Beyond Seduction

Chapter 3

The following afternoon, Gervase welcomed the festival committee-Mr. and Mrs. Juliard, Mrs. Caterham, Squire Ridley, Mrs. Entwhistle, and Madeline-into the drawing room at the castle. Sybil was there, too, patently pleased that he’d acted to involve himself in local affairs.

Whether Sybil had realized his motives he couldn’t say, but he felt certain Madeline had; the last to arrive, she greeted him with a distant civility that was a warning in itself. When, ushering her into the drawing room, he paused beside her, a fraction too close, she threw him a narrow-eyed glance, then swept regally forward to the vacant straightbacked chairs facing the chaise. She chose the one beside Clement Juliard; as she settled Gervase took the chair beside her, exchanging an easy smile with the Squire as Ridley stumped up to claim the chair beside his.

“Now, then!” Mrs. Entwhistle cleared her throat. “We really must discuss the details of our Summer Festival. First, to confirm the date. I assume we’re sticking with tradition and the Saturday two weeks away. Does anyone see any difficulty with that?”

Numerous comments were made, but no one spoke against the motion.

“Right, then.” Mrs. Entwhistle ticked off that point on her list. “That Saturday it is.”

Gervase sat back and listened as under Mrs. Entwhistle’s leadership the group moved on to considering the various aspects of the festival itself-the booths, the entertainments, the competitions for local produce and wares.

The exercise revealed a side of the rotund little matron he hadn’t before seen; she was surprisingly competent. He was well aware that the lady beside him was even more competent-and so was everyone else. On any point of contention, it was to Madeline Mrs. Entwhistle appealed, and her verdicts were accepted by all; while Mrs. Entwhistle ran the show, Madeline was the ultimate authority.

Beside Gervase, Madeline gave mute thanks that she’d delegated the mantle of festival organizer to Mrs. Entwhistle some years before; she wasn’t sure she could have focused sufficiently to adequately play the role-not with Gervase alongside her.

Especially not when, as he occasionally did, he leaned nearer-too near-and in his low, deep-too intimate-voice quietly questioned her on this or that.

Despite her adamant determination not to allow him to ruffle her feathers, he distracted her in a manner against which, it seemed, she had no real defense.

He-and his distraction-were a nuisance.

Unfortunately, both were unhelpfully intriguing.

Her curiosity had lifted its head and was sniffing the wind-not a comforting development.

On the ride to the castle, she’d attempted to ease her mind by telling herself she’d imagined the entire previous evening’s interaction. When that didn’t work, she’d tried to convince herself that he’d merely been joking, that his attention would have already wandered, as gentlemen’s attention so frequently did.

But the instant she’d met him in the castle front hall, the look in his eyes had banished such delusions. His focus on her had, if anything, grown more marked, even though, given the company, he screened it. His manner easy and assured, he was taking care that no one other than she glimpsed his true intent.

That realization sent a subtle shiver through her; that he was being careful suggested that whatever he had in mind, he was taking this game of his seriously.

Gervase Tregarth seriously intent on her-on learning about her, not the lady but the woman-wasn’t a thought designed to calm.

Much less sedate her rising curiosity.

He leaned closer again and quietly asked, “Are there any contests like archery and…oh, bobbing for apples-the sort of entertainments that appeal to youths?”

His eyes met hers; at such close quarters, the green-flecked amber exerted a dangerous fascination. She blinked and shifted her gaze to Mrs. Entwhistle. “No, there haven’t been…but you’re right. We should have some contests to keep the older lads amused.”

Raising her voice, she made the suggestion, crediting him with the idea.

Mrs. Entwhistle quickly added archery and apple-bobbing to her list of amusements; when she looked inquiringly at Gervase, he agreed to organize the events.

Squire Ridley volunteered to ask his stable lads what other contests they would like to see, then have them arrange the events.

The talk turned to the craft, produce and art contests; Madeline let the chatter wash over her as a potential danger took shape in her mind. She waited until all Mrs. Entwhistle’s points had been discussed to say, “One item we haven’t considered-the venue.”

Everyone looked at her, the surprise on their faces quickly replaced by faint embarrassment as they all realized they’d taken it for granted that she would host the festival at Treleaver Park as she had for the past four years.

Glancing around the circle, she smiled reassuringly. “As you know, the Park has hosted the festival since the late earl was taken ill, but the home of the festival is here, at the castle. Its roots-which are ancient and sunk in our collective pasts-lie at the castle, not at the Park.” She turned her gaze on Gervase. “Now the castle once again has an earl in residence, then perhaps it’s time for the festival to return to its true home.”

Most were nodding; all looked expectantly at Gervase.

His slow, easy smile curved his lips. He inclined his head to them all, his gaze coming to rest on her. “Thank you-I’m sure I speak for Sybil and my sisters, as well as our staff, in saying we’d be delighted to welcome the festival back within the castle grounds.”

Murmurs of approval and appreciation rose around them. Holding the festival at the castle would ensure an even better turnout than holding it at the Park, as many in the district were still curious about the castle’s most recent acquisition-the earl.

