Man Of My Dreams: Secrets Of Midnight Part 2

"G.o.dspeed, then."

Two familiar words, and he turned away, absorbed once more in his book before Corisande had closed the door. But she, too, was already preoccupied with her own affairs, her step determined as she grabbed her cloak and left the house, Luther's high-pitched yapping and her sisters' hilarious giggling following her outside into a glorious sunlit morning.

At least they were in a better mood, she was glad to hear, wondering what silly antic Estelle had performed to make Linette and Marguerite cease their incessant warring-maybe balancing a spoon on Luther's nose or some mischievous prank concocted to torment Frances. The latest had been a big hairy brown spider in the mixing bowl, plopped right on top of a yeasty-smelling mound of rising dough. How Frances had screamed . . .

"Just as I'll be screaming if I can't find that scoundrel Jack Pascoe," Corisande muttered, walking into the small stable that flanked the Easton parsonage. A loud nickering greeted her; Biscuit, their hardy piebald pony, bobbed his head eagerly as if he knew he was soon to be forging across the heath to Arundale's Kitchen.

And why shouldn't he think they were heading to the mine? Corisande thought irritably, hoisting the worn leather saddle onto the pony's swayed back. She'd only gone there three mornings in a row, looking for that d.a.m.ned mine captain so she could give him a fair-sized piece of her mind. But each time he'd been nowhere to be found, probably gone down one of the shafts to purposely avoid her, the despicable b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and no doubt smug as a snake at his cleverness.

Nor had she been able to find the Arundale family's agent, Henry Gilbert, when she'd gone to that Tudor monstrosity of a house where he resided. The sullen housemaid who answered the door had said only that Gilbert wasn't there-hiding from her, Corisande was certain, the ferret-faced agent as spineless as Jack Pascoe was cunning. Henry Gilbert was the one, after all, who'd given Pascoe free rein to run the mine as he saw fit, and his orders, being the family agent, no doubt had come straight from the Duke of Arundale.

"Yes, Biscuit, maybe we're wasting our time going to the mine after Pascoe," Corisande contemplated aloud as she scratched the pony's whiskered chin, his breath blowing warm on her hand. "Maybe we should find Henry Gilbert-before he gets a chance to hide in a wardrobe or under the bed, and brighten his day with a show of Cornish temper. It may not help matters much, but at least I won't feel as if I'm going to explode. What do you say?"

Biscuit's obliging snort made her smile, but it faded as she mounted and kicked the animal into a trot, the pony's b.u.mpy gait-ensuring a jarring ride at best-only adding fuel to the fire.

Chapter 4.

"Is there anything else you'd like to see this morning, my lord? The rest of the grounds, perhaps? The village of Porch-"

"That b.l.o.o.d.y mine wasn't enough entertainment for one day?" Scowling, Donovan dismounted from his steel-gray stallion while Henry Gilbert slid from his sweaty mount, the rail-thin Arundale family agent nervously s.h.i.+fting his feet, looking as if he wanted to flee the stable at first opportunity.

And right now Donovan wholeheartedly wanted the loathsome fellow out of his sight. Ignoring Gilbert for the moment, he led the snorting animals into their stalls, the cavernous stable empty but for these two horses and a big ill-kempt gelding whose dull brown coat looked sorely in need of a good grooming. But that would have to wait as Donovan eyed again the anemic, long-nosed scarecrow who'd been attending to his family's business affairs in Cornwall.

In truth, he couldn't fully blame Gilbert for what smacked of his late father's doing; the man had been paid to follow orders after all. But for the agent to have granted such power to a mean-spirited tyrant of a mine captain because he was too lazy to attend to the day-to-day workings of the mine himself-good G.o.d, it sickened him!

"Get yourself something to eat at the house and then ride back and see to it that a new mine captain is hired by noon," Donovan grated, Henry Gilbert bobbing his head in acquiescence. "I'm giving you a chance to set things right, Gilbert, or believe me, you'll be close behind Jack Pascoe in finding yourself without a job."

"I understand, my lord. Implicitly."

"Good. Choose a man from among the miners, someone they respect. Be sure I don't see Pascoe on Arundale property again."

