Chapter Twenty-Two

The following morning, Oscar rode out across the estate lands with Mr. Holcombe.

The gamekeeper was a quiet man, keeping his cards close, but his keen gaze made it clear that he was always thinking. Doubtless,

a vole couldn't make it onto the property without the man knowing about it.

As they headed east toward the ridge, Oscar was struck by a peculiar rush of amusement. Not for any particular reason. It

was just that never in his boyhood dreams had he imagined himself a country gentleman. And yet, there he was—or, at least,

Vandemere was—his interest piqued with every grunt and frown the gamekeeper made over various animal tracks, a crooked fence post, or strips of bark scored from the trunk of

a tree.

He'd even perused the library's shelves and found a first edition of The Gardener's Labyrinth by Thomas Hill. The widows had been quite cross when he'd mentioned the improvements he planned to make to their cutting

garden—extending the flagstone pathway, expanding the rose bower, adding additional beehives.

It pleased him to no end to drop little nuggets like that for them the grumble and grouse over. And he was beginning to suspect

that their genuine dislike of him was more show than fact.

Then again, thinking back to the chandelier... perhaps not.

Oscar and Holcombe were just approaching the ridge when the gamekeeper stopped and turned his mount. Oscar followed his gaze as another rider approached. A beautiful rider, in fact.

Honoria Hartley by morning light was definitely a sight a man could get used to.

Today, she was garbed in a burgundy riding habit buttoned all the way up to the neck. A jaunty hat sat perched to one side

of her luminous flaxen hair as she rode toward him with unsurprisingly fluid grace atop her side saddle.

When she reached them, she beamed. "Good morning, Vandemere. And Mr. Holcombe, aren't you looking ruggedly handsome this fine

day?"

Even though the gamekeeper's impassive countenance did not alter when he issued a nod of greeting, his cheeks suddenly looked

a bit ruddier than usual. Oscar actually felt sorry for him. No man stood a chance against Honoria's charms.

"And to what do we owe this unexpected pleasure, Miss Hartley? Or is it that you came all this way to speak to Mr. Holcombe?

If so, I'm afraid I would be forced to challenge him to a duel. Unfortunately for me, he's a crack shot, and my chances of

survival are minimal at best."

She tapped her gloved finger against the side of her pursed lips, her gaze drifting coquettishly to the gamekeeper. Then she

sighed. "Oh, I suppose we cannot have that. Not yet, at any rate. Therefore, my reason is that I accompanied Mr. Lawson to

the abbey."

"And my list of rivals is growing by the minute. Doubtless, I will be forced to spend your entire dowry on an arsenal of weapons

and building high walls to surround the abbey and shield us from besotted invaders."

"Perhaps." The imp flashed a grin, not realizing that he was partly serious. "However, today he came to have a look at your chandelier. Father would have come as well, but he and Mother had a prior engagement for breakfast with Lady Broadbent before my sister and her husband leave on their honeymoon. So I decided to tag along with Mr. Lawson and ensure you hadn't taken a spill down the stairs or something."

"Waiting to push me yourself?"

"You know me too well." And yet, when her gaze collided with his, he detected a kernel of truth revealed in that Aegean blue.

She looked away quickly, her cheeks coloring as she gestured with an absent flick of her wrist. "Be that as it may, Mr. Lawson

began his inspection, and when the groom said that you were with Mr. Holcombe, I decided to find you."

Oscar was glad she had, but he didn't tell her. Confess such things to a woman like Honoria and she would win every hand.

"I regret to inform you that we were just concluding our tour of the estate," he said. "However, since you're here, might

as well take in the best view from the top of the ridge."

Without hesitation, she spurred her horse and dashed past them. Over her shoulder, she issued a taunting laugh. "Race you!"

Oscar didn't know if the grin he wore as he charged after her was one that appeared on his face the moment he saw her or if

it was a new one because she'd managed to surprise him yet again.

If he wasn't careful, he might actually start to like surprises.

She beat him to the ridge, triumph glowing in her lifted cheeks. And when Holcombe joined them, Oscar could have sworn he

saw the ever-impassive man smirk.

The view from the ridge had become Oscar's favorite place. Sloping hills, blending into forest and fen, and green as far as

the eye could see. And sitting on his mount with Honoria beside him, he almost felt like Vandemere.

