Chapter 4

FOUR

Instantly, Bella realized her mistake. She had backed herself into a corner. But she was not one to give in just because a thing was difficult. Affecting her haughtiest expression, she sniffed dismissively, "That will prove nothing but that I am easily manipulated by spoiled boys who are used to getting their way."

Her efforts to offend him failed miserably. Indeed, he laughed at them. When his laughter died away, he raised his hand, "First, an invitation is hardly a manipulation." He lowered one finger.

The movement drew her attention to his hands. They were large, the skin bronzed, his fingers long and well shaped. It was a very masculine hand, and a hand that did not seem to be unacquainted with hard work, which was something of a surprise.

He continued, "Secondly, I am not a boy… And thirdly, Miss Goodwynne, and perhaps most importantly, it is nothing more than a walk. If after tomorrow's walk you have no wish to see me again, then I vow to make myself absent from wherever you are. I shall not importune you again."

Bella could feel herself wavering. She was more charmed than he could have ever realized by his bold words and easy confidence. And at this close distance, he was even more handsome. She could see every fine detail. The slight bit of silver in his hair, the small scar on the crest of his cheek bone. The wicked part of her wondered at the slight shadowing of his beard and what it would feel like against her skin.

She should refuse. But he would be persistent. She knew that. And, somewhat perversely, she wanted him to be. That was the most damnable part of it all. What she ought to do and what she wanted to do were diametrically opposed to one another. It was an impossible situation—craving to be in his company, to learn more about him and to simply feel the warmth of his gaze upon her—while also fearing what would happen should she allow anything more than a passing acquaintance to develop. The most expedient course would be to agree to his terms and then make herself as dull and uninteresting as possible. A wicked thought stirred within her, one born of mischief rather than the attraction that would be so disastrous to act on.

"I will not walk with you. But you may, if you choose, walk with me," she said. "I will be gathering herbs near Harper's Meadow tomorrow afternoon—three o'clock. There's a copse of trees between the meadow and the road where certain mushrooms grow that are renown for their medicinal purposes… An extra pair of hands will be quite useful."

"Whatever it takes, Miss Goodwynne. Good afternoon." He bowed gracefully and then turned to leave while she simply stood there staring after him and wondering if she'd made a terrible error in judgement.

"It is too late now," she murmured to herself. The dye was cast. She'd agreed to spend at least a good portion of the afternoon in his presence. If she were any other woman, a chaperone would be a necessity. But she was already a spinster and if she were not, she was so beset by scandal and gossip that it rendered her completely ineligible. In short, she had no reputation to ruin. Of course, she would be discreet. The last thing she needed was to add more fuel to the already considerable fire licking at her heels.

In the wooded area that backed up to Mrs. Frye's garden, Lynden Stalker watched the interplay between the witch and the polished gentleman from London. When he'd arrived at the church the week before, the widow of Thomas Hollander on his arm, panic had settled inside him. Who had she brought into their midst? And why?

Finding out that he was only her brother had been a relief. Now, he simply needed to determine how long the man intended to stay and what, if anything, his plans were. The people of Highgate-on-Trent were simple. And simple people were easily controlled, easily brought to heel. Desmond Crane would not be. Crane's obvious infatuation with the temptress was a complication. He wouldn't leave willingly now. That was apparent from the way he looked at her. So he'd need to be made to leave. Or the threat he posed would need to be eradicated in another way. Because he had a plan for Belladonna Goodwynne, a plan that was well underway.

His hand would not be stayed any longer. Not where she was concerned. Her consortment with the devil would soon be at an end. At least her consortment with him while she remained on this earthly plane. He'd made it his mission to send her back to the Hell from which she'd been spawned. And a lovesick fool might well prove to be a heroic one. Interference would not and could not be permitted. The salvation of every soul in Highgate-on-Trent, himself included, depended upon that.

"'Tis a pity," he whispered. "Mrs. Hollander will be grief-stricken all over again. But at least her wardrobe needs for full mourning are already met."

Satisfied with what he had to do, and now having been presented with the perfect opportunity, he would have to act. Surely it was divine providence. It was a sign that he was on , not just the righteous path, but the right path. The chosen path. Were he not doing the Lord's will, such opportunities would not be presented to him.