sorry you missed him,’ said Samuel as he took his seat opposite her. ‘He has great plans for the manor, and I am glad of it. I should have done more with the house…’

‘And is this Mr Monserrat a gentleman, sir?’ Annabelle prompted him in an attempt to dispel his wistfulness.

‘Oh, I think so, my dear, although he is very dark. He was a soldier, you know, at Waterloo and before that in the Peninsula. I have no doubt the hot sun is responsible for his complexion, he is almost swarthy.’

She was about to say that could not account for his black eyes and hair, but she remembered, just in time, that her father did not know she had met their neighbour.

‘In fact, he reminds me of someone.’ Her father leaned forwards, a slight crease in his brow as if he were trying to catch some fleeting thought. He smiled and shook his head. ‘No, it will not come and is probably a nonsense. But you shall see for yourself when you meet him.’

‘I will indeed.’ Annabelle turned her attention to her food, hoping that it would be some time before she was obliged to see Mr Monserrat.

Samuel had been looking forward to dinner with the Rishworths, but when Annabelle had helped him into Mr Keighley’s carriage, she knew he would be comparing it unfavourably with their own well-padded barouche, which was now stored away at the back of the coach house.

‘Mr Havenham, welcome, sir, and Miss Havenham.’ Lady Rishworth greeted them with her usual jolly smile before turning to welcome Mr Keighley, who followed them into the drawing room. A number of guests had already arrived, all of them known to Annabelle. She considered it a misfortune that the closest was Mrs Kensley, a widow as colourless as her grey garb but with a waspish tongue. She gave Annabelle a false smile as she expressed her surprise at seeing them there so early.

‘I had thought you would be walking here tonight, Mr Havenham, and did not expect you for a good half hour yet.’

‘No, no, ma’am, Mr Keighley was good enough to call for us.’

Annabelle admired her father’s calm and good-natured response.

‘But it must be such a blow to lose your own horses,’ the widow continued. ‘Times are very hard indeed when Oakenroyd must close its stables.’

‘They are not closed, ma’am,’ Annabelle corrected her. ‘It is only the carriage horses that have been sold. Old Simmons the coachman gave notice that he wanted to retire and we decided that we would not replace him for a while.’

‘My dear, you do not need to explain to me.’ The widow patted her arm and it was all Annabelle could do not to pull away from the condescending gesture. ‘So many Stanton families are struggling at present. No doubt you are regretting spending all that money on your presentation…’

Annabelle’s ill humour disappeared and she laughed at the absurdity of the remark.

‘My dear ma’am, that was two years past. But since you mention it, I do not regret a groat spent on a London Season.’ She continued, knowing what the widow’s next comment would be, ‘Neither do I regret returning unmarried. It means I can look after my father and be mistress of Oakenroyd. What more could I ask for?’

Annabelle watched with no small measure of satisfaction as Mrs Kensley blinked and opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again. She was well aware that the widow had prepared any number of sympathetic and patronising comments, but none would be appropriate now. Her father touched her arm.

‘My dear, let me present our new neighbour to you.’ Annabelle’s head came up. ‘Mr Monserrat, my daughter, sir.’

So he was here and looking very different from their previous meeting. In The confines of the Rishworths’ commodious drawing room he looked even larger than she remembered. The superb cut of his black evening coat did nothing to lessen the width of his shoulders, and the snowy whiteness of his cravat and shirt-points accentuated the deep tan of his skin. His hair, black as jet, was brushed back from a face that was more rugged than handsome with heavy brows that gave his aquiline features a rather hawkish look. She could more readily believe him a soldier than a courtier, yet when he made his bow to her she could not fault it.

‘We have met,’ he said, not taking his eyes from her. ‘I am glad to see you are none the worse for your little tumble, Miss Havenham.’

‘Tumble?’ Samuel was immediately on the alert. ‘When was this?’

She glared at the man, but he met her furious gaze with a bland smile as he replied.

‘On Monday last, sir. Miss Havenham had the misfortune to come off her horse and I was able to assist her.’

Mrs Kensley tittered. ‘Have I not always said that big horse is no mount for a lady?’

Her remark was ignored. Mr Havenham turned a frowning look upon Annabelle.

‘My dear child, you said nothing of this to me.’

‘Because it was of so little importance, Papa.’

‘But you did not tell me you had met Mr Monserrat.’

‘We were not introduced,’ she explained, keeping her voice cool. ‘And he merely helped me back into the saddle.’

‘Oh, my love, have I not said you should take your groom when you are out riding?’

Her tormentor nodded. ‘Let me add my entreaties to your father’s, Miss Havenham. You can never be sure what dangers you might meet in the woods.’

She almost gasped at his impertinence, but contented herself with a swift, angry glance as she addressed her father. ‘You have, sir, and in future I shall make sure I am always accompanied.’

Mrs Kensley was watching the interchange closely. She gave a little cough to remind everyone of her presence.

‘Perhaps you should consider selling such a dangerous brute, Mr Havenham,’ she suggested. ‘That would save you a deal of worry.’

Annabelle felt her temper rising, but support came from a surprising quarter.

‘Oh, I doubt that,’ remarked Mr Monserrat. ‘I suspect the lady would be a most uncomfortable companion if she was obliged to give up her riding.’

‘You are very right, sir. My poor father would soon be at his wits’ end with me. No, Mrs Kensley, it will be a sad day indeed when I am forced to part with Apollo.’

With a tight little smile she led her father away, muttering under her breath, ‘Insufferable woman! She delights in our troubles.’