"Yes, yes, of course, my lord."

"And restore the miners' pay to its previous level until I've a chance to go over the books thoroughly-then we'll talk about raising it further."

"But-but, Lord Donovan, shouldn't His Grace be consulted-"

"If this d.a.m.ned mine is half as rich as my brother said it was, Gilbert, surely there's enough coin to properly pay the men whose blood and sweat have made it so profitable, is there not?"

This time the cowed agent bobbed his head in time with his prominent Adam's apple. "Anything else, my lord?"

"Yes. Is there grain to be found in this parish?"

"Only at famine prices-but of course there's flour aplenty at the house if that concerns you-"

"Not for me, man! The miners can't work if they have no bread, and from the looks of some of them, I'd swear they haven't eaten a sound meal in days." Donovan's hard gaze bored into the agent. "No thanks to the pittance they've been paid of late."

"And which will be righted at once, my lord, just as you've ordered!" Henry Gilbert began walking backward to the entrance of the stable, giving no heed to the steaming piles of horse dung squis.h.i.+ng under his feet. "You wish the miners to have grain, then?"

"Buy enough bushels so that every man has a decent share to take home to his family."

"It will cost, my lord-"

Gilbert didn't finish, his eyes growing round as serving platters as Donovan tugged off his coat and threw it over a post, then grabbed a shovel from against the wall and advanced toward him. With a sharp intake of breath, the man turned on his spindly legs and fled while Donovan sank the shovel into a pile of dung and musty straw, muttering under his breath, "Blasted fool."

It appeared that the stable was as much in need of attention as everything else around this dismal place, he thought mutinously, heaving his ripe-smelling burden into an empty stall.

It might have been dusk last night when he'd arrived at his Cornwall estate, but there had still been enough light for him to see that the huge house his father had bequeathed to him was in a sorry state of disrepair. Crumbling chimneys, cracked windows, a vast overgrown lawn-and inside, enough dust to choke a man, faded furnis.h.i.+ngs fit for no more than firewood, and two slovenly housemaids who had been hired in Weymouth by Henry Gilbert before he'd taken up his employment in Cornwall. One woman was as plump as a sausage and the other was pa.s.sing pretty but had a hard, calculating look and reeked of cheap cologne.

It had been disheartening and maddening, especially since Donovan had seen his welcome as a smug otherworldly message from his father-marry fast, and the quicker he'd have the funds to improve his miserable surroundings. But he didn't give a d.a.m.n about the house or the surrounding estate, and he thought he'd feel the same about Arundale's Kitchen, too, as he'd been told the place was called, until he'd ridden out there with Gilbert just after sunrise, wanting to see the rest of the trap that his father had contrived for him.

Until he'd seen the careworn, expressionless faces of the tin miners as they hiked to work, some from as far as six or seven miles away, and more than he cared to remember with pallid cheeks gone hollow from sparsity of food.

When he had questioned some of the men, he'd been met with stoic tight-lipped silence, until at last a brave few came forth with the wretched truth about their mine cap'en, as they called Jack Pascoe, a pock-faced, red-haired fellow as wiry as a bantam rooster who'd cut their wages by half-only the latest of his transgressions, apparently-and who cared nothing about the wives and children starving at home. Equal parts ambitious and cruel, Pascoe had long ruled his domain by threatening life and livelihood, the miners with no choice but to shoulder their lot or face utter dest.i.tution.

So Donovan had quietly taken the b.a.s.t.a.r.d aside and told him to be off the property by noon, promising a full month's wage if he left the mine without saying a word. Jack Pascoe's watery blue eyes had filled with rage, but he'd nodded and stalked back into the countinghouse.

Watching him, Donovan had taken perverse pleasure in undoing a part of what his father had done; yet he knew as he sank the shovel under another pile of manure that he'd just as much been affected by the miners' misery . . .

"But don't get yourself too affected," Donovan muttered to himself, straightening just as Henry Gilbert suddenly reappeared at the entrance to the stable. Breathing hard, the agent gaped at him, then over his shoulder, and, clearly making up his mind, almost barreled straight into Donovan in his haste to reach the nearest stall-the same one where Donovan had just dumped a full shovelful of manure. "What the-?"

