Passion Becomes Her Read online

  “Apollo, hmmm? Yes, that should do nicely.” She shook her head, her blue eyes somber. “Such a shame what happened to her old Captain.”

  “Yes, it was,” Asher agreed softly. “But I think that Apollo will keep her busy and brighten her days.”

  Leaving the Hannums to their tasks, Asher wandered toward the back of the house to his study. “Study” was rather a grand word for a room that had probably first seen light as a storage room adjacent to the house. These days, with painted white plaster walls and some tall windows that overlooked a section of the gardens at the rear of the house and a fine woolen rug in shades of green and russet on the brick floor, Asher found it more than adequate for his needs. On wintry days, the brick fireplace that had been installed at some point long before he owned the place kept the room warm and cozy. A few bookcases lined the walls and the furniture scattered about was worn and comfortable. Heavy woven drapes in green and gold that could be drawn closed to shut out the cold of winter edged the windows.

  After lighting a couple of candles to dispel the increasing darkness, Asher stood in the middle of the room, staring at nothing in particular. Restless and unable to settle, he wandered around the room, his fingers running lightly over the array of bottles of liquor and glasses on a long oak sideboard against one wall. He scanned the bookcases, even took out a book or two, but the thought of delving into Bacon’s Essays or plowing through a volume of Caesar’s Commentaries on the Gallic War did not appeal to him.

  Approaching his desk, a massive, battered thing, chosen more for its size than any beauty it might have once had, Asher tossed aside a few papers lying there, looking at them but not really seeing them. Eventually he returned to the sideboard and poured himself a snifter of brandy.

  Casting himself down into an overstuffed, diamond tufted russet leather chair, he threw one leg over the wide arm and sat sipping his brandy. His gaze moved around the room as he considered his future.

  At the moment, day after day of complete and utter boredom stretched before him. Yet…this was where he wanted to be. The quiet, the tranquility and sedateness of country life had been what he had yearned for all the years he had trod that reckless, dangerous path. He was happy to be home, happy not to be looking over his shoulder, happy not to be risking his life and reputation. His jaw clenched. Or leaving his family open to shame and humiliation if he’d been caught in any one of a number of less than honest undertakings. He’d worked hard, he admitted ruefully, to be bored.

  His problem, he finally decided, was that he didn’t know what to do with himself. He had never thought much about the future, or rather much about his future. He’d been too busy making certain that everyone else’s future was secure to worry about his own. He grimaced. That wasn’t precisely true—witness the investments in shipping and coal and tin mines that he had made, as well as his purchase of Fox Hollow. Obviously he had given some thought to his own future, too.

  The problem was that he really didn’t see himself as a farmer, even a gentleman farmer. Besides, he had a perfectly good bailiff who did an excellent job of running the farms. He grinned. And Wetherly would not take kindly to any interference from his employer. Wetherly was perfectly content to report to him and listen gravely to any suggestions he made, might even implement one or two of those suggestions, but in the end, they both knew that it was Wetherly whose skillful guidance and keen oversight made Fox Hollow profitable. As for Asher’s other investments…well, again, he had a perfectly good man of business, Mr. Elmore, and no more than Wetherly would Elmore appreciate having him coming into the London office and constantly peering over his shoulder. Asher was not, however, an indolent employer—he understood and knew precisely what was going on in his affairs at all times.

  Finishing off his brandy, he got up and poured himself another one. Snifter in hand, he wandered around the study for several more moments, stopping here and there, staring blankly at nothing before moving on. He halted before the windows that overlooked the gardens. By now it was dark outside and he could see nothing beyond his reflection in the glass as he sipped his brandy.

  A taller than average man with black hair stared back at him. Beneath the dark blue jacket his form was muscular, his shoulders broad, his thick, unruly hair worn perhaps a trifle longer than was fashionable, kissing the back of his neck, waving near his temples. The features that met his gaze were considered by most to be handsome. The black brows below the wide forehead were strongly marked, the nose arrogantly masculine and the mouth wide, with a bottom lip fuller than the narrower upper one. He looked a perfect gentleman, but even now, he thought, staring at his image in the window, the deep-set cobalt blue eyes were watchful and full of shadows, secrets….