Her father patted her arm. ‘Hush now, Belle. People are bound to talk about our economies. We must bear it as best we can. It will soon pass, when there is more fruitful gossip to be had.’

‘You are right, Father, and I beg your pardon. I am not as forbearing as you.’

‘You are young, my love, and impatient of adversity. These little setbacks happen and there are always those who will revel in others’ misfortune. We will smile and show them it is a small matter.’

‘Always so kind, Papa, always so gentle. I will try to learn from your example.’

‘You are a good girl, Belle.’ He patted her cheek. ‘Now, let me sit by the fire with my old friends while you go and enjoy yourself with the younger set!’

The Rishworths were well known for their lively dinners, and when they sat down at the table Annabelle found herself with a group that included Celia Rishworth and Lizzie Scanlon, two young ladies who were determined to enjoy themselves. She was some distance from her father, but since he was seated comfortably between his hostess and Mrs Hall she knew he would be happily entertained during the meal. Mr Monserrat was also at that end of the table. He appeared to be at ease with his company, but throughout the meal she was aware of his dark and enigmatic presence, watching and listening.

The dinner was excellent and the company determined to be pleased. Lucas set himself to entertain the ladies on either side of him, expertly drawing them out to talk about themselves and deftly turning aside all questions about his own background. On one side was Mrs Kensley, the widow whose caustic remarks had inflamed Miss Havenham. While cleverly eluding all her attempts to learn more about him, he encouraged her to talk. Lucas had her measure and took none of her comments or opinions at face value, but from her artless chatter he gained a great deal of valuable information about the neighbourhood.

As the meal progressed he studied Samuel Havenham, seated across the table from him. He had learned that Havenham’s health was not good, but this merely confirmed his own impression. The old man ate sparingly, just enough to avoid offending his hostess, and his wine glass rarely required topping up. However, it was easy to see that Samuel Havenham was a well-respected figure in the area, and despite being obliged to give up his carriage he was still regarded as a man of some standing. Lucas let the conversation flow around him as he continued to watch Samuel. He noticed how often his eyes strayed to his daughter, sitting at the far end of the table.

‘Miss Havenham is the belle of our local circle,’ offered Mrs Kensley, following his glance.

‘Is she?’

The widow tittered at his cool response. ‘Oh, she is not as pretty as Miss Rishworth, nor Miss Scanlon, but she is Miss Havenham of Oakenroyd.’

‘You mean it is only her fortune that makes her so appealing.’

Mrs Kensley gave an arch laugh. ‘Oh, Mr Monserrat, that is very wicked of you, of course I do not mean any such thing! Miss Havenham is a very good sort of girl. She has been a little spoiled perhaps, but then her papa quite dotes on her. Although that is no wonder, Miss Havenham being his only surviving child. However, for my part, I find her manners a little too forward for one so young.’

‘And how old is she?’ he enquired, helping the widow to another slice of lemon tart.

‘Not yet one-and-twenty, although she rides around on that big horse of hers as if she were lady of the manor.’ Mrs Kensley stopped, her knife and fork poised in mid-air. ‘But of course that will have to end now, won’t it, sir, since you are now the owner of Morwood Manor.’ She gave another of her irritating titters. ‘Unless, that is, you are tempted to offer for her? I warn you, Mr Keighley is there before you.’

Lucas smiled vaguely and sipped at his wine. The young people at the other end of the table were enjoying a lively conversation, with Annabelle Havenham at their centre. Mrs Kensley was right, the two other young ladies would be considered more beautiful than Annabelle Havenham. Her figure was good, but no better than others he had seen, her features were regular and her soft brown hair was simply dressed. Celia Rishworth’s vivacity made her dark curls dance about her head and Miss Scanlon’s fair prettiness was set off by an over-decorated gown that must have cost her father a pretty penny, but there was something about Miss Havenham’s quiet elegance that caught the attention. He remembered she had looked magnificent when riding and it was hard to forget the disconcertingly direct gaze of her grey eyes.

His own gaze moved on around the table until it reached James Keighley. A widower, he had been informed. They had been introduced earlier and Lucas had summed up Keighley as a country gentleman of comfortable means, some years older than himself. Was there an understanding between the man and Miss Havenham? Keighley had brought the Oakenroyd party in his own carriage, but Lucas had noticed no special attention between the pair since then. If he had been enamoured of the lady, or if he had been a hot-headed young suitor then he might have been a nuisance, but Lucas did not think Keighley’s interest in Miss Havenham was likely to affect his own plans.

When the ladies withdrew, their host gave a signal to the butler.

‘Now we can be comfortable.’ He leaned forwards to address Lucas. ‘I know you were a military man, Monserrat, but I hope you won’t think us unpatriotic to bring French brandy to the table now that the emperor has finally been defeated.’

‘Not at all,’ returned Lucas, pushing his glass out to be filled. ‘I am pleased to see you are supporting the new regime.’

‘We are, sir,’ declared Mr Scanlon, ‘and since Sir John is magistrate for these parts you can be sure that the duty has been paid on the brandy, too!’

There was general laughter at this.

‘So you were in the army, Mr Monserrat,’ remarked Mr Keighley. ‘What is it brings you to Stanton, sir?’

‘Have you not heard?’ said Scanlon. ‘He has purchased Morwood Manor and means to restore it. Ain’t that right, sir?’

‘It is,’ averred Lucas.

‘Well, now you are here,’ said Rishworth, ‘perhaps you would be interested in investing locally.’

‘That depends upon the investment.’