"She's coming right for the stable, my lord! Oh, cover me up, I'm begging you! She's seen me and she's got that look on her face-fit to kill, G.o.d help me!"

"Who's fit to kill?" Donovan demanded, but he got no answer as Gilbert burrowed like a frightened mole into the filthy straw and horse dung.

Cursing, Donovan dropped the shovel and went to the stable doors just in time to see the most curious sight-an auburn-haired wench riding recklessly toward the entrance atop a black and white pony with the rolling gait of a foundering s.h.i.+p, her plain brown cloak flying like a sail behind her, her legs so long and the stout little pony so squat that the stirrups were bouncing uselessly, the irate rider's feet skimming the ground.

For Donovan could see that the young woman was furious. As if he weren't standing there, she dismounted at a run and swept past him into the stable, dark eyes ablaze, her face flushed pink with indignation.

"Where are you, Henry Gilbert? I saw you run in here, you sniveling rat! You'll not hide from me again!"

Donovan watched in bemused silence as she crisscrossed from stall to stall, kicking at the straw. A jilted mistress? Some local chit found herself in the family way and left to fend for herself? If so, Gilbert had clearly scorned the wrong woman. As she reached the last of the stalls, not having found her quarry, she lunged for a pitchfork resting in a corner.

"Come out now and face me like a man, you worm! If you can have a hand in taking the food from a babe's mouth, then you can answer for it too!" With that, she jabbed at the straw in the closest stall, then the next, drawing nearer and nearer to where poor Gilbert lay huddled.

"I'd suggest you show yourself, Gilbert," Donovan advised dryly, thinking that whatever the man had done to inspire such wrath, he probably deserved it. "She's got a pitchfork-"

"Yes, I do, and I certainly don't need your help, thank you very much!" Corisande said in exasperation, whirling upon the resonant male voice that had sounded behind her. She could see a tall strapping shape in the shadows, but the morning sunlight was so bright coming in from the stable doors that she couldn't make out the man's face. "Just go about your work, whoever you are, and I'll tend to my own business!"

She did, too, turning back to the stalls with a vengeance and stabbing the pitchfork into another heaping pile of straw as the horses added their nervous whinnying to the fray. But just as she came to the last part.i.tion, the pitchfork poised above a suspicious-looking lump that bore the rounded leather point of a man's boot at one end, Corisande's weapon was wrested from her so suddenly that she fell backward, crying out as a steely masculine arm clamped around her waist.

"I think that's enough, Miss-"

"Easton. Corisande Easton!" came Gilbert's m.u.f.fled voice. "The parson's daughter, G.o.d help us!"

"And G.o.d help you if you don't release me!" Corisande shouted at her a.s.sailant, wriggling and flailing her arms. But she shrieked full voice when she was swept off her feet into the air, her captor carrying her with long strides outside into the suns.h.i.+ne. Only then did she get a good look at his face, and his expression silenced her, the stranger scowling so deeply that she wondered with a rush of apprehension what he intended to do with her.

She'd never seen him before, of that she was certain. The man was as swarthy and dark as a Gypsy, his wildly unkempt hair long at the neck and jet-black against the white of his s.h.i.+rt. So was the thick springy hair beneath her splayed fingers, the man's ma.s.sive chest as hard as stone and damp with sweat . . .

"Oh . . . oh, my!" In horror, Corisande s.n.a.t.c.hed away her hand, her widened gaze jumping from her captor's half unb.u.t.toned s.h.i.+rt to eyes even darker than her own, so dark, in fact, that they appeared almost pitch-black.

And they were trained full upon her, his quizzical scrutiny making her squirm, his scowl now but half as deep. With a near physical jolt, she realized how incredibly handsome he was, his stunning, lean-cut features the stuff of women's dreams. She began to wriggle in earnest, feeling more uncomfortable and strange and altogether unsettled than she could recall in her life. Even her skin felt odd, her cheeks blistering hot, and here it was a cool spring day!

"Please . . . let me down," she croaked, becoming even more discomfited that her voice-her voice, for heaven's sake!-had failed her.

