Chapter Four

T he storm was damned inconvenient. Ambrose strode across the yard to the stable the next morning to check on the woman's—on Eve's—mare. His stable hand, Thomas, had helped him to settle the horse, then clean and wrap a small wound the night before. It had been hard to see the extent of the injury in the lamplight, so he'd done what he could, then left Thomas to feed and brush the animal down.

Thick flakes of snow continued to fall, accumulating in large drifts. He couldn't in good conscience send the woman away in this weather and yet, she couldn't stay. He'd barely slept the night before, half worried about what he might do as the murmuring voices in his head grew more insistent, even though he couldn't understand their words.

He stomped into the stable and brushed the snow from his hair and cloak. "Thomas?"

"Here," the man called. He stuck his head out from one of the stalls halfway down. "Checking on our girl."

Our girl. Ambrose's heart thumped as images of Eve flashed through his mind. She'd been stunning with her dark hair and those wide, blue-green eyes that pleaded with him for help, even when dripping wet on his doorstep. He knew Thomas meant the horse and not Eve. His reaction to those two simple words made little sense. Further proof that he was losing his grip on his sanity.

He cleared his throat and joined the man. "How is she?"

"Happy and warm," Thomas replied. The mare put her head over the low gate of the stall and bobbed it as if in agreement. "I was about to check her leg."

Ambrose stroked the horse's nose. She was tan with a flaxen mane and a white swirl on her forehead. It was clear she'd been well cared for prior to this journey. "I'll assist."

Together, they crouched to remove the wrap and inspect the hoof. The wound on the mare's leg was no more than a scratch which didn't look deep.

Thomas studied the mare's hoof next. "The woman said the horse slipped?"

"Yes. On a hill, as I recall."

"Makes sense. In the snow, neither horse nor rider can avoid the rocks. It could have stumbled and lost footing or stepped on a sharp rock. This area here looks bruised." Thomas cleaned the hoof, then gently prodded the surface. "Aye, a stone bruise."

"Will the mare recover?"

"She should be quite well in a week or so."

Ambrose rocked back on his heels. A week! The woman couldn't stay that long. "Are you certain? Is there anything we can do to speed the healing? Could she travel after a day or two?"

Thomas grinned. "I heard the miss was pretty."

Ambrose glowered back. "The mare is the only one in question."

"Of course, my lord." They rose, and Thomas added, "Though it wouldn't do to have the horse falter again, only this time when the miss has no one to help her."

Blast. He hated that the man was right. "Let me know how the mare fares."

"And the miss?"

Ambrose ran a hand through his hair and gripped the base of his neck where a headache began to form. "I'll have Mary see to her while she's here."

Thomas opened his mouth to respond, but Ambrose cut him off with a glare. "Take care of the mare. Eve will be looked after. As soon as the horse can travel, they'll both be on their way."

"Eve, is it?" Thomas grinned.

Ambrose cursed and strode back to the manor through the falling snow. His bloody staff knew why he couldn't allow the woman to stay and every damned one of them wore smiles from ear to ear this morning.

He shook off the snow when he entered the back door into the kitchen and whisked off his cloak. "It's still coming down, Mary. Let me know if—" He stopped when he realized that it wasn't Mary in the kitchen, but Eve. She smiled at him from her seat at the table where a cup of tea sat. A light blue dress replaced her sodden riding habit from the night before and her mahogany brown hair had been pinned up in a simple style. The dark color highlighted her blue-green eyes and creamy skin, and Ambrose found he couldn't look away. She was entrancing.

"Mary will return in a moment. She stepped out to help Virgil with something," Eve said.

Ambrose remained silent.

She traced the rim of her teacup with a slender finger. "Your house is quiet. Are they your only staff?"

He took a few steps into the kitchen, keeping ample space between them. "There is also Thomas. He's attending your mare. Her leg isn't bad, but Thomas believes it will be a few days before she can travel."

Eve's forehead furrowed. "I'm imposing on you. I apologize."

Ambrose wanted to refute her words, but he couldn't think of anything to say. All he could do was gaze at her like some lovelorn young buck.

"I don't even know your name."

Bollocks. He was being rude. "Ambrose Grey, Earl of Stamford."

She sat straighter. "Thank you for taking my horse and me in last night, Lord Stamford. I fear what would have become of us."

"It is unusual for a young woman to travel alone. In a snowstorm, no less. Who are you running from?"

The most delightful flush spread over her cheeks. She looked away. "What makes you believe—"

"All right. Now that's finished… Oh, there you are, my lord," Mary said as she walked back into the kitchen. "If you're ready for breakfast, I can serve you both in the dining room."

Ambrose strode for the door. He couldn't sit in a room alone with Eve, watching her sip her tea and lick her lips as she ate or hear her hum as she enjoyed Mary's cooking. That was an entirely different type of madness he was desperate to avoid. "I'll take tea in my study. I have things to attend to." He nodded to Eve and quit the room.