Sir John Rishworth sat back in his chair, preparing to expound upon what was clearly a favourite theme.

‘Our new toll road, for example. A number of us subscribed to the venture two years ago, to build a new road running around Dyke’s Ridge. The old road, you see, dips down very steeply past Oldroyd Farm to cross the ford, but the valley bottom is almost a bog. In winter the road is well nigh impassable. We hope the new road will improve trade to the town.’

‘Unfortunately it has not done so yet,’ observed Mr Keighley.

‘No,’ agreed Sir John. ‘Last year’s bad harvest means trade in Stanton has been very poor and we have not yet recovered our costs.’

Samuel Havenham sighed. ‘I had hoped we would have turned a profit by now.’

‘You could always sell your share in the venture,’ suggested Lucas.

Havenham shook his head. ‘No, no, we shall come about. Besides, the subscription was not so much an investment for me as for my daughter. A little something for her when I am gone.’

His neighbours cried out at that and declared they hoped Mr Havenham would be with them for many years to come.

‘If you are interested, Monserrat, there are several of us who might wish to sell on our shares to you,’ called a bewhiskered gentleman from the far end of the table.

‘Aye,’ cried Scanlon. ‘You may have mine with pleasure. I haven’t seen any improvement to business in Stanton or recovered my costs yet.’

Sir John waved one hand in a placating gesture. ‘Be calm, gentlemen. Once the mail coach begins to use the new road next summer our fortunes will improve, trust me.’

‘Perhaps Mr Monserrat has more patience than I,’ retorted Scanlon. ‘What do you say, Monserrat, would you like to take my shares off me?’

‘I will consider it.’

‘I think he is better keeping his funds to restore Burnt Acres,’ laughed the bewhiskered gentleman.

Lucas raised one black brow in enquiry. ‘Burnt Acres?’

‘Morwood Manor. Burnt Acres is what we’ve called that land for more years than I care to remember.’

‘Oh?’ Lucas kept his face impassive. ‘Why is that?’

‘Goes back to when the house burned down five-and-twenty years ago,’ explained Sir John. ‘Owner and his wife lost their lives in the fire.’

‘Aye, sad business.’ Mr Scanlon shook his head. ‘It followed a particularly dry spring. Burning debris from the house was caught up by the wind. It set fire to the surrounding trees and the gorse. By morning the house was a ruin and everything around it was scorched and blackened.’

A chill was spreading through Lucas, but he forced himself to ignore it. He asked his next question with studied indifference. ‘What caused the fire?’

Rishworth shrugged. ‘Angus Dutton was the magistrate then, so I am not familiar with the details, but no one knows for sure. It is thought it started in a bedchamber—the mistress of the house was a foreign lady from warmer climes and didn’t like this northern cold. She insisted on a fire in her room, day and night, at all seasons.’

Lucas, my love, come and read with me by the fire.

Samuel Havenham shifted in his chair. ‘Let us hope Mr Monserrat will bring some happier memories to the place.’

Their host signalled to the butler to fill the glasses again. ‘You’ve taken on a deal of work there, sir,’ he remarked.

‘Aye, but it’s brought some much-needed employment to the town,’ remarked Mr Scanlon. ‘Isn’t that so, Mr Monserrat?’

‘Yes, I use local labour where I can.’

‘Good for you, sir. And where are you staying while all this work is going on at Morwood?’ asked the bewhiskered gentleman. ‘I haven’t been there for years, but I understand the house is merely a shell.’

‘It is. I am staying at the Red Lion.’

Rishworth chuckled. ‘Ah, then let me warn you to watch out for the ladies, sir. The Red Lion holds the monthly assembly, and with you living there, they will expect you to attend.’

‘Aye,’ laughed another who had reached the roistering stage and was banging the table. ‘They’ll have you marked down as a dance partner and maybe more, if they have daughters to marry, eh, Sir John?’

Their host laughed. ‘I ain’t looking for a husband for Celia yet, but her mother is no different from the rest, looks upon every single man as a possible catch. Sorry to put it so bluntly, Monserrat, but there it is…’

Lucas smiled and shrugged and the conversation moved on, growing louder and more boisterous as the brandy and port flowed freely. By the time Sir John led them back to the drawing room to join the ladies, many of the gentlemen were decidedly rosy-cheeked. Lucas had drunk comparatively little and as the gentlemen ambled their way out of the dining room he hung back to wait for Samuel Havenham. Slowly they crossed the hall together.

‘I hope my neighbours’ little jests did not offend you,’ said Havenham in his mild way. ‘They are as good a set of gentlemen as one could hope to find, but the wine and the brandy, you know…’

‘I understand,’ said Lucas. ‘I am pleased at the warm welcome I have received since I came here.’

They were entering the drawing room and Lucas observed that Annabelle was watching him from across the room. A wry smile tugged at his mouth. There was one person whose welcome had been anything but warm. Havenham was still talking and making his way slowly but surely towards his daughter. Lucas wondered if he should excuse himself and move off, but an inner demon kept him beside the older man.

‘We have not done much entertaining of late at Oakenroyd,’ said Samuel. ‘My health, you know. I keep very much to the house during the winter months, but your coming puts me in mind of my obligations. Annabelle, my love, I was just saying to Mr Monserrat that we should hold a dinner. What do you say?’

‘Of course, Papa. Perhaps at the end of May. The weather will be more settled then and that will give me time to arrange everything. I do hope you will be able to join us, Mr Monserrat.’