  Asher snorted and turned away. Next he’d be talking to himself.

  Reseating himself, he considered the problem. So if he wasn’t going to immerse himself in farming and he wasn’t going to lose himself in the day-to-day business of watching his investments, what the hell was he going to do? He certainly had no intention of becoming a dilettante or a dandy or even one of those bored men about town one was forever running into in London.

  There weren’t, he concluded, many occupations for a man in his position. He supposed he could raise horses…. He considered it. He liked horses. He had a good eye and currently had a stable full of fine animals. He had the land. But he didn’t see himself spending the rest of his life pouring over pedigrees and constantly searching for that magical “nick” that would enable him to consistently produce horses clamored for by the fashionable. Breeding dogs didn’t appeal either. He’d leave that to knowledgeable men like Medley. The same applied to sheep and cattle. And horticulture was never going to be his forte—he could only correctly identify a half dozen of the hundreds of plants that grew in his garden.

  Christ! he thought irritably. I need a hobby. Or a wife.

  He jerked. A wife? By God, that was rich! What the devil would he do with a wife?

  An arrested expression on his face, he stared around at the empty room. What would it be like to have a wife, he wondered? To look over at the chair next to his and see a woman, a pretty woman, sewing or reading? Would she look up and smile affectionately at him? Would he feel that same powerful sense of belonging, of protectiveness he felt toward his grandmother, his siblings? There was a slight stirring between his legs. And what would it be like to know that when he slid into bed at night, that there would be a warm, willing body waiting for him? And what of children?

  An odd feeling, half fright, half delight, raced through him. He’d never thought of himself as a father. It was possible, he admitted, that he’d be a decent one. Something dark and dangerous moved across his features. He sure as hell would make certain that they were taken care of and not leave their fate up to the turn of a card as his stepfather had done.

  But did he really want a wife? Could he adapt to having someone else to care for? To be responsible for?

  The prospect of taking a wife did not leave him, even as he ascended the stairs that night and climbed into bed. His lonely bed, he admitted ruefully.

  Having a woman share his bed had never been a problem for him, but a mistress, or a passing fancy, was not quite the same as a wife. A wife was forever. A wife would live in his home. Would bear his children. A smile flitted across his mouth. And have to meet with Mrs. Manley’s approval.

  A yawn took him. Finding a wife would be a daunting task and one that he wasn’t likely to accomplish tonight. He’d sleep on it.

  During the next week as he settled into the rhythm of living once again at Fox Hollow, Asher discovered he wasn’t quite as bored as he had feared and the notion of finding a wife faded from his mind. To his pleasure, after all his reservations, he found himself adapting very well to taking each day as it came. He realized that a week wasn’t such a long time, and he reminded himself that over the years he had often been at home sometimes for months on end and had not grown bored. Considering the situation, he suspected that it woul
d merely take him time to grow used to the fact that he wouldn’t be spending the days and weeks consumed with the planning it took for him to make certain nothing was left to chance prior to embarking on another risky scheme. Best of all, he thought, he wouldn’t be away from Fox Hollow and his grandmother for months on end. Life at Fox Hollow, he reminded himself, was precisely what he wanted. He enjoyed consulting with Hannum and Mrs. Hannum about the running of the house every morning, conversing with his stable man, riding over the estate and seeing and approving the changes and improvements implemented by Mr. Wetherly. He visited with a few of his nearest neighbors, Squire Ripley just down the road from him, and Mr. Woodruff, a wealthy landowner whose broad acres abutted his on the south, and spent an agreeable time discussing crops, orchards, the cattle, swine and the like.