To her utter relief, her captor obliged, and the feel of solid ground helped to calm her racing heart. At least until she realized his hands still encircled her waist, strong hands, too, and ma.s.sive like the rest of the man.

She was considered tall by most standards-at five feet and nine she had Lindsay beat by three inches-and almost embarra.s.singly long-limbed, but now she was experiencing the rare sensation of looking up at a man instead of almost eye to eye. He was still staring at her, too, his hands a disconcerting heaviness at her waist, and . . . and, why the devil was he still holding on to her?

"If you don't mind, sir," she began stiffly, grateful that her normal speaking voice had returned as well as a healthy dose of indignation. "Kindly release me this very instant. I've no idea what you're thinking, but-"

"I was thinking that it's unlikely you're Gilbert's mistress as I first imagined, though if so, it wouldn't be the first time a parson's daughter has gone awry."

Chapter 5.

Donovan wasn't surprised at the reaction his blunt comment received, the young woman's mouth falling open in shock.

A very nice mouth, too, her lips generous and full, and probably never been kissed, considering how her cheeks had flamed bright red when she realized her hand rested upon his bared chest. Probably never been this close to a man, either, which confirmed his instinct that the chit was a raw innocent. He wondered at the semicircular scar on her right cheek, though, marring what otherwise was quite a pretty face and yet which made her features oddly more interesting.

He felt an interesting womanly figure beneath his hands, too, though he'd never have guessed her waist could be so slim beneath her dowdy pea-green dress. And with her hair falling from its lopsided bun, she looked a perfect ragam.u.f.fin, this woman whom he could feel was tensing like a coiled spring.

"Henry Gilbert's mistress?" came her incredulous hiss, her lovely brown eyes-shot through with glints of bottle-green, he suddenly noticed-narrowing at him ominously. "You thought that . . . that spineless, gutless, callous-hearted, miserable-"

"Gilbert has his faults, I admit," Donovan cut in, noting as well that his infuriated captive's hands had balled into tight fists. "But that doesn't mean I want to see him pierced full of holes by some wild-tempered parson's daughter waving a pitchfork. If you've a complaint, Miss . . ."

"Easton! Didn't you hear the man? Corisande Easton!"

Donovan winced, his ears ringing at her shouting. "Very well, Miss Easton. As I was saying, if you've a complaint-and I've no doubt that you do-we'll settle it now and be done with the matter. That is, of course, if you promise to leave my agent in peace. He's probably suffocating under all that hay, but I don't intend to release you until I've your word-Miss Easton, did you hear me?"

Oh, yes, Corisande had heard him, but she could only stare at him in mute disbelief.

His agent? He had said that, hadn't he? Her eyes swept over him, from the fine white lawn of his s.h.i.+rt and the snug fit of his buckskin breeches to his dusty black riding boots. No telling white neckcloth, but a gentleman's dress all the same. And his expression reflecting pure arrogance, his overbearing tone, clearly that of a man accustomed to giving orders and having them instantly obeyed. Good G.o.d, why hadn't she noticed?

"Miss Easton." His big hands moved from her waist to her shoulders, and he gave her a firm shake as if she were a drooling idiot. "Are you listening to me, young wo-"

"You're the b.l.o.o.d.y Duke of Arundale, aren't you?" Knocking away his hands, Corisande couldn't help herself as three long years of frustration and anger burst inside her. She began to shriek like a fishwife. "You've finally come to see your precious mine, have you? To count your precious money while the poor tinners and their families are half starving around you! Well, I hope your greedy father rots in h.e.l.l for all he's done, and the same goes for you and your rat of an agent!"

"Miss Easton, I'm not-"

"You're a blight on humanity, is what you are, Your Grace." Corisande cut him off, so furious now that she shoved him with the flat of her hands, to no effect. The big lout was as solid and immovable as a boulder and scowling again, too, but by G.o.d, she would have her say!

"I suppose you're planning to give that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Jack Pascoe an extra month's wage for saving you so much money over the years, aren't you?" she accused, glaring at him.