She was clearly accustomed to playing hostess for her father. Her response was cool and collected, although Lucas noted how she avoided his eyes.

‘May? We cannot wait nearly two months to invite our new neighbour to dinner,’ objected Havenham.

‘Papa, I cannot possibly organise something in any less time. Invitations will need to go out and guests must have time to reply, then Mrs Wicklow must open up the guest rooms, and Cook, you know, will need notice to prepare.’

‘Yes, yes, I quite see that is the case if we are going to have a grand dinner, but in the meantime Mr Monserrat must take pot luck with us. Next week. A man cannot dine every night at the Red Lion!’ He touched Lucas’s arm. ‘Come as soon as you wish, sir. Name your day. You will find Belle keeps a very good table, you will not go hungry. And if truth be told her efforts deserve more appreciation than I can give them.’

‘You are very good, sir, and I will take you up on your invitation, gladly.’ He felt rather than saw the lady’s grey eyes upon him and turned to meet her frosty look with a blank one of his own. ‘Thursday next week would suit me very well, sir, but I would not want to inconvenience Miss Havenham.’

He could almost see the thoughts whirling through her head. She wanted to refuse, to make some excuse to put him off, but in view of her father’s invitation that was not possible. The devilish imp prompted him to say with false deference, ‘Perhaps Thursday is not her best day for cooking…’

‘Heavens, Mr Monserrat, I would not cook for you myself.’ The honeyed tone was as insincere as his own. ‘However, I can assure you that our cook is equal to feeding guests on any day of the week.’

‘Thursday it is, then,’ cried Mr Havenham, oblivious of the tension around him. ‘Splendid, splendid.’

He wandered off, but Lucas remained with Annabelle. ‘I look forward to improving our acquaintance, Miss Havenham.’ Silently she turned to walk away, but he kept beside her. ‘Ah,’ he murmured. ‘You are speechless with anticipation.’

‘I am speechless at your effrontery, first at Morwood—’

‘And now I only want to make amends.’

He could smell her perfume, not too sweet, and with a hint of citrus. He found himself leaning closer to breathe it in.

‘Let it be enough that I do not cut your acquaintance,’ she hissed.

‘But then everyone would want to know why.’

‘And you would delight in telling them, I suppose.’

‘No, no, I would not delight in it, Miss Havenham.’

She bit her lip and glared at him. He thought that if they had not been in Lady Rishworth’s drawing room she would have stamped her foot. He laughed suddenly and held out his hand to her. ‘Come, madam, your father likes me. For his sake, cry friends.’

She hesitated. Slowly, her hand crept up and into his. ‘Not friends, sir,’ she said quietly, ‘but for my father’s sake, not enemies.’

They did not speak again and later, when he lay down on his bed at the Red Lion, Lucas went over the events of the evening. He had enjoyed himself. Moreover, he had enjoyed the verbal sparring with Annabelle Havenham, so much so that when she had at last given him her hand he had felt a surge of pleasure.

He shifted uneasily. Havenham was a gentle, scholarly soul. In other circumstances he would have liked him, but it was not part of his plan to grow too fond of Samuel Havenham. Or his daughter. Lucas turned over and prepared for sleep, seeing again in his mind’s eye Annabelle’s clear eyes, the slight blush tinting her cheek during their last encounter.

On the other hand, it would do no harm at all if Annabelle Havenham grew too fond of him. Perhaps he should revise his plans. To force her to marry him to save her father would, of course, have its merit, but how much sweeter would his revenge be upon Samuel Havenham if Annabelle was to fall in love with him?

Chapter Three

Mr Havenham was sanguine about the invitation he had issued to Mr Monserrat to dine at Oakenroyd, but Annabelle could not rest. She knew her father would enjoy the evening, so she stifled her own misgivings and set about preparing a sumptuous dinner to show their new neighbour that Oakenroyd was a household of some standing in the neighbourhood. She made several journeys to the housekeeper’s room to change her mind about the dishes they should offer their guest, until at last the housekeeper, Mrs Wicklow, gently but firmly refused to discuss it any further.

‘Cook has been in charge of the kitchens for the past twenty years, Miss Belle, as you very well know, and if I tell him that you have changed your mind again he is likely to pack his bags and go off in high dudgeon, and then where should we be?’ She ushered Annabelle to the door. ‘Now, miss, I suggest you take yourself for a nice walk around the gardens while the sun is shining. The roast beef and cod loin will do very well, then we have a fine ham and apple dumplings, and I am sure we will find a few dainty sweets for when the covers are removed. Don’t you worry, my dear, your guest will not be disappointed.’

A similar indecisiveness struck Annabelle over what to wear.

‘I am mistress of this house,’ she muttered to herself as she pulled out and discarded various gowns. In the end she chose a high-waisted robe of pale-green silk, cut low across the bosom and with tight-fitting sleeves to offset the chill of a March evening. One of her many cream-muslin gowns would have been more suited to a young unmarried lady who had not yet attained her majority, but following their previous meetings she wanted Lucas Monserrat to see her as mistress of her father’s house, composed and in command.

Their guest arrived promptly and was shown into the drawing room by the butler. He was again dressed in the regulation dark coat and tight-fitting breeches, and his manner of greeting was just as it should be. She met him coolly, alert for any sign of insolence in his manner, but he was perfectly polite. Relieved, but not yet wholly convinced, she took her embroidery to a chair by the window and left her father to entertain him.

