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Authors: Shirlee Busbee
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and they’d already heard stories of smugglers and the like. The beaches were narrow, curving like snakes around the base of the cliffs, their lengths broken here and there by huge rocks and boulders that tumbled into the frothy, turbulent water. It was a wild, dangerous place, yet it held an irresistible appeal.
There was a thin, winding path, more like a goat path, Adrian complained, that led to the beach, but the climb down was worth it. Wearing their oldest clothes, their backs against the rocky cliff, they’d spread a blanket on the ground and enjoyed the feast that Cook had packed for them. As they ate, they’d stared mesmerized by the writhing seas, the bright sunshine making the water gleam and glitter as the waves broke on the shore. Later, they ambled along the rocky beach, exploring and chattering as they went.
They lost all sense of time as their explorations took them further and further along the beach. Coming to a long arm of rocks that stretched out into the water, they clambered over it. Reaching the other side, breathless and laughing, they stopped in surprise at the sight of two men, strangers, standing near the base of the cliffs.
From their clothing, it was obvious that the men were not fishermen or common laborers, and from their expressions, it was equally obvious that they were not pleased to see them. With all the innocence of a friendly puppy, Adrian smiled and walked up to the pair. “Hullo,” he said. “I am Sir Adrian Beaumont. May I help you? Are you lost?”
The shorter of the two men raked Adrian with a glance. “No,” he said curtly. “But you obviously are. I regret to inform you”—and there was sneer in his voice that made Daphne’s hackles rise—“that you are trespassing on my land.”
Adrian heard the sneer, too, and his smile faded. “Are you certain?” he asked, determined to be polite. “It is my understanding that all of this is Beaumont land.”
“Your understanding is wrong,” the man snapped, his dark eyes hard. He pointed to the rocks they had just climbed over. “Beaumont land ends at those rocks. You are on my land.”
Heedless of propriety, Daphne stepped up beside her brother. “And you are?” she asked bluntly, already having a fair notion of his identity.
He looked her up and down, and Daphne was humiliatingly aware of her old gown and tangled hair. “You must be the sister, the spinster,” he said with a dismissive glance.
Daphne’s eyes narrowed, and her chin lifted. “Yes, I am his sister, and by your rudeness and arrogance, I must conclude that you are none other than Lord Trevillyan.”
“She has you there, Dorian,” the other man said, his amusement obvious. Grinning, he added, “Definitely a facer.”
Daphne’s gaze swung to the taller of the two men. Her nose went up, and she asked haughtily, “And you are?”
He smiled a singularly charming smile. Sweeping off his curly-brimmed hat, he bowed and murmured, “Charles Weston. At your service.”
Chapter 4
D aphne’s first assessment of Charles Weston was not favorable, and she assumed that he was as rude and arrogant as the viscount—certainly, he was no one that she wanted to know. He was handsome enough in a dark, bold sort of way, but she was not impressed by his easy smile, and those watchful green eyes did nothing to improve her initial opinion of him. But there was something about him…something in the wicked curve of that full mouth…. A prickle of awareness, some faint stirring of basic female interest in a powerful male, whispered through her. Mentally, she shook herself. Nonsense. She was past all that sort of silliness. Her sole interest these days was the establishment of her brother and sister.
Dismissing Charles Weston with a cool glance, she turned her attention back to the viscount. “We apologize for our mistake,” she said stiffly to Lord Trevillyan. “Now that we know the boundary line, you should have no fear that we shall ever
There was a thin, winding path, more like a goat path, Adrian complained, that led to the beach, but the climb down was worth it. Wearing their oldest clothes, their backs against the rocky cliff, they’d spread a blanket on the ground and enjoyed the feast that Cook had packed for them. As they ate, they’d stared mesmerized by the writhing seas, the bright sunshine making the water gleam and glitter as the waves broke on the shore. Later, they ambled along the rocky beach, exploring and chattering as they went.
They lost all sense of time as their explorations took them further and further along the beach. Coming to a long arm of rocks that stretched out into the water, they clambered over it. Reaching the other side, breathless and laughing, they stopped in surprise at the sight of two men, strangers, standing near the base of the cliffs.
From their clothing, it was obvious that the men were not fishermen or common laborers, and from their expressions, it was equally obvious that they were not pleased to see them. With all the innocence of a friendly puppy, Adrian smiled and walked up to the pair. “Hullo,” he said. “I am Sir Adrian Beaumont. May I help you? Are you lost?”
The shorter of the two men raked Adrian with a glance. “No,” he said curtly. “But you obviously are. I regret to inform you”—and there was sneer in his voice that made Daphne’s hackles rise—“that you are trespassing on my land.”
Adrian heard the sneer, too, and his smile faded. “Are you certain?” he asked, determined to be polite. “It is my understanding that all of this is Beaumont land.”
“Your understanding is wrong,” the man snapped, his dark eyes hard. He pointed to the rocks they had just climbed over. “Beaumont land ends at those rocks. You are on my land.”
Heedless of propriety, Daphne stepped up beside her brother. “And you are?” she asked bluntly, already having a fair notion of his identity.
He looked her up and down, and Daphne was humiliatingly aware of her old gown and tangled hair. “You must be the sister, the spinster,” he said with a dismissive glance.
Daphne’s eyes narrowed, and her chin lifted. “Yes, I am his sister, and by your rudeness and arrogance, I must conclude that you are none other than Lord Trevillyan.”
“She has you there, Dorian,” the other man said, his amusement obvious. Grinning, he added, “Definitely a facer.”
Daphne’s gaze swung to the taller of the two men. Her nose went up, and she asked haughtily, “And you are?”
He smiled a singularly charming smile. Sweeping off his curly-brimmed hat, he bowed and murmured, “Charles Weston. At your service.”
Chapter 4
D aphne’s first assessment of Charles Weston was not favorable, and she assumed that he was as rude and arrogant as the viscount—certainly, he was no one that she wanted to know. He was handsome enough in a dark, bold sort of way, but she was not impressed by his easy smile, and those watchful green eyes did nothing to improve her initial opinion of him. But there was something about him…something in the wicked curve of that full mouth…. A prickle of awareness, some faint stirring of basic female interest in a powerful male, whispered through her. Mentally, she shook herself. Nonsense. She was past all that sort of silliness. Her sole interest these days was the establishment of her brother and sister.
Dismissing Charles Weston with a cool glance, she turned her attention back to the viscount. “We apologize for our mistake,” she said stiffly to Lord Trevillyan. “Now that we know the boundary line, you should have no fear that we shall ever
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