"Actually-"

"Did it ever occur to you to consider the suffering that man has caused since Gilbert hired him to manage your mine? The crushed hopes? The tears? He's cut wages, a bit here and a bit there-with your father's blessing and now yours, no doubt-so many times that I've lost count! And the men's pay was never enough to afford them more than a dirt floor hut at the start! Now you've cut the wages so low that there's scarcely coin to keep the thatch roofs over their heads, let alone broth on the table-"

"Dammit, woman, if you don't cease your shouting, I'll soon be deaf-"

"Deaf and lucky, too, if you manage to squeak by the gates of heaven with all the terrible sins on your head! But you've a chance to make things right, if you've got a shred of decency at all, starting with dismissing Jack Pascoe this very day and raising the men's wages. I can't believe a man would want to journey through life known as a cruel, tightfisted tyrant when instead he could earn himself some respect-"

"For the last time, Miss Easton," Donovan interrupted, having to half shout himself to be heard over her harangue, "I'm trying to tell you that I'm not the b.l.o.o.d.y Duke of Arundale, as you so delicately put it-surely language one doesn't often hear from a vicar's daughter." He gave a dry snort. "But then, I've never seen any vicar's daughter like you."

To his surprise, she had no reply to that sarcastic remark, instead blinking at him as if he'd just knocked the wind right out of her sails.

"You-you're not the duke?"

"No. My brother, Nigel, wears the t.i.tle, and he can d.a.m.ned well have it. I only wish he'd been here to enjoy your tirade rather than me."

She immediately bristled, and Donovan braced for the worst. "Oh, so you think I'm just airing my lungs, do you, Lord . . . ?"

"Donovan Trent."

"Well, then, Lord Donovan, everything I've said applies to you as much as your t.i.tled brother! You're all one and the same as far as I'm concerned. Blackguards, scoundrels, villains of the worst degree to deny food to hungry children and pregnant women! Despoilers, base criminals . . ."

While her vehement list grew longer, Donovan felt his own temper boiling because she'd lumped him together with his late father and Nigel. h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation, he'd been at war in Spain these past years, with no knowledge of his family's actions!

What was worse, the chit had tried, judged, and executed him before he'd been able to get in a single good word for himself. Wouldn't her face flare red if she knew he'd already called for the changes she demanded, though he'd be d.a.m.ned if he was going to explain himself to her now, the untidy baggage.

It was obvious she cared pa.s.sionately for her cause to berate him up and down like a veritable harpy, but let her find out for herself that the Trents of Dorset weren't all cut from the same wretched cloth-yet, h.e.l.l, she'd probably still distrust his motives anyway, given who he was. But what in blazes did he care what Miss Corisande Easton thought of him? As soon as he found a way out of his current predicament, he'd be gone from Cornwall so fast that . . .

Donovan didn't finish the thought, his eyes sweeping over the incensed young woman standing before him as if seeing her for the very first time.

By G.o.d, of course! It could work, though it irritated the h.e.l.l out of him that he'd have to go to such lengths to gain his inheritance, d.a.m.n his father's soul. But he'd do anything if it would help him find Paloma. Why not use this situation to his benefit? This woman wasn't gentry, but a country-bred parson's daughter couldn't be said not to come from good family, oh, no, indeed.

". . . uncaring, selfish creatures who should crawl under the nearest rock for shame of everything they've done! Better yet, you deserve every curse that could befall a household. Fire, pestilence, the pox-"

"Are you betrothed, Miss Easton?"

Startled, Corisande stopped in mid-sentence and gaped at the man. She'd been expecting some reply, her heated attack clearly riling him as his swarthy face had grown darker. But this? "I-I don't see that your having the pox has anything to do with my being betrothed. Or that my personal affairs are any of your business."

"That's what we're discussing now, Miss Easton. Business. A business arrangement, to be exact." To her amazement, he took her by the elbow and half pulled her along with him until, some forty feet from the stable, he seemed satisfied and stopped beneath a tall, stately elm to face her, keeping his voice very low. "Are you betrothed or not?"

She felt her face burning as with fever, why, she wasn't sure. She really shouldn't answer-didn't have to answer. But for some strange reason, she slowly shook her head.

"Can't say that I'm surprised," came his wry response, which only made Corisande bristle again.