The winter weather took its toll on her father’s health and he was not able to enjoy the local society as much as he would wish, so by the spring he was always ready for company. Despite their distance from London, her father was well informed and the two men conversed easily together on a wide range of subjects, leaving Annabelle free to set her stitches and listen to their conversation with growing interest. Perhaps the evening would not be too much of a trial after all.

The good mood continued throughout dinner. Mr Monserrat directed his attention towards his host. Their discussions ranged from politics and the price of corn to the recent war. As the meal progressed Annabelle found herself relaxing. She forgot her previous animosity and even interjected her own comments into the conversation upon occasion—it was hard to remain coldly aloof with a guest who entertained her father so well.

At the correct time she excused herself and left them to their port, but it was not long before they joined her in the drawing room. Darkness had fallen and the shutters were closed. She had ordered the log fire to be built up and a quantity of candles burned steadily about the room. Annabelle glanced around her with satisfaction. No hostess could be displeased with such comfortable and elegant surroundings.

‘Mr Monserrat has great plans for the manor, my dear,’ remarked her father as she helped him to his favourite chair beside the fire. ‘He intends to restore it, very much as it was.’

‘That is admirable, sir.’ She favoured their guest with a faint smile. ‘I hope you succeed.’

‘I intend to.’ His dark eyes rested on her, cool and considering. ‘I succeed in everything I undertake.’

A frisson of disquiet ran through her, but she tried to ignore it.

‘How fortunate for you.’

‘Fortune has little to do with it.’ He waited until Annabelle was seated, then lowered his long frame into a chair. ‘I make my plans and stick to them.’

Her father chuckled. ‘But you are a young man still, if you do not mind me saying so. Life has a way of upsetting the best-laid plans.’

‘Not yours, sir, surely.’ Those dark eyes flickered about the room. ‘You look to be very comfortable here. Everything you need to make you happy.’

‘Not quite everything.’

Annabelle was immediately aware of her father’s sadness. It was in the slight droop of his shoulders and the faint change to his expression, imperceptible to a stranger.

‘Papa.’ She flew out of her chair and dropped down at his side. ‘Do not talk of it if it makes you unhappy.’

He placed one gnarled hand upon her head while he addressed his visitor.

‘I lost my wife when Belle was born, and my son died of a fever some years ago.’ He raised his eyes. ‘So you see, young man, I too have had my share of sadness. Belle is now my only joy.’

The silence following his words was broken only by the faint tick of the clock and the logs crackling in the fireplace. Belle expected their guest to say something, to murmur a word or two, of comfort, perhaps, or at least sympathy, but he said nothing. His face was impassive, the dark eyes thoughtful. She sought for something to break the silence, but within moments her father had roused himself and was smiling again.

‘We have a painting of Morwood Manor, Mr Monserrat. A watercolour. Perhaps you would like to see it.’

‘I would indeed, sir.’

‘It hangs on the landing. Annabelle, my love, perhaps you would accompany our guest? It is at the top of the stairs, you see, sir, and my legs are not what they were.’

‘I quite understand and would be obliged if Miss Havenham will show me the way.’

Annabelle wavered, wondering whether to suggest viewing it another time, in daylight, but that would require a further invitation. No, better to get it over with. She rose.

‘Of course, sir. Let us go now.’

She picked up a branched candlestick as they crossed the hall, explaining that they would need the extra light to see the painting properly. Her spine tingled as she led the way up the stairs, aware of his presence, the faint whisper of his footstep behind her, his warm breath on her neck—or was that her imagination? Surely he was not that close. She forced herself not to look around.

When they reached the landing she stopped by a small painting in a plain wooden frame.

‘Here it is.’ She lifted the candles higher. She had seen the painting many times before. It showed a long stone-built manor house with a slate roof and a gabled wing at each end. It had been painted in high summer. The creamy stone glowed against the backdrop of dark trees, and where there was now only rough grass and young saplings the artist had lovingly painted a sweeping drive curling between manicured lawns. ‘We keep it here on the upper landing so that it is out of direct sunlight and will not fade so quickly.’

He stepped closer to study the picture and Annabelle found herself looking at his profile, the hawkish nose and strong jawline, the lines of his face, so harsh they might have been carved from stone. In the dim light his hair was black as ink, his colouring so dark that even though his cheek was freshly shaved it bore a faint shadow. A man of dark thoughts, not one given to smiling. Strength emanated from his powerful frame. For all his fine clothes and good manners, he was not a man to be crossed.

Suddenly she was uncomfortable being here alone with him. The gloom and stillness were unnerving. She shivered and a few droplets of hot wax dripped on to her hand, making her gasp.

‘Here, let me hold that.’ He took the candlestick from her, his fingers brushing her skin and causing her to suppress another shiver, this time at the shock of his touch. She began to chatter to cover her nervousness.

‘This was painted just before the manor burned down. It is one of my father’s most prized possessions.’

To her relief he turned his attention again to the painting.

‘It is a good likeness.’

‘Is it? I have never seen another painting of the manor, so I cannot tell you.’

‘Who is the artist?’

‘I do not know…’

‘There is a signature.’ He held the candles closer and she peered at the faint scrawl.

‘I have never thought to look before…M.M.B…’

‘Maria Blackstone.’

She blinked. ‘Blackstone was the name of the family who lived there. Look—’ she pointed ‘—there is a small figure on the lawn.’

‘Yes, I see it. A tiny detail, easily missed.’

She leaned closer. The painting had been on the wall for as long as she could remember and she had not studied it for years.

‘It is a little boy, I think. I wonder who—’

‘Shall we go?’

