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Authors: Susan Sizemore
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amusement in it. "Well, aren't you the lord of the glen? No, I don't think I—"
Sir Ian's words were cut off as the library door opened. Martin turned hopefully at the swish of skirts, but the woman he saw in the doorway was not Abigail, though for a moment he thought she was. Hope had marred his vision, he supposed, though the woman was of a similar height, build, and coloring to Abigail. This newcomer, attractive though she was, was closer to Sir Ian's age, her dark hair frosted with strands of silver. She wore a plaid wool shawl and there were moisture and grass stains on the hem of her dove-gray skirt.
She looked Martin over with a clear, critical gaze, and said, "You're Kestrel, aren't you?"
"My dear," Sir Ian said quickly, warningly.
She ignored Sir Ian and kept her steady gaze on Martin. "You'll find her up at the ruins," she told him. "Go through the back garden and through the pasture. You can't miss the place."
Martin could have waltzed the woman around the room and kissed her thoroughly. He smiled at her instead, and offered a fervent thank you on his way out.
Court would have followed, but Hannah shut the door and leaned against it to block his way. "What was that about?" he demanded of his wife. "I was about to send the man packing. The last thing Harriet needs is to see him."
Hannah smiled, infuriatingly inscrutable. "The last thing she wants—oh, I quite agreeùbut I doubt if it's the last thing she needs. And I must say I admire the man's being able to track her down."
"It wasn't cleverness," Court answered, gesturing toward the desk. "Phoebe used him as a messenger for that packet of papers. He has no idea who our daughter really is and I wasn't about to tell him."
"I should hope not. That is between them."
"
That
is a state secret."
"Nonsense." She waved his words away. "More of a family secret, now that Aunt Phoebe's seen fit to send him all the way to
Skye Court. Perhaps you haven't noticed, but Harriet's been pining for that young man." She put a hand against his chest when he tried to get by her to open the door. "Yes, I know, dear," she soothed. "You don't like him—he has a bad reputation with women, abysmal taste in wives, he gambles and keeps bad company, and, oh, yes, he's English. But what you like and what suits Harriet are two different things."
"He doesn't suit Harriet."
"Possibly not, but it isn't up to us. Why don't we have a look at the papers Aunt Phoebe sent? I'm sure they are important."
"They're in code."
"Then we'll send for Beatrice to help us. Crown business comes before family business, remember?"
Court didn't like being handled, manipulated, or distracted by anyone, but he also knew when Hannah would have her way, no matter what. He frowned mightily as he chucked her under the chin. "You'll pay for this, lass."
This growled threat got him no more than a saucy grin, and "Oh, goody."
Wicked woman. He kissed her, then went back to sit at his desk. "Call Beatrice," he said. "I'll wait here and worry about our other daughter."
----
Chapter 7
Even from a great distance, the man's stalking stride was unmistakable. There was the dark shine of a raven's wing as sunlight touched his windblown hair. The breath went out of her body at the sight of him, and she saw bright, brilliant, exploding stars. The joy was so sharp it hurt, and very nearly drove her to her knees. Good God, he was there! It was Martin! He'd come for her! The words sang in her head and burst from Harriet's wounded soul. Delight made her dizzy and giddy, and for an instant she knew she could fly. She could at least run.
Harriet was halfway down the hill, arms outstretched with yearning, before the true horror of the moment washed over her in an ice-cold tidal wave. What sort of fantasy world had she let herself get lost in, to feel such undeserved pleasure at a mere distant glimpse of that wide-shouldered, long-legged form? Martin Kestrel was the last person in the world she wanted to see! It would
Sir Ian's words were cut off as the library door opened. Martin turned hopefully at the swish of skirts, but the woman he saw in the doorway was not Abigail, though for a moment he thought she was. Hope had marred his vision, he supposed, though the woman was of a similar height, build, and coloring to Abigail. This newcomer, attractive though she was, was closer to Sir Ian's age, her dark hair frosted with strands of silver. She wore a plaid wool shawl and there were moisture and grass stains on the hem of her dove-gray skirt.
She looked Martin over with a clear, critical gaze, and said, "You're Kestrel, aren't you?"
"My dear," Sir Ian said quickly, warningly.
She ignored Sir Ian and kept her steady gaze on Martin. "You'll find her up at the ruins," she told him. "Go through the back garden and through the pasture. You can't miss the place."
Martin could have waltzed the woman around the room and kissed her thoroughly. He smiled at her instead, and offered a fervent thank you on his way out.
Court would have followed, but Hannah shut the door and leaned against it to block his way. "What was that about?" he demanded of his wife. "I was about to send the man packing. The last thing Harriet needs is to see him."
Hannah smiled, infuriatingly inscrutable. "The last thing she wants—oh, I quite agreeùbut I doubt if it's the last thing she needs. And I must say I admire the man's being able to track her down."
"It wasn't cleverness," Court answered, gesturing toward the desk. "Phoebe used him as a messenger for that packet of papers. He has no idea who our daughter really is and I wasn't about to tell him."
"I should hope not. That is between them."
"
That
is a state secret."
"Nonsense." She waved his words away. "More of a family secret, now that Aunt Phoebe's seen fit to send him all the way to
Skye Court. Perhaps you haven't noticed, but Harriet's been pining for that young man." She put a hand against his chest when he tried to get by her to open the door. "Yes, I know, dear," she soothed. "You don't like him—he has a bad reputation with women, abysmal taste in wives, he gambles and keeps bad company, and, oh, yes, he's English. But what you like and what suits Harriet are two different things."
"He doesn't suit Harriet."
"Possibly not, but it isn't up to us. Why don't we have a look at the papers Aunt Phoebe sent? I'm sure they are important."
"They're in code."
"Then we'll send for Beatrice to help us. Crown business comes before family business, remember?"
Court didn't like being handled, manipulated, or distracted by anyone, but he also knew when Hannah would have her way, no matter what. He frowned mightily as he chucked her under the chin. "You'll pay for this, lass."
This growled threat got him no more than a saucy grin, and "Oh, goody."
Wicked woman. He kissed her, then went back to sit at his desk. "Call Beatrice," he said. "I'll wait here and worry about our other daughter."
----
Chapter 7
Even from a great distance, the man's stalking stride was unmistakable. There was the dark shine of a raven's wing as sunlight touched his windblown hair. The breath went out of her body at the sight of him, and she saw bright, brilliant, exploding stars. The joy was so sharp it hurt, and very nearly drove her to her knees. Good God, he was there! It was Martin! He'd come for her! The words sang in her head and burst from Harriet's wounded soul. Delight made her dizzy and giddy, and for an instant she knew she could fly. She could at least run.
Harriet was halfway down the hill, arms outstretched with yearning, before the true horror of the moment washed over her in an ice-cold tidal wave. What sort of fantasy world had she let herself get lost in, to feel such undeserved pleasure at a mere distant glimpse of that wide-shouldered, long-legged form? Martin Kestrel was the last person in the world she wanted to see! It would
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