Madeline smiled. Had the festival been held at the Park, organizing various entertainments would have given Gervase an excellent excuse to be forever visiting and getting under her feet. And under her skin.

Feeling smug, she met his eyes, only to see-was that unholy amusement?-lurking in the amberish-tigerish-depths.

He knew why she’d so graciously handed back the festival, but he’d seen some advantage in that for him.

Damn! She managed to keep the word from her lips, managed to keep the linked expression from her face, but her mind raced.

To no avail. She would have to wait and see what he did-how he capitalized on her first offensive move.

Sybil rang for the tea trolley; Madeline set aside her pondering-too dangerous with him so close-and set her wits to avoiding him and his attentions for the rest of the meeting, until she could escape.

She learned how Gervase planned to capitalize on her action the next day; in the early afternoon, Milsom knocked on her office door to announce his lordship, the Earl of Crowhurst.

Surprised, Madeline stared as Gervase entered. After one glance at her he turned his gaze on the room, taking in the many bookshelves filled with ledgers, the huge map of the estate on the wall, the brass lamp poised to shed light over the polished surface of the enormous desk so she could work on papers and accounts at night.

The door closed behind Milsom. Gervase’s eyes rose from the open ledger before her to her face. “So this is where you hide.”

Where you hide the real you; the insinuation was clear in his tone, in his acute gaze.

She deflected that disconcerting gaze with a bland smile. “Good afternoon, my lord. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” She waved him to an armchair angled before the desk.

He smiled, quite genuinely, and sat. “You owe my presence to your suggestion to shift the festival back to the castle, of course.” Sitting back, he met her gaze. “I’ve come to pick your brains over the details involved.”

She kept her all-business smile on her lips. “I’m afraid I know nothing about how the festival was hosted at the castle. My experience only relates to the four years it’s been held at the Park.”

“Indeed. However, as you no doubt are aware, many of the staff at the castle retired when my uncle died. The current staff have little idea of the logistics involved. I fear that without guidance we’ll be hopelessly unprepared.”

“Ah.” She looked into his eyes, and saw no way out. She’d saddled the castle with the festival; it was only fair that she explain what they’d have to accommodate. “I see. What do you need to know?”

“While Mrs. Entwhistle has supplied a detailed list of the types of entertainments and amusements involved, she was regrettably unspecific about quantities. How many booths, tents and enclosures will we need to set up for the various activities, how many for the produce displays and for the visiting peddlers and dealers?”

She held up a hand. “One moment.” Rising, she went to a nearby cupboard. Setting the door wide, she searched through the numerous papers stacked within; finding the packet she sought, she extracted it-or tried to, but the whole two-foot-high stack started to tip.

“Oh!” She tried to hold it back-and would have failed, but suddenly Gervase was there, his shoulder brushing hers as he reached past her; his big hands spanning so much more than hers, he first steadied the stack, then gripped the packets above the one her fingers had closed around.

“Take it now.”

She slid the packet out. She stepped back immediately, trying to calm her thudding heart-wondering if she could convince herself it was shock and not his nearness that was making her pulse race. Making her curiosity not just stir, but leap. She slapped it down, and decorously returned to the desk. Sitting once more, she nodded wordless thanks to him as he closed the cabinet, and came back to drop into the armchair.

“The number of booths and so on should be listed in here.” Untying the ribbon securing the packet, she rifled through the sheets. “Yes.” Pulling out one sheet, she glanced at it, then held it out. “The accommodations we provided last year.”

Gervase took the sheet; sitting back in the armchair, he studied it.

And thought of her.

She was too deeply entrenched as “her brothers’ keeper” in this room; not even his brushing against her, inadvertent though that had been, had seriously undermined her hold on her damned shield-it had slipped, but she’d recovered all but instantly. Neat figures marched down the page in his hand. How to get her out of here? “What areas are we looking at in total? What was the approximate square foot-age-or acreage-required?”

Looking up, he prayed she, like most females, had little ability to accurately estimate such things. The blank look on her face, and the frown that succeeded it, confirmed that beneath her shield, she was all female.

“I really couldn’t put a figure to it,” she admitted.

He met her gaze with unstudied innocence. “Perhaps you could show me the area used last year.” He brandished the list. “Together with this, that should give me enough to work with.”

She was suspicious; she searched his eyes, but he made very sure she would see nothing of his intent therein. Lips tightening, she pushed back from the desk. “Very well.”

Madeline led him out of the office, ridiculously conscious of him strolling with tigerish grace beside her. Quite aside from that novel and irritating sensitivity, there were few men who could make her feel…if not small, then at least not a physical match for them. Gervase Tregarth could make her feel vulnerable in a way few others could.

And he did.

On that one point, her instincts and her intellect were as one: He was dangerous. To her. Specifically her. Aside from all else, because he could make her feel so.

Unfortunately, instinct and intellect reacted completely differently to that conclusion.

