Anne Barbour by A Dedicated Scoundrel Read Free Book Online Page B

Meade’s house, did you not?” He turned a carefully casual glance on Catherine, who flushed slightly.
    “Yes,” replied Lady Jane. “Winter’s Keep was getting too much for an old lady to maintain, and, since I had been planning to will it to her, I simply signed it over in advance, a year or so ago.”
    “Perhaps, I might be allowed to see more of—what is it?—Winter’s Keep—tomorrow. I should need a crutch, of course, but—
    “We shall see how you go on tomorrow, Mr. Smith,” interposed Catherine, “before we speak of crutches and tours of the house—or visits to the stable.”
    The patient smiled graciously. “Of course, dear lady. It shall he as you wish.”
    “Yes, it will,” she replied, a martial light in her eye. Why was it, she wondered somewhat dizzily, that she felt constantly obliged to spar with this man? He was helpless, for heaven’s sake. Flat on his back in bed. Yet she persisted in seeing him as some sort of threat to her well-being. He had already seriously impaired her peace of mind, for no good reason that she could discern. Now she gasped a little as the laughter in his eyes flowed into hers with a gentle assault. His gaze shifted almost immediately to Mariah.
    “And you are Miss, er, Bredelove—although we have not been properly introduced.”
    “That’s Mrs. Bredelove. I, too, am a widow, Mr. Smith, and—
    “Mrs. Bredelove is my cousin, Mr. Smith—my third cousin,” Catherine interposed, “as well as my very dear friend. She agreed to come to live at the Keep after the death of her husband in the Peninsula. It is she who manages things here, and I do not know what I should do without her.”
    Mariah laughed. “Actually, we divide the labor. I take care of the house, and Catherine looks after the estate.”
    “Looks after the estate?” echoed John in some surprise.
    “Yes,” replied Catherine, her amusement apparent. “As in overseeing the Home Farm, keeping the accounts, seeing to the maintenance of the tenants’ cottages, and all the rest.”
    “But do you not retain the services of a bailiff?”
    “Oh, yes.” Catherine laughed. “For Grandmama has put her foot down when it comes to supervising the planting and harvesting. She thinks it improper for a lady to ride atop a hay wain, although there is nothing I like so well.”
    An image flashed before John of the graceful Miss Meade, tendrils of hair curling about tanned cheeks as she strode along the furrows, pitchfork in hand, like a goddess of the grain. Something in him leaped in response, and he found his fingers itching to plunge them into the glorious mass of her hair, to breathe in the glowing energy that radiated from her. Shaken, he turned back to Mrs. Bredelove.
    “Your husband lost his life in Spain?” he asked quietly. “Where?”
    “He died in a skirmish outside a small village near Abrantes.” Marian’s voice was soft, and her eyes very bright. “And I don’t know what I would have done but for Lady Jane and Catherine.” She reached to clasp the hands of her two friends.
    John, watching, felt his throat tighten, and with an instinct he barely recognized as defensive, he derided the scene inwardly. Unfortunate, he thought, that females so tended toward the mawkish. These three believed themselves to be the most devoted of friends, but just let the self-interest of one of them conflict with that of one of the others, and see how fast their affection for each other would disintegrate.
    He did not pause to ask himself what, in the life that was so stubbornly hidden from him, had caused this cynicism. He only knew that to trust one’s welfare to another was to court disaster.
    The ladies stayed but a few moments longer before Catherine rose.
    “I think we must take our leave,” she said, noting John’s pallor and the dark smudges under his eyes. “I fear we have tired our guest with our chattering.”
    He protested, but was forced to admit the truth of her statement. His day’s adventure