  Coming home on Monday afternoon, Asher was surprised to find a delicately scented note waiting for him on the green marble table in the foyer. He stared at it a thoughtful moment, studying his name written on the front of the envelope in bold flowing script before picking it up. Not from his grandmother or one of his sisters—he knew their handwriting intimately. Was it an invitation, perhaps, from one of the ladies in the neighborhood? Most likely. Or something more sinister? Living as he had, the threat of blackmail was never far from his mind and though he had always been careful in the extreme, there was always the possibility that someone from his past had seen something, or heard something that might prove profitable…for them. For a while, he thought with a tiger’s smile. But only for a while.

  Leaving his gloves and whip on the table, he carried the envelope back to his study, where he settled into a chair. In one quick movement, he ripped the envelope open. Without reading the contents, his gaze skipped instantly to the bottom of the page. Juliana?

  He made a face. Too busy settling into life at Fox Hollow, he’d pushed the night in Ormsby’s library in London to the back of his head but he suspected that it was about to come back and bite him in the rear.

  A swift perusal of the note brought a frown to his forehead. Juliana wanted to meet with him? Secretly? What the deuce was the little devil about?

  Surely she wasn’t trying her hand at blackmail? He dismissed that idea as silly. She had no need to stoop to such measures and though his presence in the library was suspicious, it didn’t prove anything. A speculative gleam in his eyes, he stared down at the note in his hands. He hadn’t given her presence in the library any thought since that night, but now he wondered, why had Juliana been there?

  His gaze skimmed over the note again. A faint smile curved the corners of his lips. Apparently, he would find out tonight at midnight at their clandestine meeting at the old gatehouse. Ah, he did so love intrigue, and it appeared that Juliana was about to provide the one thing that was missing from his life.

  Chapter 4

  Her heart thudding painfully in her chest, Juliana slid from her mount and scurried through the black night to the old derelict gatehouse. The small stone gatehouse had been abandoned several generations ago when the road that had originally led to Kirkwood had been changed to skirt the creek that routinely overflowed and flooded the driveway.

  Seen in sunlight, the creek burbling in the background, the tumbling ruin presented a picturesque sight, the stones faded to a soft rosy gray, the wooden shutters hanging drunkenly besides the two windows and the slate roof mossy and green. Roses still twined near the doorway and huge old lavender plants sprawled over the winding path that led to where the front door had been.

  But tonight, with a waning moon overhead, there was nothing picturesque about the place to Juliana’s mind. She shivered and hesitated beside her horse, the air seeming to thicken and swirl around her, the creek moaning dolorously in the background. Before her the gatehouse itself was a hulking shape and she wondered, not for the first time, why she had chosen this time and this place to meet Asher.

  You chose this place, she reminded herself wryly, because you couldn’t think of anywhere else. She eyed it in the gloom. It’s only the gatehouse. There’s nothing sinister about it.

  Telling herself not to be a ninnyhammer, she took a determined step forward, and nearly jumped out of her skin when an owl hooted nearby. Annoyed with her reaction, she gripped her purple cloak tighter around her and, her jaw set, strode forward.

  Her cloak brushed against the heavy, old lavender plants and the calming scent of lavender floated in the air. It’s only the old gatehouse, she reminded herself again as she continued down the path toward the house. And Asher will be here. There is nothing to be frightened of.

  The gaping hole where the door had once hung appeared before her and her step faltered. The scent of damp mildew and dirt drifted to her and she could swear she heard something scurry away. Her fingers tightened on her cloak. Good heavens! Who knew what was inside the place? Mice, no doubt, the logical part of her brain answered. A few rats, perhaps. Surely nothing else…nothing dangerous. But she remained rooted to the spot, staring at the shadowy doorway, unable to move forward, the thought of confronting a beady eyed stoat or an angry badger foremost in her mind. As she hesitated there, she heard a noise, just the faintest whisper of sound, and instinctively, she took a step back. She was not normally a coward, but nothing, she realized, short of divine intervention, was going to get her to enter the gatehouse tonight.