Shoving her burgeoning curiosity back into a mental box, she swept down the corridor to the garden door. Pushing through-he reached over her shoulder and held the door back, making her nerves quake-she marched into the gardens and headed down the path through the roses. He fell into step beside her, his strides easily matching her mannishly long ones.

Recalling that he’d been overseas with the army for the past ten and more festivals, she waved ahead. “We staged the festival beyond the gardens, in the park itself, closer to the cliffs. People could reach the site by the cliff paths as well as through the estate.”

Gervase nodded, idly surveying the gardens she led him through. The further they got from the house, the more he sensed a certain tension rising in her. No matter how she tried to hide it, he affected her, although he was reasonably certain she viewed that effect more as an affliction. She was very conscious of being alone with him.

“Last year we had sixteen local merchants as well as thirteen itinerant vendors who set up booths. We don’t need to provide the booths for them-they bring their own-but we do need to set aside specific spaces, and mark each with a vendor’s name, or they’ll shed blood over the best positions.”

“You’ll need to give me some indication of who takes precedence.” The path they were on continued beyond the garden into the heavily treed park. Although the clifftops and downs were largely devoid of trees, there were pockets such as this where the old forests still held sway. She shivered lightly as the shadows fell over them. He glanced around. “I’d forgotten how densely the trees grow here.”

“Only for a little way in this direction.” She gestured ahead to a clearing. The path led to it; afternoon sunlight bathed the coarse grass as they stepped out from beneath the trees.

She spread both arms, encompassing the entire clearing. “We needed all this space, and last year we had to put some booths and tents right up against the trees.”

Halting in the center of the expanse, Gervase slowly turned, estimating. “I think…” He looked at Madeline. “With luck, we should manage with the area between the forecourt gate and the ramparts.”

Head tilting, she considered, then nodded. “Yes, that should do.”

She hesitated, eyes on him; any minute she would suggest they return to the house. He glanced around again, then pointed to another path that led further from the house. “The cliffs are that way?”

She nodded. “Many came via the cliffs.”

“Hmm.” He set off in that direction, but listened intently; after a fractional hesitation, she followed. “We might have to open up some of the older gates-we usually only have the main one open, but with lots of people streaming in, the forecourt entry arch might get too crowded.”

“If you do”-he’d slowed enough for her to come up beside him-“you’ll need to put men-burly ones-on watch at each gate.” She grimaced and glanced at him. “After the first year here, we realized that multiple entries also meant multiple exits, and although most of those who attend are law-abiding, the festival is well known and attracts a small coterie of…”

“Poachers, scavengers and outright rogues?”

She grinned fleetingly. “Thieves and pickpockets mostly. We found that the best method to discourage them was to have men on watch visible at each entry. That was enough to deter them.”

He nodded. “We’ll do that.”

They reached the edge of the trees; a wide expanse of clifftop, verdant and green, opened up before them with the sea an encircling mantle of blue slate that stretched to the horizon. Just out from shore, a light breeze kicked up small white horses, sending them rollicking over the waves.

He slowed to an amble, but continued walking; she went with him, reluctantly perhaps but, like him, drawn to the view. To the incomparable sensation of standing just back from the cliff edge and feeling, experiencing, the raw, primal power of the windswept cliffs, the ever-churning sea and the sky, huge and impossibly wide, careening above.

It was an elemental magic any Cornishman responded to. Any Cornishwoman.

They halted, stood and looked. Drank in the sheer, incredible beauty, harsh, bleak, yet always so alive. To their left, Black Head rose, a dark mass marking the end of the wide bay. Far to their right, almost directly opposite where they stood, the castle sat above the western shore, keeping watch for invaders as it had for centuries.

Even as late as the early half of the previous year, there’d been a watch kept from the towers.

Unbidden, unexpected, Gervase felt a visceral tug, a grasping that went to the bone. A recognition. This was the first time since he’d returned to England that he’d stood on the cliffs like this.

And, for the first time, he truly felt he’d come home.

He knew she stood beside him, but he didn’t look at her, simply stood and gazed out at the waves, and let the sensation of home, the place of his ancestors, claim him.

Madeline glanced at him. He stood to her right, between her and the castle; when she looked his way, she saw him with the distant battlements and towers as a backdrop.

An appropriate setting.

She would have wondered at his absorption, but she knew what had caught him, could sympathize. She came to the cliffs often herself, to the places like this where cliff, wind, sea and sky met, and melded.

It was in the blood, his as much as hers. She’d forgotten that, for not every soul was attuned to the magic, to the wild song the elements wrought.

She followed his gaze, and was content, in that moment, to simply stand and know. And, unexpectedly, share the knowing.

Eventually he stirred, and faced her. His eyes searched hers, and she realized he, too, had sensed the mutual connection, but didn’t know how to speak of it.

“It’s powerful.” She gestured all-encompassingly. “The essence of nature’s wildness.”

His lips quirked; he glanced out again. “Yes. That it is.”

And it lived in each of them.

