Her body, dappled in streaks of dun and black, was thick and powerful, with a barrel chest and a solid column of a neck. Her muzzle was coal-black, and her jowls quivered in her eagerness to move. Intelligence sat in those big brown eyes, and he was certain loyalty filled her massive heart. He could only be thankful she was so well trained, for even his dull club of a sword would have been of little use against her had she chosen to attack him.
“There’s no need to go to an inn,” he said to Gwen, but she was already bustling about the room, retrieving her lantern, extinguishing the other lamps. Everything about her said determination, from the set of her pointed chin to the quick movements of her lithe body. She looked to be a few years younger than his thirty years, and he wondered why such a beautiful woman wasn’t married and instead prowling around his estate in the dark with only a great beast of a dog for company.
“There’s every need,” she assured him, retrieving her cloak and throwing it around her shoulders. He hadn’t noticed the streaks mottling the soft brown wool of the garment. Had he caused that when he’d knocked her down?
“You may not have had time to visit every room in the house,” she said, returning to his side, “but few are livable. The beds need airing, the lamps trimming and the pantry stocking.” She smiled at him. “I’ll have everything ready by the time you return tomorrow.”
From anyone else, the statement would have been laughable. He had looked in every room in the house earlier, and he knew how much work had to be done to make it a home. But, with the light shining in her deep brown eyes, her face turned up to his, he thought this woman could very well work miracles.
“I’d prefer to stay here,” he said, and even he could hear how stubborn he sounded.
Her smile turned kind. “Now, now,” she said, laying her free hand on his arm with a grip that was firmer than he would have guessed from the size of her, “we must make sure you have a pleasant evening. I’m certain you’d prefer a good bed tonight and a nice warm dinner. You cannot possibly get that here. Why should you settle for less than the best? Where’s your horse?”
She was tugging him toward the entryway, and Trevor followed, feeling as if he’d been snatched up in the middle of a storm. “He’s in the stable.”
She tsked. “I’m surprised we had feed for him. I’ll see to that, as well. Or rather, my father will. He’s very good at making sure all the master’s needs are met.” She cast him a glance out of the corners of her eyes. “He was the steward before Colonel Umbrey died. Did they tell you that when they awarded you the place?”
“No,” Trevor said as she released him to hustle to the front door, the dog trotting obediently at her side. “I assumed the estate came adequately staffed. But I’m used to roughing it. I assure you I’ll be fine here tonight.”
“Nonsense. We can’t have the new master living in anything less than comfort.” She paused to smile back at him, and the look tugged at his heart as surely as her hand had tugged at his arm. Was this how Greek sailors felt in the myth of the siren? Her beauty and enthusiasm called to him, but he had a feeling they’d lead him far from his intended course.
“You’re not going to give me a moment’s peace until I’ve agreed to this, are you?” he asked, certain he knew the answer.
Her dark eyes crinkled up as if she was laughing inside. “Why, Sir Trevor, I simply want to make sure you are well taken care of. My father would insist on nothing less.”
He was beginning to think her father was at home, hiding from her determination. If anyone insisted on anything in that house, he was certain he was looking at her.
“And will your father be here to greet me in the morning?” he countered.
Her smile widened. “I guarantee it. I’m certain once you see the estate in the morning light, you’ll be pleased to call it yours. Would you prefer to ride to the village or shall we walk? It isn’t far.”
He didn’t like losing, even an argument, but he had to agree with her that the house needed work before it would be comfortable.
He wasn’t sure why that so disappointed him. He’d decided on the way north that he would only use the place for the income it could provide. He’d never intended to make it home. Home was London, the social whirl, the acquaintances he’d made in school and afterward. The sooner he could settle his affairs in Blackcliff Hall, the sooner he could return.
“I’ll ride,” he said, striding for the door. “That is, if the groom can be bothered to saddle my horse.”
“I’m afraid the groom gave notice ages ago,” she said in that calm, conciliatory voice. She followed him out the door, the mastiff bounding down the stone steps ahead of them while she turned to lock the door. “Colonel Umbrey decided he was too old to move from the Hall and sold his carriage and horses.”
Was that what would become of him if he stayed? Would he grow to be a fat, complacent old man with no interest in even making the short ride into town?
“Then the fellow who’s staying in the stables,” Trevor all but snapped.
She handed him the ornate brass key, which weighed more heavily than it should in his hand. “No one lives at the estate except me and my father, Sir Trevor.”
He stared at her, feeling as if her great bear of a dog had sat on his chest. “Then who on earth took charge of my horse?”
Chapter Three
Lord, please protect his horse!
Gwen threw up the prayer as she led Sir Trevor around the side of the house and through a door in the stone wall for the stables. She could tell the animal meant a great deal to him. In the light of her lantern, his face was tight, his jaw hard. His long legs ate up the ground as they crossed the garden at the back of the house. She had to scurry to keep up.
Dolly obviously thought it was as great game, this rush through the growing dark, the garden silent around them. She bounded alongside Sir Trevor, veering off from time to time into the shadows to snuff at something under the weed-choked plants. Sir Trevor, on the other hand, had his eyes narrowed in such a fierce look that Gwen could only pray the person who’d taken charge of his horse was either a highly competent stranger looking for work, or was miles away by now.
“We’ve had a little trouble with vagrants,” she offered as they approached the long, two-story building of dark stone at the back of the garden. “Nothing’s been stolen, mind you. I’m sure it’s just men out of work, on their way to the next village and needing a place to stay the night.”
“And a horse to ride,” he said, voice as tight as his look.
Lord, not his horse! She needed Sir Trevor to love the place; she needed him to want to stay. It was the only way to save the village.
She hadn’t done more than check the stables for vagrants in the past two months, so she wasn’t surprised to find it dark as they approached. Her lantern’s light glinted off the half-moon windows that topped the arches in the stone. More weeds poked up among the gravel of the yard.
The big wooden door blocking the entrance protested as she tried to pull it open. With a grimace of impatience, he took the tarnished brass handle from her grip and tugged. The door moved out of the way with an unearthly screech that made Dolly yelp in protest.
“A little oil will fix that right up,” she assured him as he pushed past her into the stables. The scent of decaying hay and dried manure tickled her nose, and she sneezed. Oh, what must he think of them!
Even as Gwen raised her lantern, Dolly trotted down the wide breezeway between the rows of stalls. It had been an elegant stable once, the boxes lacquered black and the curving screen separating the tops of the stalls a pristine white. Now everything looked a dingy gray. When had she allowed things to get away from her?
Something whinnied in the darkness beyond the light. Sir Trevor let out a breath