"It is quite a lovely prospect." Honoria lifted a hand to the brim of her hat to shield her eyes from the sun that rose higher in a sea of cloudless blue.

Oscar nodded, feeling a surge of pride, unfounded though it might have been.

"What about that outcropping of rock over there"—she pointed—"peeking out just beneath that copse of trees?"

"That's the old keep, or what's left of it," Holcombe offered. "Twelfth-century or thereabouts. Most of the timber and roofing

were scavenged around the sixteenth century to begin building the abbey. The rest just crumbled away. When it rains a spell,

you can see where the moat was." He grinned, his gaze turning distant with reminiscence. "The young masters used to wage wars

over who could be king of Awildian Palace."

A shiver tightened Oscar's scalp, lifting the hair at the back of his nape. "I beg your pardon?"

"Awildian Palace," Holcombe repeated. "Ach. But that was just something master Titus invented. The actual name is Bramslea

Castle."

Awildian Palace . Just like the book of poetry his father had read to him.

"I should like very much to see it," Honoria interjected, casting sidelong glances to both men.

Holcombe cleared his throat, his cheeks flame bright. "It's a fair pace away, Miss Hartley, and I have a fence to repair."

"I'm sure Lawson is expecting me," Oscar said.

She clucked her tongue, pouting prettily. "What a pity."

Oscar knew that tone. Knew that look, too. Her politeness was a mere formality. She fully intended to do whatever she wanted,

and no one would stop her. But when he saw her gaze slide down the steep incline as if to ride down the treacherous path—perched

on her sidesaddle, no less—he had to intervene.

"You're not going alone, so get that notion out of your head at once."

She peered over the ridge. "It isn't so very steep. I'm sure I could—"

Before she could finish, he sidled his horse up to hers and secured the bridle. Then he turned to the gamekeeper. "Holcombe,

if you wouldn't mind letting Lawson know that I will attend to him shortly. Apparently, I'll be escorting Miss Hartley to

the ruins to ensure her safety. We shan't be long."

Holcombe's gaze flicked between the two of them, and it was clear in the small shake of his head that he understood that Oscar

was dealing with a headstrong female. Only, one of these days, she might end up getting herself into real trouble.

"Aye, my lord," he said with a tug on the reins and left them alone.

"Clever. You are attempting to reinforce your pretense of authority. Indeed, that was quite the lord of the manor display." Her brows flashed flirtatiously. "But we both know that I fully intend to traverse that slope."

Oscar's grip on her horse didn't lessen, and he leveled his gaze at her. "That wasn't a pretense. You are not—and I repeat

not —risking your neck. We are riding back the way we came and around to a safer path. And don't even think about arguing over

my right to command you. If you so much as glance down the slope again, I will lift you off your saddle, sling you over my

knee and escort you to the abbey to have tea with the widows."

Her eyes blazed fire as her nostrils flared. But his glare was just as lethal, and his tone brooked no argument.

He was about to add that he'd throttle her backside, too. However, the instant he remembered how that shapely rounded part

of her fit against his hand, his mind started to veer off in another direction. It was best to keep his focus where it mattered.

"Fine," she said after a moment. "But it's only because I want to see this Awildian Palace for myself."

So did he.

It was strange, but in all the times he'd looked over the ridge, he'd merely thought it was an outcropping of stone, which

was not an uncommon sight. He had yet to explore all of the property. The land here was so varied with woodlands, hills, rocks

and marshes, and he was often overwhelmed by the beauty of it.

He'd spent so much of his life moving from city to city that, if it weren't for seeing the countryside through the window

of a carriage, he might not even believe places like this existed.

Not for the first—and definitely not for the last—time, he thought Vandemere was one lucky bastard.

"Are you through with pouting yet?" he asked as he urged Hermes forward and matched the pace of her mare until they were side

by side across the fen. Thus far, she'd been keeping ahead by two lengths, her back stiff as a pole.

Her chin jutted out. "I could have handled the slope. You know nothing about my horsemanship, and I don't like being underestimated

for the sake of your ego."