Feeling the tug of the breeze, she raised her hands to her hair, verifying that it was a tangled mess. She gave a disgusted sound that had his head turning her way. “We’d better get back.”

He grinned, but swung to follow as she retreated toward the path.

“I tell you there has to be something. It stands to reason.”

Both she and Gervase halted and turned back to the cliff edge. The breeze rushed off the sea and up the cliff face, carrying voices-familiar voices-in its current.

“We’ll have to search further afield.”

“Lots of caves, after all.”

The last comment came in a light, piping voice.

Frowning, Madeline started back.

Gervase’s hand closed over her arm, staying her.

When she looked at him, he shook his head. “You don’t want to startle them.”

She looked back at the cliff edge, and bit her lip. He’d spoken softly; when he tugged, she let him draw her further back so her brothers, climbing the narrow, dangerous cliff path, wouldn’t see them until they’d stepped safely onto the clifftop.

First one bright head, then a second, and eventually a third-Harry, bringing up the rear-appeared. Madeline breathed a little sigh of relief; Gervase’s restraining hand fell away and she walked forward.

“Oh!” Edmond was the first to see her. Guilt-she was expert at detecting it-flashed across his face, but then he saw Gervase. Edmond brightened. “Hello.” He bobbed politely.

The greeting was echoed by Ben, who had all but jumped when he’d seen her. Harry, rather more controlled, nodded and said, “Good morning.”

Gervase acknowledged the three with an easy smile. “Hunting for something?” he asked, before she could demand.

The younger boys looked to Harry.

“Ah…birds’ nests,” he offered.

Gervase raised his brows. He believed that no more than Madeline. “A bit late in the season.”

“Well, yes,” Edmond said, “but we’ve only just got back from school so we thought it was worth checking.”

Three angelic faces smiled at him, looking from him to Madeline.

Gervase glanced at Madeline. Her expression was severe, but…although she knew she was being lied to, she was suppressing her reaction.

“It’s tea time,” Ben stated. “We were going in for scones.”

Lips compressing, Madeline nodded; stepping out of their way, she waved them on. “Off you go, then.”

They went, with telltale alacrity.

She watched, then sighed. “They’re up to something-I know it.”

Gervase fell in beside her as she started back more slowly along the path. “Of course they are-they’re boys.”

“Indeed.” She cast him a sharp glance. “You probably understand better than I do.”

His lips quirked. “Very likely.” After a moment, he added, “You didn’t call their bluff.”

They walked through the clearing; he thought she wasn’t going to respond, but then she said, “If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s never to force a confession or an accounting. They’ll either tell me the truth of their own accord…or whatever they tell me won’t be worth a damn.”

Truer words were never spoken. Gervase inclined his head. They trailed the boys back to the house; he had a strong suspicion about what they were up to, and it had nothing whatever to do with birds.

He’d spoken a little with Harry at the castle two nights before; the lad had reminded him of his cousin Christopher, he who had died of consumption unexpectedly, leaving Gervase as his uncle’s heir. Gervase had been a few years older, and like him Christopher had been a child of this coast. He’d been as adventurous as Gervase, yet underneath there’d been a quiet seriousness, as if he’d always known that at some point the responsibility of the earldom would fall on his shoulders.

Gervase had seen the same combination of traits in Harry, adventurousness running hand-in-hand with an acceptance of fate. He couldn’t see Harry leading his brothers into any truly dangerous enterprise.

Sometimes, however, danger wore a disguise.

They reached the house; he held the door open for Madeline, then followed her in. She led him into the front hall, then turned to give him her hand. “If you have any further questions about the festival, I’ll be happy to answer as best I can.”

Closing his fingers about her hand-not shaking it as she’d expected-he smiled. “I’ll bear that in mind.” Lowering his voice, he said, “I suspect your brothers are hunting for the smugglers’ caves.”

Her lips tightened. “I think so, too.”

“If you like…I still have excellent contacts with the local fraternity. I can mention the boys’ interest-they’re unlikely to come to any harm if the locals know they might stumble on them.”

The local smuggling gangs were one arena of male activity to which she would never, ever gain admittance; she would never know who was involved, let alone be invited to join, as every male in the locality, especially those of the major houses, usually were.

Her eyes narrowed as she searched his. “It must be some time since you sailed with any of them.”

“On a run? More than a decade.” He hesitated, then admitted, “But I had other, more recent reasons for keeping those contacts alive. I know all the leaders along this stretch of coast, and they will all talk, and listen, to me.”

He watched her put two and two together, and come up with a revealing answer. Over the years he’d been away “fighting Boney,” he’d reappeared now and then, when his father had died, and Christopher, and later his uncle, and then again to install Sybil and his sisters at the castle, and put his agents and stewards in charge of the estate.

Her eyes widened; her lips formed a soundless “Oh.” Refocusing on his face, she hesitated for an instant more, then nodded. “If it’s no trouble…I would like to know that they don’t need to fear anything from that direction.” Meeting his eyes, she grimaced. “While I would much rather they didn’t get involved in such exploits, I might as well try to hold back the waves.”