His tone indicated that his interest was at an end. At the top of the stairs he put a hand beneath her elbow. Startled, she looked up and their eyes locked. His were black, unfathomable, yet she sensed danger and her breath caught in her throat. Panic gripped her, setting her heart thudding wildly, and the blood pounded so loudly in her ears that she was sure he would hear it in the gloomy stillness.

Annabelle swallowed nervously. She was being fanciful and foolish beyond permission. Straightening her shoulders, she moved away from him and began the descent, although she kept one hand lightly on the banister in case her shaking legs failed to support her.

Back in the drawing room, the tea tray had arrived.

‘It is a few miles to the Red Lion,’ explained Samuel as they came in. ‘I know you will want to get back while the moon is still high.’

‘I will indeed, sir.’ Lucas replied. He noted Annabelle’s tense countenance and could not resist teasing her, saying quietly, ‘Patience, Miss Havenham. Your ordeal will soon be over.’

Her brows rose and she muttered with icy politeness, ‘It is no ordeal, sir, I assure you.’

‘What thought you of the picture?’ Samuel enquired, unaware of the interchange.

‘Very interesting, sir.’

Samuel nodded. ‘It is an accurate representation of the way the manor used to be. Feel free to call again and look at it whenever you wish. Bring your architect, he may want to copy the detail.’

Lucas felt a smile tugging at his mouth when he saw the flicker of alarm in Annabelle’s eyes.

‘I am not employing an architect, Mr Havenham,’ he said. ‘I have drawn up my own plans for the builder.’

‘Such a lot of work,’ sighed Samuel. ‘The place has been sadly neglected. I always intended to do something about it, but…’

He trailed off and Lucas said cheerfully, ‘I do not despair of returning it to its former glory. The house is already under way and I have made a start on taming the wilderness that was once the park.’

‘I wish you good fortune, then, Mr Monserrat. If we can help in any way, you only have to ask. In fact…’ Samuel straightened in his chair ‘…if anyone knows the lie of the land it is Belle. She grew up playing in those woods and grounds.’

‘Oh, no, Papa. I am sure Mr Monserrat would be better advised to study a map.’

‘Nonsense, my love, you know every dell, every spring and stream at Morwood.’

‘But surely you could be more helpful to him, Papa,’ she persisted. ‘After all, you remember the house and grounds as they were before the fire. You have not yet given up your horses, a gentle ride would be good for you.’

A strange look came over Samuel’s face. Fear? Revulsion? Lucas could not decide, but a definite tremor ran through the old man as he shook his head.

‘No, my dear,’ he said quietly. ‘I do not care to ride there any more.’

‘I would be honoured if Miss Havenham would give me the benefit of her knowledge,’ said Lucas. ‘Perhaps, ma’am, you would ride out with me one day and show me these, er, streams and dells.’

‘An excellent idea,’ put in his host, rousing himself once more. ‘And you should do it soon, while the weather holds. What about tomorrow, sir?’

‘Papa, I do not think—’

Samuel was so caught up in his own thoughts that he did not hear her.

‘Yes, if you are free, Monserrat, I think tomorrow would be most convenient. I know Belle intended to spend the day at home, but Dr Bennett is coming over to play chess with me in the afternoon, and it is very dull work for a young lady to be sitting with two such elderly gentlemen when she would much rather be roaming free over the fields, what?’

Annabelle opened her mouth and closed it again. Her father had anticipated every objection. Lucas rose.

‘Then it is settled.’

Lucas came towards her, smiling with unholy amusement at her consternation.

‘I must be going. I shall call for you tomorrow, Miss Havenham.’ His back was to his host and he added quietly, ‘It seems you are not rid of me quite so easily.’

She bit her lip before replying with much feeling, ‘Nothing about you is easy, Mr Monserrat.’

Apollo was fresh. The big grey sidled and sidestepped playfully when Annabelle rode away from Oakenroyd, and she was glad that she could give her attention to controlling her mount and did not have to make conversation with the man who rode beside her, mounted on a hunter of equal size and strength to Apollo.

‘I am somewhat surprised you agreed to ride out with me, Miss Havenham.’

‘I did not choose to do so.’

‘If you really did not wish to come, you could have told your father the truth about our first meeting.’

Apollo took exception to a wood pigeon flying out of the hedgerow and she quietened him before making her reply.

‘That would upset him and he would be obliged to cut your acquaintance. I would not have him on bad terms with a neighbour.’ She glanced behind her. ‘And as you see, I have Clegg with me today.’

‘You would be quite safe, even if you had not brought your groom.’

His tone was perfectly sincere, but Annabelle had not forgotten his insolent manner, nor the hard looks he had given her when she had come upon him at Morwood.

‘Perhaps,’ she said coldly. ‘I would rather not put it to the test.’

‘I can see I have some work to do to gain your good opinion, Miss Havenham.’

‘A great deal,’ she retorted.

‘But you will allow me to try?’

‘That implies good behaviour does not come naturally to you.’

‘Of course not. I was in the army for fifteen years and they teach one discipline, but not society manners. Pray allow this boorish soldier a chance to redeem himself.’

He smiled, softening the harsh features. The dangerous look in his eyes disappeared, replaced by something warmer, an invitation to share his amusement. Annabelle was shaken by the transformation and had a great desire to smile back. Instead she looked away, not ready to capitulate. She pointed to a nearby lane.

‘If we turn in here, we can go across the moors and gallop the fidgets out of these horses.’