  “Rather unpleasant place for a meeting, don’t you agree?” Asher drawled as he loomed up in the doorway before her.

  Despite her best intentions, Juliana shrieked and leaped back several feet.

  “My point exactly,” Asher said, stepping out into the faintest gleam of moonlight. “Why the devil did you choose this place and why do we have to meet at midnight?”

  Gathering her ruffled wits about her, Juliana snapped, “I couldn’t think of anywhere else and I didn’t want to cause suspicion.”

  One of Asher’s brows flew upward and he glanced around. “And you think if someone sees us here together at this time of night that it won’t raise suspicion?”

  “If there was anybody around to see us, of course, it would raise suspicions, but I chose this place precisely because no one would see us,” she said from between clenched teeth.

  He studied her for a moment in the faint moonlight. From the set of her jaw and her rigid stance, it was obvious that she wished she were anywhere else but here. Yet this meeting and the time and place had been of her choosing. He frowned as something occurred to him, something that should have occurred to him the moment he read her note. Not only was this an odd place to meet, but this sort of behavior was out of character for Juliana. Except for a few escapades when they had been children, Juliana had always trod the path expected of her and had never shown any desire to stray off the straight and narrow. Unlike him, she had never caused her parents a moment’s worry and had always done the right, correct thing. A paragon of virtue, that was the Juliana he knew. What the deuce, he wondered, was so important that, should they be discovered, she would face gossip and the loss of her reputation?

  He glanced around again. Ordinarily, he would have agreed that the gatehouse was the perfect site for a secret meeting. It was well hidden, forgotten by most people, and it was highly unlikely that even a poacher would stumble across them. Still, it wasn’t a place he would have chosen to meet a respectable young woman like Juliana. He half smiled. Nor would Juliana if she had actually been inside the gatehouse.

  “Don’t you dare laugh at me, Asher Cordell,” Juliana said fiercely, catching sight of his smile. “I wouldn’t have asked for you to meet me if it wasn’t important.”

  Asher shook his head. “I wasn’t laughing at you,” he said. “Merely the circumstances.”

  He reached for her and Juliana started violently at the touch of his hand on her arm. “Easy now,” he said quietly, just as he would to calm a frightened mare. “I mean you no harm.” Holding her firmly, he said, “I don’t doubt that whatever brings you here is important, but this is no place for us to have any sort of
meeting. You’re frightened half out of your wits and you’re going to be jumping and screaming at shadows and not concentrating on the matter at hand.”

  “You’re right,” she admitted miserably. “But I couldn’t think of another place.” Stiffly, she added, “I am not in the habit of meeting gentlemen in such an unseemly fashion.”

  “No, I’m sure you’re not,” he agreed. Turning her, he half dragged, half walked her to her horse. Tossing her up into the saddle, he said, “I’ll just be a moment. My horse is hidden behind the gatehouse.”

  “Oh! I wondered….” She stopped, gave him an uncertain smile. “I’m sorry I’m acting so strangely. It is just that—”

  He waited and when she said nothing more, just giving him an embarrassed shake of her head, he slipped away in the darkness. A moment later, he reappeared astride a big, black gelding. Giving her a reassuring smile, he said, “Follow me. I know a quiet place where we can talk.”

  Despite her unease with the situation, Juliana followed him without argument as he guided his horse into the forest. She frowned when she realized that they were riding farther and farther away from Kirkwood. How on earth would she ever find her way home?

  As if sensing her unease, Asher stopped and when she came alongside him, he said, “Don’t worry. I’ll make certain that you find your way back home.”

  She half smiled and nodded. “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “There’s a poacher’s hut just a bit ahead. It’s equally as unlikely for anyone to be around, but I know from observation that it is cleaner and more comfortable than the gatehouse.” He grinned at her. “It even has a pair of stools.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because, my sweet, I checked it out before I rode to the gatehouse.”

  She frowned. “Why did you do that?”