“Indeed.” He hadn’t released her fingers. Now he raised them; closing his other palm gently over her hand, he lifted the slender digits to his lips and pressed a light kiss to their backs.

Her eyes went wide; her breathing suspended.

A light blush rose to her cheeks.

He smiled, more intently. He lightly squeezed her fingers, then released them. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything definite about the boys.”

With a nod, he turned and walked out of the front door, entirely content.

Entirely aware that she stood rooted in the hall and stared after him until he disappeared from her sight.

Late that night, Madeline sat before her dressing table brushing out her long hair. The tresses gleamed copper and red in the candlelight, but with her gaze unfocused she didn’t see; as she usually did at this point in her night, she was mentally reviewing the events of her day.

Behind her, her maid Ada shook out her day dress, then headed for the armoire to hang it.

Madeline focused on the maid in the mirror as she returned. “Ada, please mention to the rest of the staff that should they hear anything about the boys associating with any of the smuggling gangs, they should pass the information to me-either through you or Milsom.”

A local, Ada had been with Madeline since before the boys were born. “Aye, well, they’re of that age, true enough. Master Harry and Master Edmond, at least, and no doubt but that Master Ben will inveigle those two into taking him with them.”

Madeline grimaced. “That’s one activity in which I wish Harry and Edmond weren’t quite so good over including Ben.”

“Ah, well, you can’t have everything.” On that stoic note, Ada swept up Madeline’s linen, along with her boots. “I’ll take these downstairs. Will you be wanting anything else tonight?”

“No, thank you. Good night.”

Ada murmured her customary “Sleep well,” and left.

Madeline remained seated before the mirror, drawing the brush slowly through her thick hair. Reliving the rest of her day.

Until she’d turned to farewell him in the front hall, she’d thought she’d managed Gervase and his visit rather well. True, there’d been that moment on the cliffs, but she didn’t think he’d planned that any more than she had. It had simply been, because they were who they were.

Nothing that special or surprising, really. The shared sense of connection had been predictable, had she considered it.

But then he’d understood about her brothers and had offered to help. In the right way-a way she could accept. He hadn’t lectured, nor made pompous suggestions of how to deal with them.

She’d known that in accepting his offer of information she’d be giving him another reason to call and see her privately, yet more disturbing than that, her brothers and their lives were not a matter with which she’d previously allowed others to become involved, but she’d bent if not broken that rule for Gervase.

Because he’d offered something she’d needed. And when it came to her brothers, there was little she wouldn’t do to keep them safe. Or at least safer.

And…

She refocused on her reflection-and pulled a face. Honesty forced her to admit-reluctantly-that, most peculiarly for her, she trusted Gervase, at least on the subject of the boys.

Frowning, she brushed harder, then laid down the brush, gathered her hair and twisted it into a loose knot.

That moment on the cliff-had it swayed her? More likely it had been her noticing how her brothers, usually quite stand-offish when it came to gentlemen, had reacted to Gervase. They’d been curious, intrigued…rather like their sister.

Perhaps it was her recent realization that Harry needed, and Edmond would soon need, some older male to be, if not an acknowledged mentor, then at least a pattern-card. And in that, they could do a lot worse than Gervase Tregarth.

So she’d accepted his help-and then he’d smiled and raised her hand and kissed the backs of her fingers.

She’d felt that light caress to the depths of her being.

Other gentlemen had kissed her hand and she’d felt absolutely nothing. It was a courtesy, one which perhaps they intended to convey more, but never before had the gesture affected her.

When Gervase’s lips had touched her skin…

She stared into the mirror, the moment, the sensations, alive in her mind…until the guttering candle recalled her. Snuffing it, she rose, and went to her bed-telling herself she’d do much better to ban Gervase Tregarth and all his doings from her head.

Two days later, she attended the monthly afternoon tea at the vicarage. Situated just along the lane from the church at Ruan Minor, the rambling house was set in ample grounds; in summer, afternoon tea was served on the back lawn. Muriel had declared she was too tired to attend; the truth was her aunt had little interest in the wider social round.

Passing among the other guests-all the usual local faces-Madeline kept her eyes peeled, but then realized Gervase wasn’t there.

She told herself she was relieved, and embarked upon her customary round of chatting with the other landowners and ladies of the district. The day was warm; she sipped and talked, and forced herself to concentrate on Lady Porthleven’s latest tale of her daughter’s offspring.

“Albert is a veritable jewel,” her ladyship enthused. “Quite the most gifted child!”

Madeline found her mind wandering, yet again. She tried to make herself pay attention, inwardly acknowledging that this-the normal extent of her social life-was, indeed, rather dull.

Excusing herself with a murmured word and a smile, she slipped from Lady Porthleven’s circle. She surveyed the crowd, decided to join Squire Ridley, took one step in his direction-and felt her nerves leap.

She glanced to her side and discovered Gervase exactly where she’d thought he was. Beside her, right by her shoulder.

Her gaze had landed on his lips; she saw them curve, felt his gaze on her face.