The exertion, the sensation of flying over the ground, did much to ease the tension Annabelle was experiencing. They raced neck and neck along the track that cut through the rough moorland. The gorse was coming into bloom; in a few more weeks there would be huge splashes of brilliant yellow dotted over the moors, contrasting sharply with the black, almost lifeless heather that would turn first dark green, then purple as the summer progressed. She felt at home here, free to roam, but the approaching woods reminded her that her freedom was now curtailed. That wall of trees was her boundary. The land surrounding Morwood Manor was no longer hers to ride over as she wished. She tried not to be downhearted. Her father still owned sufficient land for her to enjoy a daily gallop. She must not be greedy.

They pulled up in the shadow of the trees and waited for Clegg to catch up before joining the track that wound its way down through the woods to Morwood. Annabelle saw immediately that changes were in progress. The encroaching undergrowth had been cut back to make the path through the woods once again wide enough for a carriage.

A laugh escaped her. ‘It is like “Sleeping Beauty.”’

‘I beg your pardon?’

She had been so engrossed in her thoughts she had forgotten her companion. A self-conscious flush touched her cheeks.

‘When the prince arrives and wakes the princess. The forest has been growing around the castle for a hundred years and he has to hack his way through the brambles.’

He looked around. ‘Just five-and-twenty years has been enough to change the woods out of all recognition.’

They continued towards the house. Even before it was in sight, the sound of hammering could be heard ringing on the breeze, along with snatches of song from the workmen.

‘Your coming is timely, Mr Monserrat,’ she conceded. ‘You have brought a great deal of work to Stanton at a time when it is much needed.’

‘I have heard the harvests were bad last year.’

‘Dreadful. They called it the year without a summer, the crops rotted in the fields. The farmers had nothing to harvest, so the labourers had no work and no money was spent, thus the tradesmen suffered too.’ She shook her head, remembering the sad, strained faces in the town. ‘My father did what he could, set men on to renew the road from Oakenroyd to Stanton and rebuild the stone walls.’

‘And he borrowed money to do it.’

‘Yes.’ She looked across, frowning slightly. ‘How did you know that?’

‘A guess, merely. Ah, here we are.’

They emerged from the trees and the house now stood before them. It was just over two weeks since Annabelle had ridden here last—and been so rudely accosted, but she must try to forget that. She was astonished by the transformation. A forest of scaffolding was growing up around the old walls, the sweeping drive was covered with wagons and much of the ground between the house and the woods had been cleared of weeds and saplings.

‘I shall lay new lawns, of course, but not until the builders and stonemasons have finished their work.’ He pointed to one side of the house. ‘I propose to plant a rose garden there, on the west front.’

‘In the painting the roses are on the other side of the house.’

‘Yes, but they never prospered there.’

‘You were fortunate to find anyone to remember such a detail.’ She gazed at the busy scene with mixed feelings. Of course it was a good thing for the manor to be restored, but the abandoned ruin of the old house had been so peaceful, a tranquil haven that she had come to look upon as hers alone. That was all gone now.

Lucas watched the play of emotion on her face. She had grown up here, she considered it hers. He quickly stamped down the tiny flicker of sympathy. Annabelle Havenham was merely losing her playground: twenty-five years ago he had lost his home and his parents, everything he held dear destroyed in one terrible night. He was obliged to push the memories aside so that he could continue.

‘I have a stonemason inspecting the old walls of the house,’ he said. ‘To see which of them can be made sound. Much of the house will have to be rebuilt. Strange thing is that where the walls have collapsed much of the stone has gone. Robbed for other buildings, perhaps.’

‘There is an abundance of stone on the far side of the rise.’ She pointed with her crop to a tree-covered hill behind the house.

‘Will you show me?’ Lucas turned his horse. ‘We could go there now.’

She led the way. The old path around the base of the small hill was just passable, but although the trees were still bare of leaves she had to push the grey through the undergrowth, where the brambles were so high they snagged at her skirts. Eventually they reached a very uneven area of ground. The trees were much thinner here, growing between haphazard grassy mounds. Annabelle walked Apollo beside one particularly large mound and reached down to push aside some of the vegetation with the end of her crop.

‘This whole area is made up of piles of cut stone. It is very overgrown and the stones themselves are covered in lichen, but you will see that they are all dressed, ready to use.’

‘And use them we will. Thank you, Miss Havenham. I wonder why it was brought here?’

‘I think my father had some idea of building a house on this spot.’

‘Surely it would have been better to rebuild the old manor? The views are much better from that side of the hill.’

‘I am sure he had his reasons.’

He did not press her to explain, saying instead, ‘Tomorrow I will set men on to clear a path for the wagons. There is sufficient material here to rebuild the west wall and it should keep the builders supplied with stone until I can open up the delph again.’

‘You know about the old quarry? I suppose someone in the town told you, I did not think any of them would remember it.’

‘Clearly you were wrong.’

The frank grey eyes met his for a moment, a faint twinkle in their depths. ‘Then they have stolen my thunder, sir. I meant to amaze you with my local knowledge.’

It was the first crack in the wall of ice she had put around herself.

Lucas was heartened.

‘I am sure there is plenty more for you to show me.’

He smiled at her, but the defences were up again. She replied coldly, as if to make up for her momentary lapse in hostilities.

‘My father instructed me to show you everything that might be of interest, Mr Monserrat.’

She turned the big grey and rode on. He followed her to the valley where the natural springs welled up from the ground and she pointed out the damaged and dry culvert that had once carried water to the house. Moving into the surrounding woods, she showed him the heavily overgrown tracks that cut across the Morwood land.