Mary brought a tray up to him later, which he'd been obliged to share with Alfred. The cat had yowled louder than the storm outside until he'd relented and offered him some cheese.

When he'd done every task he could think of, including a full review of his account ledgers, rearranging the books on his shelf, cleaning his paper blotter, and petting Alfred for a time, he conceded that he couldn't stay in his study the entire day. The letters on the corner of his desk awaited his correspondence, but he didn't have the patience or the desire to reply.

Once, he'd enjoyed spending the holidays with his family or friends. Games and songs, good food, and the warmth of the hearth. Exchanging a gift to show your regard. Those memories seemed a lifetime ago. Sometimes he wished he could still be part of those happy times. But that life had been taken from him. Only a fool would linger on dreams he knew to be impossible. One didn't always get the things one wanted, even the desires wished so fervently by the heart. He knew that better than anyone.

Ambrose rose from his desk chair. "Keep an eye on our guest, Alfred. I must check the manor to make sure the storm hasn't caused any damage." Anything to keep his mind off his guest and those damned invitations.

The cat hopped down from his cushion by the fire and followed him.

Ambrose stepped into the hallway and crashed into Eve. His arms went around her instinctively, holding her close.

"Lord Stamford, I didn't see you." Her wide eyes with their full lashes gazed up at him in surprise. She gripped the fabric of his shirt. To steady herself or keep him close?

His hands flexed, pulling her closer, and swallowed. She smelled like lavender, warm and feminine, and her soft breasts pressed against his chest. "Eve." Blast, why hadn't he asked her last name? Decorum said he should call her by her surname, not her Christian name. It added a buffer of propriety he desperately needed.

"I was looking for Alfred. Mary gave me a treat for him."

The cat purred loudly, winding between Ambrose's legs. "Are you spoiling my cat?"

"Possibly." Eve grinned and a dimple appeared in her right cheek.

His heart stopped, then slammed in his chest. His loins stirred at that small mark, that sweet smile. Good Christ.

Eve stepped out of his arms, and it was only then that he realized he still had hold of her. Ambrose stifled a groan. He had to put space between them.

"Why is he called Alfred?" she asked.

"He's Alfred the Great."

Eve laughed, and the sound twisted his insides. He edged around her. "The first king of England?"

"The name seemed to suit his royal highness."

She leaned down to pet the cat, giving Ambrose a delightful view of her bosom. "It does indeed."

Ambrose cleared his throat and fisted his hands, searching for every reason he could summon to keep from reaching for her. She couldn't stay. He was a danger to her. He could never marry, which was what a woman Eve's age wanted. She'd want a husband and a family and a fine home, none of which he could offer. He knew he must distance himself from her until she could leave.

"Do you have a husband?" he asked instead. A rosy flush spread across her skin, awakening a hunger in him to see where else she blushed, and how he could draw more from her. He grit his teeth.

"No."

"Betrothed to another?"

She shook her head in denial.

He frowned. The riding habit she wore yesterday was well-made, as were her cloak and gloves. She didn't look like a simple country miss. More like a woman who would have a Season in London. "Who are you, Eve? Tell me your last name."

"What does it matter? I will be gone as soon as the storm stops," she whispered, not meeting his gaze.

Perhaps not, if her horse hadn't healed. "Should I worry about a father or a lover appearing on my doorstep?"

Her throat worked as she swallowed. "Please."

"Eve…" He wanted to coax the answer from her lips. Ambrose reached forward to take a silken brown curl between his fingers. He wanted to see her dark hair spread upon his pillow. He wanted a great deal many things that he could never have. But most of all, he wanted her trust. "Eve—"

Whispers filled his head before he could finish the thought. Unintelligible voices that seemed to grow louder. Ambrose dropped the strands of her hair. He should never have touched her.

Eve paled.

At first, he thought her pallor a result of his touch until he realized that she looked beyond him. Ambrose turned, expecting to see Virgil or Mary, but the shadowed corridor was empty. Something thumped on the floor above and the house creaked. The murmur of voices faded.

"My lord, Thomas is asking for you," Virgil called from the hall below.

Ambrose cursed under his breath. To Eve, he said, "We will speak of this later. If you wish to remain under this roof, you'll answer my questions."

Her shoulders slumped, and she nodded.

Blast. Hell and damnation. She looked so lost. He cursed himself for being a fool and stomped down the stairs and out into the snow, forgoing the cloak he'd left in the kitchen earlier. He had a right to those answers. He shouldn't feel like a heel for demanding them. And yet, what right did he have to ask for her trust when he couldn't offer any in return?

His breath fogged white as he trudged through the snow to the stable. Eve was leaving soon enough. He could hear his mother now chastising him for being a poor host to the young woman. In truth, he wasn't sure whether he wanted to turn her out or kiss her.

He gave a harsh laugh. A beautiful young woman would never accept the kiss of a madman.