Ann Lethbridge - The Gamekeeper's Lady

Robert shouldered his shotgun, the brace of hares dangling from its muzzle. Fresh meat for dinner. His mouth watered.

He strode down Gallows Hill, mud heavy on his boots, the countryside unfolding in mist-draped valleys and leafless tree-crested hills. The late-afternoon air chilled the back of his throat and reached frigid fingers smelling of decayed vegetation into his lungs.

On the hill behind him, the rooks were settling back among the treetops with harsh cries. He whistled blithely, unusually content at the prospect of stew instead of bread and cheese, or the rations of salt beef provided by his employer.

Perhaps he’d request a recipe for dumplings from Wynchwood’s cook next time he arrived in her kitchen with a plump pheasant for his lordship’s dinner. A wry smile twisted his lips. How the mighty were fallen.

A sudden sense of loss made his stomach fall away.

The whistle died on his lips. Damn it. He would not sink into self-pity. Live for the moment and plan for the future must be his motto or he would go mad.

He slogged on down the hill, unable to recapture his lighter mood. At the bottom, he took the overgrown track alongside the river, pushing aside brambles and scuffing through damp leaves. Without vegetables his stew would be a sorry affair. Perhaps instead of going up to the house in the morning for a list of the cook’s requirements from the local village, he’d go now. She might have some vegetables to spare.

The trees thinned at the edge of the clearing. Stew. He could almost smell it.

Robert stopped short at the sight of a hunched figure perched on an old stump a little way from his cottage, her brown bonnet and brown wool cloak blending into the carpet of withered beech leaves. He knew her at once, even though she had her back to him and her head bowed over something on her lap. Miss Bracewell.

Hades. It seemed she’d taken him up on his invitation to return whenever she liked.

He inhaled a slow breath. This time he would not scare her. This time he would be polite. Polite and, damn it, suitably humble, since no word had come back to him about yesterday’s disastrous encounter.

He’d not had the courage to ask Weatherby about her either. If something had been said, he didn’t want to remind the old curmudgeon.

He circled around, thinking to come at her head on. A twig cracked under his boot. He cursed under his breath.

She leaped to her feet and whirled around. Sheets of paper fluttered around her, landing like snowflakes amid the dry leaves.

Large and grey-green, her eyes mirrored shock. Another emotion flickered away before he could guess its import. Strange when he rarely had trouble reading a woman’s thoughts. It left him feeling on edge. Out of his element.

He touched his hat. ‘Good day, Miss Bracewell.’

An expression of revulsion crossed her face.

It took him aback. Women usually looked at him with favour. Had he upset her so much? And if so, why was she back?

The focus of her horrified gaze remained fixed above his right shoulder. On his dinner, not on him. Not that he wasn’t the stuff of nightmares, with his worn jacket and fustian trousers mired with the blood of his catch. He’d gutted them up on the hill, preferring leaving the offal for scavengers rather than bury it near his hut. He put the gun and its grisly pennant on the ground at his feet with an apologetic shrug.

Her breast rose and fell in a deep breath. ‘Mr Deveril.’

Recalling his mistakes of the day before, he snatched his cap off his head and lowered his gaze. ‘Yes, miss. I am sorry if I disturbed you.’ One of her fallen papers had landed near his foot. He retrieved it. His jaw slackened at a glimpse of a drawing of his own likeness, jacketless, shabby, unkempt, disreputable.

Shock held him transfixed.

She leaped forwards and snatched it from his hand. At a crouching run, she scuttled about picking up the rest of the sheets. Each time he reached for one, she plucked it from beneath his hand, allowing only fractured glimpses of squirrels in their natural setting.

All the sheets picked up, she stood with the untidy bundle of papers clutched against her chest as if fearing he might make a grab for them, staring at him as if he had two heads and four eyes. Obviously she found his presence disturbing.

Her wariness gnawed at his gut like a rat feeding on bone. He quelled the urge to deny meaning her harm. She should be afraid out here alone in the woods without a chaperon.

Glancing down for his rifle, he saw scattered charcoal and the upturned wooden box beside the stump. He crouched, righted the box and scooped up the charcoals. He dropped them into the box. A glint caught his eye—a fine gold chain snaking amongst the leaves. He picked it up, dangled it from his fingers.

‘It’s mine,’ she said in her strangled breathy voice.

Without looking at her, he felt heat rise from his neck to the roots of his hair. Did she think he would steal it? He let it fall into the box amongst the dusty broken black sticks.

‘I b-broke it,’ she said in the same forced rush of words.

He glanced at her.

She tucked the messy pile of paper between two board covers and tied the string. ‘I caught it on a branch on my way here.’ She offered him a conciliatory smile.

He blinked, startled by the sudden change in her expression. She looked witchy, oddly alluring, almost beautiful in a vulnerable way. He pulled himself together. ‘What are you doing here?’ He sounded sullen, ungracious, when he’d meant to sound jocular. He half-expected her to take to her heels in terror.

This woman had him all at sea.

But she didn’t run, she merely tilted her head to one side as if thinking about what to say.

‘L-looking for squirrels.’ She tapped her portfolio.

And she’d picked this clearing when hundreds of other places would do. What was she up to? He gestured to the stump. ‘Don’t let me disturb you.’

‘N-no. I was finished. The light is fading. Too many shadows.’

A true artist would care about the quality of the light. And the drawings he’d seen were excellent. Most ladies liked to draw, but her pictures seemed different. The squirrels had life.

Perhaps her artistic bent was what made her seem different. Awkward, with her utterance of short, sharp and direct sentences, yet likeable. A reason not to encourage her to return.

‘May I help you mount your horse?’ He glanced around for the gelding.

She bit her lip. A faint, rosy hue tinted her pale, high cheekbones. ‘I w-walked.’

Robert frowned. Riding in the woods was risky enough, but a young female walking alone in the forest with the sun going down he could not like.

‘I’ll drop my dinner off inside and walk you back to Wynchwood.’

‘P-please, don’t trouble. I know the way.’

‘It’s no trouble, miss. It’s my duty to my employer to see you home safe.’

In his past life, he would have insisted on his honour and charmed the girl. His mouth twisted. As far as his new world knew, he had neither honour nor charm.

A protest formed on her lips, but he continued as if he hadn’t noticed. ‘I have to go up to the house before supper to collect an order from Mrs Doncaster.’

Her glance flicked to the pile of fur. A shudder shook her delicate frame. It reminded him of shudders of pleasure. Heated his blood. Stirred his body.

Unwanted responses.

Furious at himself, he glowered at her. ‘Do you not eat meat, Miss Wynchwood?’ Damn, that was hardly conciliatory. Hardly servile. He wanted to curse. Instead, he bent, picked up his haul and strode for his front door.

‘Y-yes,’ she said.

He swung around. ‘What?’

‘I eat m-m-m—’ she closed her eyes, a sweep of long brown lashes on fine cheekbones for a second ‘—eat meat—’ her serious gaze rested on his face ‘—but I prefer it cooked.’ She smiled. A curve of rosy lips and flash of small white teeth.