‘Odd that they should have been allowed to fall into disuse.’

‘Not really. They lead only to the old house. Once that was abandoned there was no need for them.’

‘But all this woodland, untended. Do the local people not come here to gather firewood, or snare rabbits?’

‘I have never seen any sign of that. Perhaps they are afraid of the ghosts.’

Lucas looked around. In every direction the trees grew tall and thick, cutting out all sound from the rest of the world. At night it would be a very different place, dark and sinister, a place for hiding secrets.

Lucas, your father, he has the black temper this morning. You had best go away and play, my love. Keep out of his sight.

He shivered and his horse sidled as his hands clenched on the rein. Annabelle glanced at him, brows raised.

‘Have I unnerved you, with the talk of ghosts?’

‘There are no ghosts,’ he said shortly. ‘Only memories. Let us move on.’

They made their way to a sunlit valley where the warmth of the spring sunshine dispelled his melancholy and he was able to concentrate on winning over his companion.

He went carefully, showing an interest in the land, asking questions, drawing her out to tell him what she knew of the estate’s history, encouraging her to share her memories. He might tease her gently, but he maintained a rigid propriety and gradually, as the day went on, the ice maiden thawed a little.

The tour took much longer than Annabelle had anticipated, partly because the overgrown paths meant their progress was slow. They had to take long detours to reach the points of interest she wanted to show the new owner of Morwood. He was eager to see everything and she was surprised at how much she enjoyed acquainting him with the land where she had spent so many happy hours. It was impossible to stay aloof, although she caught herself up at times, refusing to respond with more than a tight smile to his pleasantries. She was still unsure of Mr Lucas Monserrat.

Clegg reminded her of the time and Annabelle was surprised by a tiny stab of regret as they left the old house and its neglected grounds behind them. They rode in silence until they reached the highest point of the moor. A sudden tinkle of bells was carried on the wind and she slowed, looking up to see a packhorse train trotting across the distant hills, while in the valley below Oakenroyd and its gardens basked in the weak sunshine. How she loved this place!

‘Your knowledge of Morwood is invaluable, Miss Havenham,’ said Lucas.

‘Thank you.’ Her response was cool. Not for the world would she let him know that she appreciated his praise, nor how much she had enjoyed herself. ‘You could gain as much from a map, I am sure.’

‘All the maps in the world are not as useful as someone who knows and loves the land. Perhaps you will come again? We have not yet seen everything.’

‘No, but there is only the Home Wood to explore. The rest is mainly farmland, and that has been well tended and needs no explanation from me.’

‘But I thought you might show me the lake.’

She looked at him, surprised. ‘You are particularly well informed, sir.’

‘You would not expect me to purchase an estate without making some push to find out what I was buying.’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘And you will come again and be my guide?’

She bit her lip. It was tempting, but she must not succumb. ‘You do not need me.’

‘Oh, I think I do, Miss Havenham. Having seen how treacherously overgrown the paths have become, I might well lose myself in the wilderness that is now the Home Wood. Remember “Sleeping Beauty.” It could be a hundred years before anyone comes to my rescue.’

His reference to her earlier comment surprised a laugh from Annabelle. He grinned back at her.

‘So you will come. Tomorrow?’

She shook her head. ‘I have an engagement.’

‘Monday, then, if the weather is good.’ Still she hesitated and he continued, ‘I intend to be at the manor all day, so come if you can.’

It had been such a pleasurable day, why not repeat it? She was sorely tempted.

‘We have reached the edge of the Oakenroyd Park,’ he said, bringing his horse to a stand. ‘I shall leave you here and hope to see you on Monday.’

‘I—Do not look for me.’ She was suddenly unsure.

The brim of his hat shaded his face and she could read nothing from his look, although she knew those black eyes were fixed on her. Unsettled, she touched her crop to Apollo’s flank and set off at a gallop across the park. She did not look back, but it was an effort. She wondered if he was still watching her, or had he ridden away, putting all thoughts of her from his mind?

Annabelle entered the house by a side door and went to find her father. He was in his study, but he put down his book when she entered.

‘So you are back at last, my love. Did you enjoy yourself at Morwood?’

‘The time went very quickly,’ she answered him evasively. ‘We covered everything to the south and east of the house. Mr Monserrat has a lot of work to do to make Morwood habitable again.’

‘But it is time. I should have done more with it.’

‘You once had plans to build another house there, did you not, Papa?’

‘Yes. I thought I might do so.’ He sighed. ‘I was going to demolish the old manor, but when it came to it…’ He sighed again. ‘Perhaps I should have sold Morwood then. Perhaps I should never have bought it.’

‘Too late to fret over that, sir,’ was Annabelle’s bracing response. ‘Instead let us be thankful that it is now being restored.’

‘Yes. Do you know, my love, I think Mr Monserrat’s coming will prove beneficial to the whole area. I am glad you have shown him over the grounds, Belle. I would not want him to think us anything less than good neighbours.’

She walked to the window, gazing out at the tranquil gardens, everything so neat and orderly.

‘He has asked me to ride out with him again, Papa. On Monday.’

‘And will you go, Belle?’

She raised her eyes, looking past the well-kept domesticity of Oakenroyd to the rugged moors beyond. Even in the sunshine they had a barren look to them, a wildness that attracted her. And beyond the moor lay the neglected groves of Morwood and their enigmatic owner.

‘Belle?’ Her father spoke again. ‘Will you ride out with Mr Monserrat?’

She smiled.

‘Yes, Papa. I think I shall.’

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