The Illegitimate Montague. Sarah Mallory

the taper, perhaps you will light the lamps now?’ She turned back to Adam, trying to think rationally. He was only another customer, after all.

      ‘I require a coat,’ he prompted her.

      She cleared her throat.

      ‘Well, fashionable gentlemen such as Sir Nathan Samuelson would go to Buxton, but there is Mr Leitman, who is a perfectly good tailor and lives here in Castonbury.’

      ‘Your local tailor will suit me very well.’

      He placed his hands on the counter. She gazed down at those long, tapering fingers, remembering the pleasure they had given her.

      ‘Then …’ She struggled to bring her disordered thoughts under control—and her voice, too, which had suddenly become very husky. ‘Then I would be happy to furnish you with the cloth you need.’

      ‘Excellent. What fabric do you have?’

      Amber hesitated. Over the years she had become adept at assessing her customers, but she could not be sure about Adam Stratton. Thinking back to their discussions, he had told her he had been a sailor, and he had a house for his mother, but that did not necessarily mean he was a wealthy man. His coat was well-cut but tailored for comfort rather than fashion. His shirt and neck cloth were of the finest linen; she remembered the feel of them when she had hung them over the bush to dry. The thought of their time together in the woods brought the heat flaming to her cheeks again. It weakened her knees and she was obliged to clutch at the counter for support.

      ‘If it is a workaday coat you require, sir, I have a selection of wools and worsted, then there is a silk and wool mixture, or the superfine, if you wish for something better… .’

      ‘An everyday coat is all I require.’

      ‘Very well. Frederick, perhaps you will fetch down the—’

      ‘No.’ He held up his hand as Frederick ran to bring the steps to the front shelves. ‘It is too dark now to see the colours clearly. I will come back in the morning. Perhaps you will have a selection ready for me to see in the daylight?’

      He lifted his hat, turned on his heel and departed. Amber watched him go. She felt very odd, as if she had been buffeted by a wild and unexpected storm.

      ‘Hmph.’ Frederick replaced the steps in the corner of the shop. ‘It seems to me he could have saved himself a journey and just called upon you tomorrow.’

      ‘Perhaps he just wanted to make sure we could supply him.’

      She stared out through the window, watching as he hoisted himself into the saddle, turned the large grey horse and rode off. Perhaps he wanted her to know he was not leaving.

      A sleepless night followed. Amber had spent all day trying to forget Adam Stratton. She convinced herself that the attack upon her wagon had made her restless, had disordered her senses and she had played the damsel in distress to Adam’s gallant knight. Then he had come into her shop, sent those rough youths away and sent her into another dizzy spin!

      In vain did she argue that the entry of any gentleman would have resolved the situation and persuaded the boys to leave, but she knew that no one else would have caused such a bolt of pleasure to shoot through her. She had been overjoyed to see him, and now she was appalled by her reaction.

      Never before had a man affected her in this way. Many had tried to woo her—after all, she owned a lucrative business—but she had no desire to share her hard-won wealth or her bed with any of them. Now, at seven-and-twenty, she considered herself to be beyond the age of love. What she felt for Adam must be infatuation. She had observed it in others, including her own father. He had become besotted by a beautiful young woman and had made a complete fool of himself, installing her in a house in Hatherton, showering her with gifts and neglecting both Amber and his business while he followed the young beauty around like a lovesick puppy. At last, when the young woman had left the area, taking with her a good portion of John Ripley’s fortune, he had begged Amber’s forgiveness, telling her how very lonely he had been since her mother’s death.

      Amber had forgiven him, but she could never forget how close they had come to losing everything—only her timely marriage to Bernard Hall had secured the extra funding the business needed to continue, but at what a cost. It had taken all her strength to survive her marriage, and Bernard’s early death had been a relief. She had then been able to advise her father on the best way to progress, rebuilding Ripley and Hall into a thriving business. Since his death she had controlled her own fortune, made her own decisions, and that was the way she wanted it to remain. She would never allow anyone to have power over her again.

      Adam returned from Castonbury to find the lodge swept out and the bed made up. A search of the outhouses uncovered a good supply of logs and a little coal, so he was able to build up a cheerful fire, which he left burning while he rode off to dine with his mother. He reached the Castonbury stables just as another rider was dismounting from a huge black horse. Adam recognised the tall, dark-haired figure immediately as Giles Montague and touched his hat.

      ‘Your servant, my lord.’

      Giles scowled up at him.

      ‘Mighty formal all of a sudden, Stratton. That’s not the form of address I expect from a man I’ve known all my life!’

      Adam grinned, reassured by the other’s curt greeting. He slid easily to the ground and handed Bosun’s reins to a waiting stable boy.

      ‘I was not certain of my reception.’

      ‘Quite right,’ said Giles, the gleam in his grey eyes belying his scowl. ‘Ten years without a word to anyone. You should be flogged!’

      ‘I agree with you, and I beg your pardon,’ said Adam, as they walked out of the yard together. ‘I should have kept in touch.’

      ‘That is nothing to me, I have never been one for letter-writing either, but I know your mother felt your loss deeply. Are you here to visit her?’

      ‘Yes, I am joining her for dinner.’

      ‘Hah! The prodigal returns so the fatted calf must be slaughtered, am I right?’

      ‘No, no, it is merely mutton stew, I believe,’ returned Adam mildly.