finally emerged from her reverie once more to ask, "What did you think when you first saw me?"
"I thought you'd finally needed to use the trick I taught you about keeping travel money tucked into your shoes, and came flying home for sanctuary. I knew you'd tell me what and why in your own good time."
Harriet chuckled. "No doubt you've been keeping Papa from marching up to me and bluntly demanding what's the matter since I first got home."
How very true. "Your father and I are both concerned. We hate seeing one of our chicks sad."
"I hate being sad," Harriet answered. She made a small, desperate gesture. "I have no right to be sad. And it makes me feel so dull and useless, like someone wrapped me up in soggy wool blankets and left me in a dark closet." She sighed. "And it hurts. Everything hurts." Hannah did not think that Harriet noticed that she'd pressed her hand over her heart while she spoke. Her daughter's gaze wrenched Hannah's heart. "I'm lonely," her daughter said. "In the midst of the place and people I love above all else, I am so lonely. Why is that, Mum?"
This was bad. Very bad indeed. Hannah laid the trouble squarely at the door of Lord Martin Kestrel, certain she had no need for any other suspects. "What did that awful man do to you?" she asked her daughter. "Did he try to seduce you? Did he succeed?" If that dastardly cur had dared lay a hand on her baby chick, she'd flay him alive.
Harriet shook her head. "Oh, no, much worse than mat."
"Worse?" Horrid suspicion took hold in Hannah's mind. "What could be worse than being seduced and abandoned by that—"
"He asked me to marry him."
A tear trickled down Harriet's pale cheek. Hannah MacLeod brushed it away, and took her daughter's cold hands in hers. She'd feared something like this would happen.
"You're right," she said. "That is worse."
"There's a man outside."
Mrs. Swift's gruff voice drew Court's attention. He looked up over his reading glasses at the grim-faced housekeeper standing squarely before the library desk. Mrs. Swift was thin as a rail, tough as old leather, and looked even more disapproving than she usually did.
"A stranger," he guessed from her expression. "Did he give a name?"
Mrs. Swift handed over a calling card and stepped back with her thin arms folded tightly across her narrow waist. Disapproval radiated from her like the heat of a furnace blast. Mrs. Swift didn't like strangers. In that, she and Court were in complete agreement.
"What the devil's he doing here?" Court demanded after reading the name and titles of this unexpected visitor.
"Just so," Mrs. Swift said, giving a decisive nod. "I'll tell 'im to shove off, then."
"No," Court told her as she turned toward the library door. "Best find out why he's here. Show him in."
"Hmph," she responded, but marched out to reluctantly do as he bid.
While he waited Court closed the book, put away his glasses, and composed himself to the appearance of a mild-mannered country squire. He folded his hands together on the desktop and called, "Come," when a sharp rap sounded on the door a few moments later. "That will be all, Mrs. Swift," he added when the housekeeper gave every appearance of following Lord Martin Kestrel into the room.
Kestrel stalked in, mud-spattered and disheveled, and looking thoroughly irritated. No doubt the difficult journey from the village and being made to cool his heels by Mrs. Swift had done nothing to soothe the Englishman's mood.
Upon seeing Court, he brushed stray strands of black hair off his forehead and assumed a mild, friendly air as he approached the desk. "Good day, Sir Ian. Thank you for seeing me."
The man did a fine job of controlling his temper, but Court was well aware of Kestrel's strong emotions seething just under the bland mask.
Before Court could offer any greeting, Kestrel took a packet of papers from a case he carried under his arm and held them out, presenting them for inspection like an ambassador offering credentials at a
"I thought you'd finally needed to use the trick I taught you about keeping travel money tucked into your shoes, and came flying home for sanctuary. I knew you'd tell me what and why in your own good time."
Harriet chuckled. "No doubt you've been keeping Papa from marching up to me and bluntly demanding what's the matter since I first got home."
How very true. "Your father and I are both concerned. We hate seeing one of our chicks sad."
"I hate being sad," Harriet answered. She made a small, desperate gesture. "I have no right to be sad. And it makes me feel so dull and useless, like someone wrapped me up in soggy wool blankets and left me in a dark closet." She sighed. "And it hurts. Everything hurts." Hannah did not think that Harriet noticed that she'd pressed her hand over her heart while she spoke. Her daughter's gaze wrenched Hannah's heart. "I'm lonely," her daughter said. "In the midst of the place and people I love above all else, I am so lonely. Why is that, Mum?"
This was bad. Very bad indeed. Hannah laid the trouble squarely at the door of Lord Martin Kestrel, certain she had no need for any other suspects. "What did that awful man do to you?" she asked her daughter. "Did he try to seduce you? Did he succeed?" If that dastardly cur had dared lay a hand on her baby chick, she'd flay him alive.
Harriet shook her head. "Oh, no, much worse than mat."
"Worse?" Horrid suspicion took hold in Hannah's mind. "What could be worse than being seduced and abandoned by that—"
"He asked me to marry him."
A tear trickled down Harriet's pale cheek. Hannah MacLeod brushed it away, and took her daughter's cold hands in hers. She'd feared something like this would happen.
"You're right," she said. "That is worse."
"There's a man outside."
Mrs. Swift's gruff voice drew Court's attention. He looked up over his reading glasses at the grim-faced housekeeper standing squarely before the library desk. Mrs. Swift was thin as a rail, tough as old leather, and looked even more disapproving than she usually did.
"A stranger," he guessed from her expression. "Did he give a name?"
Mrs. Swift handed over a calling card and stepped back with her thin arms folded tightly across her narrow waist. Disapproval radiated from her like the heat of a furnace blast. Mrs. Swift didn't like strangers. In that, she and Court were in complete agreement.
"What the devil's he doing here?" Court demanded after reading the name and titles of this unexpected visitor.
"Just so," Mrs. Swift said, giving a decisive nod. "I'll tell 'im to shove off, then."
"No," Court told her as she turned toward the library door. "Best find out why he's here. Show him in."
"Hmph," she responded, but marched out to reluctantly do as he bid.
While he waited Court closed the book, put away his glasses, and composed himself to the appearance of a mild-mannered country squire. He folded his hands together on the desktop and called, "Come," when a sharp rap sounded on the door a few moments later. "That will be all, Mrs. Swift," he added when the housekeeper gave every appearance of following Lord Martin Kestrel into the room.
Kestrel stalked in, mud-spattered and disheveled, and looking thoroughly irritated. No doubt the difficult journey from the village and being made to cool his heels by Mrs. Swift had done nothing to soothe the Englishman's mood.
Upon seeing Court, he brushed stray strands of black hair off his forehead and assumed a mild, friendly air as he approached the desk. "Good day, Sir Ian. Thank you for seeing me."
The man did a fine job of controlling his temper, but Court was well aware of Kestrel's strong emotions seething just under the bland mask.
Before Court could offer any greeting, Kestrel took a packet of papers from a case he carried under his arm and held them out, presenting them for inspection like an ambassador offering credentials at a
Similar Books