"It has nothing to do with my ego. You said it yourself. I don't know anything about your horsemanship. And I wasn't about

to stand idly by while you attempted to prove yourself," he said, his voice rising. "If you haven't realized by now, I stopped

underestimating you when you left me weak-kneed and stunned in Paris. And I'm not the kind of man who needs to learn the same

lesson more than once."

"Then, why wouldn't you let me?"

"Because I don't want to see you hurt! I should have thought that was obvious."

She looked over at him, quiet and considering. "Fair enough, I suppose."

He arched a brow back at her. "And this is where you confess to coming here because you were worried about me."

"Hardly." She scoffed. "My primary concern is that your death would force me to invent a new viscount."

"Ah, yes. Wouldn't want to inconvenience you."

He saw the corner of her mouth twitch just as one gilded curl slipped free of the coil and rested on her shoulder. It reminded

him of a sumptuous dream filled with images of silken limbs tangled with his own, of Honoria's pale hair falling in a golden

curtain around him as she kissed him, rising over him to sink down onto him, her neck arching as he filled her again and again...

"Oscar?"

Hearing his name, he realized he'd allowed his attention to drift and lifted his eyebrows in silent query.

"I asked about your plan."

"Plan?"

"To pay your gambling debt. At least, I presume it is a matter of money. And since you're no longer holding secrets over my

head, and you are intelligent enough to know that I won't be forced into marriage," she said and paused to cast him an arched

look, "I'm wondering what your plan is."

He shifted in the saddle. Clearly, the only undulating happening here was in the sway of the broom shrub as yellow flower-tipped

branches bent and bowed in the cool breeze that swept over the fen, stirring the air with a sweet fragrance. "First of all,

I always pay my debts. And second, it's a little more complicated."

"Then, enlighten me," she said. "Oh, come now, Oscar. I am the keeper of your secrets, as you are of mine, remember?"

She was diabolical, using that soft look against him. What man stood a chance?

"It began with one of Cardew's paintings."

"Cardew?"

For an instant, he caught himself wondering why the two most important people in his life hadn't been introduced. But just

as quickly, he cast that thought aside as a mistake because Honoria wasn't in his life. Not really. Therefore, she couldn't

possibly be important to him.

"Ignatius Cardew is something of a mentor to me," he explained. "After my father... left, Cardew stayed and provided for us in his own unconventional manner. He's an artist. A rather exceptional artist, but one whose skill lies primarily in replication."

"In other words, he's a forger."

"A very good one," he clarified. "He just made the poor decision to use Ladrón's mistress as the muse for his Titian...

while she was wearing the ruby necklace which she'd stolen from Ladrón's wife."

Honoria considered this for a moment. "I don't understand. If Cardew was the one who cheated him, why is Ladrón after you?"

"That's where it gets a bit muddy. When the bloodthirsty Spaniard had Cardew by the co—" He coughed. "Let's just say that

he threatened to relieve Cardew of his favorite appendage. That was when I made the not-altogether-brilliant boast that I

could quadruple the amount that he'd paid Cardew and settle the debt. The bargain earned a temporary stay of execution."

"And you were to pay that debt the night we met," she surmised.

"Most memorable night of my life."

A frown knitted her brow as she stared ahead toward the ruins where white stones were heaped in parallel piles, as if it might

have supported a wall or drawbridge. Off to one side, a massive moss-shrouded sessile oak stood guard like a ghostly sentinel.

"By winning, I set this entire debacle in motion," she said. "Not the least of which was putting your life in danger."

"Careful, Signore. You wouldn't want to give the impression that you care about the state of my neck."

She sent him a glare in response and assumed that if she looked away quickly enough it would mask the worry in her eyes.

But witnessing the truth for himself sent a warmth that threatened to spark to life in the center of his chest. He tamped it down, of course.

"But you had been winning most of the night, up until then. I've given this a good deal of thought, and I think I distracted

you and made you lose count."

His jaw slackened with shock. "Lose... count?"

"That is what you do, isn't it?" she asked with a shrug as if she hadn't just floored him. "Though, to be perfectly honest,

I didn't put the pieces together straightaway. It's only been since knowing you and seeing the way your eyes change when you're

remembering something that gave me the first clue. Your reaction, just now, merely confirmed it."

She truly was an astute observer.

When they reached the shallow trench—the likely remains of the moat from ages ago—they stopped. Dismounting, he stepped over

to hand her down.

