The Outcast's Redemption (The Infamous Arrandales) by Sarah Mallory

saw they were chained, but there was a stile built to one side. Wolf sprang over it and, having helped Grace across, he pulled her fingers on to his arm. Silently she disengaged herself. Understandable, but he could not deny the tiny pinprick of disappointment.
    * * *
    Grace was relieved to be back on the High Street and with the vicarage just ahead of them. This man was far too forward and the tug of attraction made her feel a little breathless whenever she was in his company.
    You are very foolish , she told herself sternly. His only advantage is his height. He is the only man in Arrandale taller than you and that is hardly a recommendation!
    ‘You are frowning, Miss Duncombe. Is anything amiss?’
    ‘No, not at all.’ Hastily she summoned a smile. ‘Here we are back at the vicarage. It will be quicker if we walk up the drive rather than going around to the front door and summoning Truscott to let us in.’
    Grace pressed her lips together to prevent any further inane babbling.
    * * *
    She is uneasy, thought Wolf. But how much worse would she feel if she knew I was a wanted man?
    A large hunter was standing in the stable yard and Mr Duncombe was beside it, talking to the rider, but seeing them approach he smiled.
    ‘So there you are, Grace, and in good time.’
    The rider jumped down. ‘My dear, I am glad I did not miss you altogether.’
    Wolf watched as the man caught Grace’s hand and raised it to his lips. He looked to be on the shady side of forty, stocky and thick-set, with a ruddy complexion and more than a touch of grey in his hair. His brown coat was cut well, but not in the height of fashion, and he greeted Grace with an easy familiarity. Even before they were introduced Wolf had guessed his identity.
    ‘Sir Loftus Braddenfield is our local Justice of the Peace.’
    It did not need the warning note in the parson’s mild words to put Wolf on his guard. Some spirit of devilry urged him to tug his forelock, but he suppressed it; Sir Loftus Braddenfield did not look like a fool. The man was coolly assessing him as Wolf made a polite greeting.
    ‘So you are on your way to London, eh? Where are you from, sir?’
    ‘I have been travelling in the north for some time,’ Wolf replied calmly.
    ‘And you thought you’d break your journey in Arrandale. Friend of Mr Duncombe’s, are you?’
    ‘I knew the family,’ explained Mr Duncombe. ‘A long time ago.’
    Sir Loftus was still holding Grace’s hand and it occurred to Wolf that he did not like seeing his fiancée escorted by a stranger. Wolf excused himself and as he walked away he heard Sir Loftus addressing Grace.
    ‘I wish I could stay longer, my dear, but I have business in Hindlesham. I merely called to invite you and your father to dinner this evening. But if you have visitors...’
    Grace’s reply floated across the yard to Wolf as he ran lightly up the garret stairs.
    ‘Mr Peregrine is not a visitor, Loftus. More one of Papa’s charitable cases.’
    He winced. That cool description should allay any jealous suspicions Braddenfield might have. Clearly the lady had a very low opinion of ‘Mr Peregrine’. He went inside, but as he crossed the room he could not resist glancing out of the window, which overlooked the yard. The little party was still there, but the parson and Braddenfield appeared to have finished their discussion, for the magistrate was taking his leave of Grace, raising her hand to his lips. Wolf scowled. She was smiling at Braddenfield more warmly than she had ever smiled at him.
    Kicking off his boots, he threw himself down on the bed. It did not matter what Miss Grace Duncombe thought of him. There were more pressing matters requiring his attention. Putting his hands behind his head, he thought of all he had heard from old Brent and from Jones, the caretaker at Arrandale Hall. He closed his eyes and conjured his own memories of the tragedy. He remembered the servants coming up to the hall while he knelt beside Florence’s