Claiming the Ashbrooke Heir. Mary Nichols

me—unless it be from the grave. He is dead.’

      ‘Dead?’ The stark word shocked her, but being in mourning probably accounted for his dark clothes. ‘How?’

      ‘I could explain if you would listen.’

      ‘Why should I? He is … was … nothing to me.’

      ‘Really? Now, do you know, I rather thought you had once been close?’

      ‘Close. That’s a funny way of putting it.’

      ‘Putting what?’

      ‘What he did to me. I did not ask for it. He came to my room and forced himself on me. Did he tell you that?’ Her voice betrayed her bitterness.

      ‘No, he did not.’ He was shaken to the core. He knew his brother had been a rakeshame, who had loved and laughed without a thought for the morrow, but he had never thought him capable of such a despicable act. A tumble, he had said, adding that he did not know what the girl had to complain of. Had she complained? ‘I find that impossible to believe.’

      ‘I care not whether you believe it or not, sir, it is the truth.’

      ‘Not something said to make you feel less guilty?’

      ‘I do not feel guilty. I never have. I feel hurt and … angry.’

      ‘Then all I can do is offer a heartfelt and humble apology on behalf of my brother.’

      ‘It was not your fault,’ she conceded.

      ‘You did not stay at Mrs Porter’s lodging house?’

      ‘It did not suit me.’

      ‘So you have moved on. Are you going to tell me where?’

      ‘No. I cannot for the life of me think what you want with me. Lady Ashbrooke turned me off in a snow-storm without a character. I have no business with anyone from Riseborough Hall. If, as you say, Jeremy is dead, then I am sorry for you, but it is nothing to do with me.’

      ‘You are sorry for me?’ He frowned. ‘I think perhaps the shoe is on the other foot.’

      ‘I do not need or want your pity, Major Ashbrooke.’

      She was too proud for her own good. ‘Then I will not offer it. Where are you going?’

      ‘I am going to deliver this parcel.’

      ‘It looks heavy. Please let me carry it for you.’ He reached out and took it from her fingers. ‘That’s better.’

      They walked side by side in silence, making their way round the cattle market, noisy with farmers selling and buying the Highland cattle which had been driven down from Scotland to be fattened up before being sent to London. He stuck to her side, one hand on her elbow to guide her through the throng as a gentleman would a lady. She should have thrown him off and left him, but he had her parcel, and that represented money and food she could not afford to lose.

      ‘Where are we bound?’ he asked.

      ‘We are bound nowhere, Major. I am going to St Stephen’s Street, and as we are nearly there I bid you good day.’ She held out her hand for the parcel.

      Reluctantly he relinquished it and bowed to her. He watched as she hurried along the road, and then followed her to see her turning in at the gate to one of the large houses that lined the road. Did she live there? He did not think so, because she had said she was delivering the package. He hadn’t done with her. He could not get out of his head her accusation that Jeremy had forced himself on her. He could not believe it of his brother, but if she was telling the truth then it was his responsibility to try and make amends, if such a thing were possible. One thing Jeremy had been right about: she was definitely not the usual run of domestic servant.

      He stood, idly leaning against a tree trunk, watching the house for her to emerge, wondering what it was that made her so different. She was clean, for a start. Her face shone with cleanliness, as did her hands and fingernails. Her gingham day dress, which had once been smart and modish, was now sadly dated, but that, too, was clean. It was not that. Jeremy had called her a pretty little thing, but she was more than that: she was beautiful. She had classic oval features, large luminous soft green eyes, neat brows and a firm mouth—a kissable mouth, he realised with a sudden start. No wonder Jeremy had been attracted to her.

      He watched her come out of the house, still bearing the brown paper parcel—or perhaps it was another one. He wondered what was in it. Her step was light and she carried herself like a lady, back straight and head up. Again Jeremy’s description came to his aid. Presence. She made everyone and everything about her look drab. He marvelled, considering she must be living in very poor circumstances. Unless she had a wealthy lover, of course; perhaps Jeremy had not been the only one? But a wealthy lover would surely have dressed her better than that.

      He pushed himself off the tree and walked towards her, admitting he did not like that idea at all. He had to know.

      ‘Major Ashbrooke,’ she said, trying hard not to let his continuing presence disconcert her. ‘I should have thought you had something more important to do than hang about here.’

      ‘At the moment, no. Allow me to escort you.’ Again he took her burden from her.

      ‘You do not know where I am going.’ She was going to buy food and then hurry home. She had to rid herself of him before that, because it was important he did not see her son. It was the child that had brought him to Norwich; she was sure of it. Lady Ashbrooke had told her never to come back, and Annette did not doubt she had meant it, but perhaps she had had a twinge of conscience about the baby. Or had the Major come of his own accord? He struck her as a man who would follow his own path, never mind what others thought. He was so handsome and so very … very masculine. A strong man—not only physically, but in every other sense. Stronger than Jeremy, who had had little difficulty in overpowering her.

      ‘Perhaps you would be so good as to tell me.’

      ‘No, it is none of your business. I have left Riseborough. I am no longer employed there. So you cannot dictate to me.’