"You are a dangerous woman, Honoria Hartley."

"So then, it's true," she said hollowly as he lowered her to the ground. "You are running for your life because of me."

"No." Tilting up her chin, he stared directly into her eyes. "No, it isn't. I've been in scrapes all my life. When I wasn't

dodging trouble, I was looking for my father and winding up in trouble all the same. And making a living as a gambler doesn't

keep a man in one place for too long."

"Surely, it wasn't always like that for you. It couldn't have been."

He knew she wasn't doubting his word. It was clear enough in the tender concern in her expression that she simply didn't want

to believe it.

So he was gentle when he said, "I don't even know my real name, Honoria. One of my last recollections of my father was when

we'd had to leave our rooms in the middle of the night in order to escape creditors. The names my parents went by would change

from one city to the next. My surname of Flint is a shortened version of Flintridge. Which was the last alias we had before

my father left."

He lowered his hand, but not before she reached out and took hold of it. Even through the layers of their gloves, he felt the jolt of contact.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "For what it's worth, I wouldn't have wanted anyone else to blackmail me."

"You're only saying that because I'm no longer blackmailing you."

"Well, you're no longer blackmailing me because you're attracted to me. So it's a wash."

That wasn't the reason. But it was amusing that she thought so. And why not let her go on believing it?

Threading her arm through his, he escorted her toward the foundation stones of what had once been a curtain wall and between

a pair of crumbling towers. As they approached, he thought again about the uncanny coincidence of the book of poetry his father

had read to him.

" The tumbledown mystic of castle walls ," she whispered, as if hearing his thoughts.

He stopped and met her gaze. "You read my book."

"Well, you're the one who left it on your bedside table for anyone to stumble upon." She issued an unapologetic shrug. "Did

you already know about this castle, then? And the name Titus Fairfax had given it?"

"Not until today. My father used to read those poems to me."

Honoria's lips parted on a soundless gasp. "I thought the book came from the abbey's library."

"No. And I'm just as puzzled. The book was printed, and yet there appears to be no author named. Either that or it has worn

away over time. All I know is that my mother told me to keep it safe."

"Perhaps the author was someone who knew Titus Fairfax and spent time here." She stepped toward him, her hands lifting to his lapels, her eyes glowing with excitement and possibility. "Or, better yet, perhaps your father was the author, and he knew the family. He might have grown up nearby. There's a chance that his home— your home—is not far from here..."

As she spoke, that unsettling warmth filled his chest. This time, it came on too fast, and he couldn't guard himself against

it with his usual cynicism. It was as if her every breath was a spell blowing over ashen coals, stirring the sluggish embers

until they caught fire.

Why was she forever doing this to him? Making him want all the things he'd convinced himself long ago he was better off without?

"Stop," he said, taking her by the shoulders.

"But surely you want to uncover the mystery of it at last. There could be someone here who met your father," she continued,

her words blazing inside him. "Someone who knows his surname, where he was born, and where he is now. Together, we could—"

He kissed her into silence, sealing his mouth over hers.

His shoulders sagged with relief when she stopped spinning her enchantment. All he needed was a moment to think, a moment

to remember that he was a nomad without any roots to a place or family, and he didn't need anything or anyone...

But then he tasted magic on her sigh of surrender. Felt her sweet breath kindle the blaze inside him, her body melting against

him like candle wax.

Her lips moved in a wordless incantation that burned inside him to the point of agony as her palms glided over his chest,

up along his cravat to cradle his face. He tried to steal himself against it. Tried to hide the secret yearnings he'd had

as a boy behind the jaded facade he'd developed over time.

It was no use.

She'd pushed him too far. She'd started a conflagration that consumed his barriers, turning them to cinders as her arms wrapped

around his neck and she held him, clinging and vibrating with fierce tenderness.

He never had the chance to warn her. To tell her that the barriers he'd kept carefully in place for most of his life weren't only there to protect himself. No. They were also there to protect anyone who might breach them and unleash what he'd locked away.

But now, because of her, there were no walls to salvage. They were all burning to ash.

Crouched in the center was a hungry, needy thing, feral and raw. And when it felt the thumping of her heart against the wall

of his chest, it growled, Mine .