the early summer. They hope to return by late November and have invited us to join them at Gresham Hall for the Christmas holiday.’ Deborah slid a look up at him. ‘Do you regularly keep in touch with Marcus? I imagine you know they have a son as well as a daughter?’
‘The boy is named after me…at the end,’ he qualified wryly, a smile twitching his lips.
‘John Solomon Bailey Randolph Speer,’ Deborah recited softly the name of their friends’ infant son. ‘He must be toddling about now. His sister, Violet, is nearing her fifth birthday,’ she added, naming her sweet goddaughter.
‘You are one of Violet’s godmothers, I believe,’ Randolph remarked, slanting a look down on the top of her bonnet. He could see just a glimpse of her beautifully carved profile. A lock of honey-gold hair had tumbled forwards to dance against her cheek as she walked. Randolph’s left hand clenched as he suppressed the urge to brush back the curl, caressing her complexion. Once he would have touched her and she would have welcomed it. But not now. He’d sensed the frostiness in her from the first word she’d spoken to him. Whatever infatuation she’d had with him had long gone. Perhaps he shouldn’t have expected a woman as young and as stunningly lovely to wait for him while he went overseas. But, of course, she hadn’t waited, had she? he savagely reminded himself. She’d quickly forgotten him, and in time had become engaged to an army officer. But for the unlucky fellow’s demise she’d be a married woman.
She was presently tolerating his company because of good manners and because they shared mutual friends. Now he was back in England it was likely they would from time to time be thrown together whilst guests of the Earl and Countess of Gresham. She saw potential embarrassment in their forced proximity and was struggling to feel indifference for him. Unfortunately he knew he’d never manage to have such lack of feeling for her, much as he might want to.
Not for the first, or the thousandth, time in his life Randolph cursed his brother Sebastian to damnation. But for his selfish, licentious ways he wouldn’t be in this part of the country at all and Deborah Cleveland would still be just a shadow in his past. Gone…if not completely forgotten. Now she was again by his side and it seemed the most natural place for her to be. An unbidden curse broke beneath his breath at such maudlin romanticism and with enough volume for Deborah to hear his frustration.
‘I was asking about the men who set about your servant,’ Randolph reminded her to cover his lapse. ‘Did some sort of quarrel erupt between them?’
‘Yes,’ Deborah said and gazed into the distance, uncertain whether to admit that she’d been the unwitting cause of poor Fred getting a beating.
‘Over what did they quarrel?’ Randolph probed, a ghost of a smile acknowledging her reticence in informing him.
Deborah sighed. ‘As you are new to the area you probably know nothing of the horrible things that go on around these shores,’ she began. ‘My servant was simply protecting my reputation by remonstrating with some ruffians for being disrespectful. He got a beating for being loyal to me.’
Randolph stared straight ahead, his eyes narrowed to slits against the afternoon sun low in the sky. ‘And why would these ruffians want to be abusive about you?’ he asked exceedingly softly.
‘Because I hate them, and I make no bones about letting them know it,’ she returned forcefully. ‘I’m not going to act blind, deaf and dumb so that they may carry on unchallenged. But for them I would now be Edmund’s wife.’
A firm grip on her arm spun her about so she stood before him. ‘Explain exactly what you mean by that,’ he roughly demanded. His hands were on her shoulders, drawing her close; through the cloth of her cloak he could feel her quivering.
‘My fiancé was on coast watch and they killed him.’ Deborah’s voice shook with distress. ‘More recently another dragoon, Lieutenant Barrow, was wounded. He has a dreadful head injury and it is feared it will prove fatal.’
Randolph’s hands dropped away, then were again refastened on the soft tops of her arms. ‘Your fiancé was killed in a clash with smugglers?’ he said hoarsely.
Deborah nodded and her huge blue eyes glistened at him.
‘I’d heard from Marcus that you were betrothed to an army officer and that he’d been killed on duty,’ Randolph said softly. ‘That’s all I knew. I wasn’t aware how he’d died.’
‘He was murdered by the outlaws who infest this area,’ Deborah said querulously. ‘They hate me because I won’t forget or keep quiet about it.’
Randolph pulled her close, stilling her agitation against the warm, solid strength of his body. A hand was raised to tilt up her chin; slowly it slid to cup a cheek and to keep her looking at him.
Deborah felt her breath wedge in her chest. For a moment it seemed the years were peeled away and she was dressed not in sturdy outdoor clothes and chipstraw bonnet, but a pastel silk gown with gardenias threaded in her hair. She was not in an autumnal setting, serenaded by birdsong, but in the Earl of Gresham’s pale marble hallway with strains of a lilting melody drifting from the ballroom. But the gaze that was bathing her face with golden warmth was the same and her lids drooped as she anticipated Randolph’s lips bruising hers with a passion she recalled had left her feeling weak and dazed and so wonderfully happy. A second later the spell had been whipped away.
‘Hope we’re not interrupting.’ sneered a male voice.
Chapter Three
‘You are very much interrupting,’ Randolph returned in a lethal tone. He moved Deborah behind him and anchored her there with an unshakeable hold on her wrist. ‘So go away.’
‘You!’ Debbie spat whilst squinting against a gilded western sky to see the youngest Luckhurst brother grinning at her. She’d immediately recognised the owner of that coarse voice. Behind him were two other men of about the same age whom she’d noticed accompanying him on other occasions. ‘I know it was you who set about my driver, Seth Luckhurst—’ she began, before pressure on her wrist insisted she keep silent. She heeded Randolph’s warning and her teeth sank into her unsteady lower lip to stem further wrathful accusations. Thereafter her loathing was limited to glaring at the three men who were emerging from a thicket a few yards away. All were dressed in rough country garb, although a neckerchief knotted about Seth’s throat brightened his drab figure.
‘Are you deaf as well as stupid?’ Randolph enquired mildly. ‘I said your presence is unwelcome. Do you not understand English?’
A look of surprise passed between the men. They were used to issuing threats, not receiving them, but all of them were ready for a fight.
‘Don’t reckon it’s us wot’s stupid.’ Seth smirked as he swaggered closer. ‘You’re not from round here, are you, friend? If you was, you’d know not to cross me.’ One of his thumbs jabbed arrogantly at his chest. It rose to tip his hat back on his head in a cocky gesture, then both brawny fists were jammed on his hips. ‘If you fancy being a hero for Miss Woodville, I’ll give you a fight. Or you could just get going, y’know.’ Something about the stranger’s cool confidence was unsettling Seth Luckhurst despite the odds being stacked very much in his favour. ‘It’s her I’m after. I need to…talk to her,’ he finished on a lewd chuckle.
Randolph gave a sigh, as one might when one’s patience is being tested to its outer limit. ‘Unfortunately you can’t,’ he replied with weary courtesy. ‘I want to talk to her and my need is greater than yours.’ He let go of Deborah’s wrist and started to shrug off his leather coat as though readying himself to take up Seth’s offer of a fight.
Deborah immediately sought and gripped hard at one of his hands, unsure whether she did so to seek his security or to stop him brawling. He had little chance of success against three adversaries. She was as worried as much for Randolph’s safety as she was for her own. A finger traced a soft, secretive caress on her palm—a wordless instruction that she remain quiet and trust him. Randolph turned to his horse to deposit the garment over the saddle and