Rendered breathless again, she determinedly breathed in and lifted her eyes to his. “Good afternoon, my lord. I wasn’t sure we’d see you here.”

Gervase held her gaze for an instant, then, as she had, looked around. “Not, perhaps, my customary milieu, but as I have, indeed, taken up residence, I thought this might prove a useful venue in which to improve my local knowledge.”

He glanced at her. “In return for my scouting on your behalf about your brothers, I hoped you might assist me in this arena.” With his head, he indicated a couple chatting with Mr. Caterham. “For instance, who are they?”

“The Jeffreys,” Madeline supplied. “They’re relative newcomers. They’ve taken on the old Swanston farm at Trenance.”

“Ah.” He closed his fingers about her elbow and drew her into an ambling walk. She glanced at him sharply, but consented to move. He smiled. “If we remain stationary, Mrs. Henderson is going to come bustling up and trap me.”

She hid a swift grin behind her teacup. “You clearly remember her.”

“No greater gossipmonger was ever birthed.” Gervase considered, then amended, “At least not this side of Basingstoke.”

She shot him an amused glance. “Are there worse in London, then?”

“Oh, yes. Those in London aspire to the epitome of the form.”

“If you remember Mrs. Henderson, then there are few others here you won’t know.”

“Ah, but are they as I remember them? For instance”-continuing to stroll, he directed her attention to a large gentleman of middle years hovering over an older, sharp-featured lady seated on a chair with a cane planted before her-“is George as much under the cat’s paw as he used to be?”

“His mother’s hold on him only increases with the years-and the maladies she likes to consider herself a victim of.”

“She seems in rather robust health.”

“Indeed. The general opinion is that she’ll probably bury George.” Madeline paused, then added, “Of course, she would almost certainly soon join him, for without him she’d have no one to harangue, harry and hound, and that appears to be the sole purpose of her life.”

“I would say ‘poor George,’ but if memory serves he always was one to simply give way.”

She nodded. “No spine. And, of course, she’s never let him marry.”

“So what of local scandals? The Caterhams are still together, I see.”

“Yes, that blew over-as it was always likely to. They seem settled these days.” Madeline looked further afield. “The Juliards are as devoted as ever, and all others go on much as before-oh, except for the sensation of Robert Hardesty’s marriage.”

“I heard about that.” In response to the steel that had crept into his tone, Madeline glanced sharply at him. He kept his expression scrupulously noncommittal. “What’s the new Lady Hardesty like?”

“I really can’t say-few of us have met her. The reports from those who have aren’t all that complimentary, but as the comments run along the lines of ‘London flirt,’ I’d prefer to meet the lady before judging her. We don’t see many of the London set, for want of a better designation, so her behavior might be no more than what passes for normal in the capital.”

Inwardly acknowledging the wisdom of her stance, he glanced around. “Enough of our neighbors. Tell me about local matters in general. I know about the mining-what about the fishing? How have the last few seasons gone?”

As he steered her down the long sloping lawn, he questioned, she answered, and he listened. He’d gleaned bits and pieces from others-his agents, his steward, his grooms-but her account was more comprehensive, more balanced. More what he needed. Her point of view and his were largely the same; she was the de facto Gascoigne, and he was Crowhurst, and that similarity that had shone on the clifftops also impinged, as did her straightforward, no-nonsense way of dealing with the world.

Levelheaded, rational, competent and observant; in those traits she was much like him. More than anyone else he trusted her view of matters enough to act on her intelligence; the truth was she was infinitely better connected with this world he’d returned to than he. It wasn’t just his years away that separated him from the locals, but also his quieter, more reserved nature.

While they strolled, others came up and exchanged ready greetings and snippets of information, those last directed to Madeline. She was a person everyone around about knew, and not just trusted but felt comfortable with. His years as an operative had taught him to value that gift of putting others at ease. It wasn’t one he himself could employ; he simply wasn’t the sort of man others readily confided in.

He recognized her worth in that, perhaps more clearly than she did.

Eventually they reached the low stone wall at the bottom of the vicarage lawn. Pausing, they looked eastward over the cliffs to the sky and the sea. After a moment, she said, her voice low, “My brothers.” She glanced at him. “Have you learned anything?”

He felt her gaze, but didn’t meet it. He’d spent the last day and a half letting the local smugglers know he was back at the castle, and encouraging them to fill him in on recent developments. “The boys are known to the smugglers-all three gangs. And all know them for who they are. As you’re aware, running with smugglers is virtually a rite of passage in this area. The boys will be safe-or at least as safe as they might be.”

Glancing at her, he saw she was frowning.

A minute ticked past, then she met his eyes. “If the boys already know the local smuggling gangs, what are they searching for in the caves?”

His lips tightened. He hesitated, then said, “I think they’re searching for evidence of wreckers.”

Her eyes widened. He went on, “I asked, and the word is that there’s been no activity of that kind for months. There won’t be anything for the boys to find-no cache, and very likely nothing else.”

The smugglers broke the excise laws, but most locals happily turned a blind eye to that. Wreckers, on the other hand, were cold-blooded killers. Along with the wider community, the smugglers regarded wreckers as an unmitigated evil.

“No one knows who the wreckers are. Secrecy is their watchword-you know that. It’s unlikely the boys have had any contact with them, equally unlikely that they ever will. They might find a boat hidden in caves close by the Lizard, or up near Manacle Point, but other than that…”

She searched his eyes; today, hers were pale green, the color of the sea, serious and unshielded. Then she drew breath, and asked, “Do you believe they’re in-or courting-any danger?”

He felt the weight of the question, the importance of it to her. He took a moment to consult his own inner gauge of pending trouble; it had never been wrong-that was why he still lived. “I don’t believe they are.”

She studied his eyes, then exhaled. Looking again at the view, she grimaced. “Would that I could forbid them to search, to go down to the caves, but that would simply be wasted breath.”

He didn’t bother nodding, but was conscious of an impulse to try to, if not lift, then at least ease the burden of her brothers from her shoulders. He glanced at the distant sea. “I was wondering if I might interest them in going sailing or fishing.” He met her eyes. “If they wish to, would you approve?”

She blinked; eyes wide, she studied his expression, then frowned. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“My background.” He paused, then clarified, “My years as a spy. The boys will be interested-they’ll quiz me.”

He didn’t say more; he felt perfectly certain, acute as she was, she’d understand his point. Not everyone considered the life of a spy a suitable subject for polite conversation. He’d broached the subject deliberately, not knowing how she felt. As she stared at him, still frowning, he wondered with an odd sinking feeling whether he’d discovered the incompatibility he’d been searching for.

If she thought his past was less than honorable, she’d be unlikely to entertain any offer from him-and he was even less likely to make one.

Madeline continued to frown; she couldn’t believe he’d think she would object to his past, find his service to his country-the manner of it-less than laudable. That she was the sort of silly female who might. She let irritated exasperation seep into her expression-and her tone. “I’d be relieved to know the boys were out with you-and of course they’ll question you, and you may, with my blessing and even my encouragement, tell them as much as you deem fit-whatever you’re comfortable telling them. I warn you they’ll ask about anything and everything once they get started.”

The words brought home the fact that she trusted him not just over but with her brothers. There wasn’t a single other gentleman she trusted in that way. The realization was a little shocking, and annoying, too; it would have to be him, of all men, and just now, when he’d decided for some incomprehensible reason to be a thorn in her side.

Not that he’d been all that difficult that day.

He nodded. “I’ll ask them, then.” He glanced back up the lawn, then offered his arm. “Come, let’s stroll back.”

To the rest of the guests. Acquiescing, she took his arm.

While he guided her up the gentle slope, she thought of that moment by the stone wall, when he’d waited to see how she would react. In that instant she’d sensed a vulnerability in him, a man she’d imagined hadn’t a weak spot anywhere. Yet how she’d reacted had mattered to him.

The truth was she admired him, both as a man and for what he’d done with his life. As far as she was concerned, he could distract her brothers with tales of his past, and her only response would be gratitude.

They rejoined the guests; some had departed, but others had arrived. Gervase remained by her side; reluctantly, grudgingly, she had to admit she was comfortable with him being there. Their occasional private comments, colored by their similar views of their neighbors, enlivened the moments; the predictable conversations no longer seemed quite so dull.

“Miss Gascoigne, I believe?”

She turned to find a gentleman beside her, one she’d never set eyes on before. He was dressed well-too well to be a local-in a blue coat of Bath superfine and a nattily striped waistcoat; she thought it the ensignia of the Four-in-Hand Club. With his air of urbane polish, he almost certainly hailed from town. Still, if he was at the vicarage afternoon tea…She raised her brows, inviting him to continue.

He smiled. “Mr. Courtland, Miss Gascoigne.” He bowed. “We haven’t been introduced, but in this setting I hope you’ll forgive my impertinence in approaching you.”

He was a personable man; she smiled in reply, still unsure why he was there.

“I came with Lady Hardesty’s party.” With a nod, he directed her gaze to a group of similarly garbed gentlemen and dashingly gowned ladies across the lawn. “We were starved of entertainment, so thought to come here, to see who else lived in the locality.”

There was an underlying tenor to the comment Madeline didn’t entirely like-as if having identified her as being a local, he was imagining she might entertain him.

Still smiling, she offered her hand. “I am Miss Gascoigne.” She omitted the customary “of Treleaver Park.” “And this”-shifting to the side, with her other hand she indicated the looming presence beside her; she’d been aware of Gervase’s sharpened attention from the moment Courtland had spoken-“is Lord Crowhurst, of Crowhurst Castle.”

Still smiling amiably but with an assessing, even challenging glint in his eye, Courtland offered his hand. “My lord.”

Grasping it, Gervase nodded. “Courtland.”

Madeline glanced swiftly at him; his lips were relaxed, his expression unthreatening, but the look in his amber eyes was not encouraging.

She looked at Courtland; his expression suggested he was developing reservations about the wisdom of approaching her. As he retrieved his hand, he glanced again at her-with Gervase by her side, yet she no longer had her hand on his arm-then he looked at Gervase and raised his brows. “Do you spend much time in Cornwall, my lord?”

Gervase’s reply was cool. “I haven’t in recent years, but that looks set to change.”

“Indeed?” Courtland glanced around. “I wouldn’t have thought there’d be much to hold one’s interest hereabouts.”

“You’d be surprised.” Gervase glanced at Madeline. “Those of us who’ve grown up in the area naturally have a deeper appreciation of its features.”

Madeline caught his gaze. Was he implying she was a local feature, moreover one of sufficient attraction to induce him to remain in Cornwall? Her eyes started to narrow.

Gervase turned to Courtland. “You’ll have to excuse us. Miss Gascoigne was about to leave.” He offered her his arm. “Come. I’ll ride with you to the lane.”

Madeline struggled not to glare. But here was a conundrum: She didn’t wish to encourage Gervase-to in any way let him believe she approved of such arrogantly protective behavior-yet her instincts had already decided she didn’t wish to dally with Courtland.

She compromised, letting her eyes speakingly flare at Gervase as she put her hand on his arm, then she turned to Courtland with a dismissive smile. “I hope you enjoy your time in the district, sir.”

Courtland bowed. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Gascoigne.” Straightening, he smiled into her eyes. “No doubt we’ll meet again.”

She made no reply, just waited while he and Gervase exchanged curt farewells, then allowed Gervase to steer her toward the house.

They paused on the way to thank their hostess, the vicar’s sister Miss Maple, then continued on. Madeline glanced at the group of London ladies and gentlemen as they passed. Laughing and joking rather too loudly, they didn’t quite fit the tenor of the afternoon.

“I’m curious about Lady Hardesty,” she murmured, “but not curious enough to bother tangling with them all.”

“Do you know which one she is?” Gervase asked.

Madeline shook her head. “Dark-haired, that’s all I’ve heard.” There were three dark-haired ladies in the group.

Once they were away from the milling guests, she glanced at Gervase, intending to make her disapproval of his too-protective stance clear, only to see him eyeing-narrowly-something. She followed his gaze to three raffish gentlemen clearly hailing from Lady Hardesty’s party. The trio were standing to one side, openly eyeing anything in skirts. Their eyes turned her way; their gazes met Gervase’s.

A second passed as over her head some elemental male exchange took place, then the trio shifted almost nervously and all three looked away.

Looking ahead, Madeline canvassed her options. She knew how pigheaded her father used to get, and even Harry occasionally showed signs of that particular male affliction. Of course, both her father and Harry held some claim to the right to protect her, something Gervase didn’t.

Regardless, she knew how fruitless it was to argue with a male in the grip of protective delusion; that Gervase didn’t have any right to behave so was unlikely to make him more receptive to her protest.

Indeed, quite possibly less, for he’d know himself in the wrong and would therefore argue all the harder.

From her point of view, little would be gained by airing the issue if all that happened was that he dug in his heels and growled; it might serve her better to pretend she found his irritating behavior so ludicrous as to be beneath her notice.

She liked that idea. She was smiling to herself when they reached the narrow path that ran through the shrubbery to the stable courtyard. The passage was narrow; Gervase stood back to let her go ahead.

Defiantly lifting her chin, she stepped forward.

His hand fleetingly brushed the back of her waist.

She swallowed a gasp as sensation flooded her, searing skin, tightening nerves. She stumbled-

Hard hands grasped her waist, steadying her.

Against a large, hard, hot male body.

Her lungs seized; her knees felt weak. She felt flushed and skittish. At her back, she could feel the muscled solidity of his body all down the length of hers. Her breath strangled in her throat.

Eyes wide, she glanced over her shoulder-and met his amber eyes.

Close, so close, those eyes saw too much; they searched hers, then passed slowly over her face…lingered on her lips.

Time stopped.

Stretched.

Her lips throbbed.

The sounds of others approaching reached them.

Gervase glanced back; his hands briefly gripped, enough for her to sense their steely strength, then he urged her on.

Her feet moved, one in front of the other; his hands fell from her.

By the time she reached the end of the passageway and stepped out into the open, she’d managed to subdue her traitorous senses enough to haul in a breath.

There wasn’t anything she could say, any comment she wanted to make. His initial action had been nothing more than gentlemanly courtesy-an escort’s steadying touch. It was her reaction that had precipitated the rest.

Just the thought of being so susceptible to a man’s touch made her mind reel.

She glanced over her shoulder. Gervase was scanning the area around the horses and carriages, his expression the same as when he’d looked at the importuning trio. Forbidding, protective…possessive.

She blinked, looked for one last instant, then faced forward.

Protesting that he didn’t have the right to behave so over her was, she suspected, no longer even an option.

She was, absolutely and definitely, in much deeper trouble than she’d thought.