“Sinclair owns Blackbird Heath. Unfortunately, he has as much right to live here as I do. I’m not sure what Joshua could have been thinking.” Hester shook her head, lips pursing. “Giving some stranger my home, but with another swoop of the pen declaring I didn’t have to leave unless I wished it. Perhaps he sought to punish me.”
“Joshua Black wasn’t of sound mind.” Martin turned back to her. “He couldn’t have been to make such a decision. That is the case I have been making. But because my father actually drafted the revised will, it makes overturning it that much more difficult. He was highly regarded and known for being above doing anything remotely unscrupulous. Had it been any other solicitor I would have no issue with questioning their motives. Maybe I could put out that my father’s health was failing or—”
“No.” Hester interrupted with a touch to his arm. “You cannot damage Godwick & Sons or your own reputation, Martin. Especially not for my sake.” Her eyes lifted to the sight of Sinclair and the cart driver hauling in the larger trunk from the cart. “Eventually, he will return to London. He hates the country. And cabbage.” She smiled. “I’ve instructed Mrs. Ebersole to make sure to have cabbage served at every meal.”
Martin laughed, though the amusement didn’t reach his eyes, which were still on Sinclair.
“Well, if cabbage doesn’t work, Hester, I’ll think of something else.”
Chapter Eight
Another week slippedby, with Hester increasingly annoyed that Sinclair seemed in no hurry to vacate Blackbird Heath. He roamed about the farm, engaging in conversation with everyone save Hester, and when not observing the sheep or the potatoes growing, Sinclair disappeared into the study. At first, she’d worried about him reviewing the ledgers but Joshua had only ever expressed a passing interest in them. Men like her husband and Sinclair rarely worried over where their coin came from, only that they received it.
Also irritating, Hester’s ploy with the cabbage had failed. Mrs. Ebersole had reluctantly admitted Mr. Sinclair had confronted her on the matter. Cabbage was still served, but not in excess amounts. King George seemed to have little effect on Sinclair’s sleep. In fact, Hester had deliberately removed the rooster back to his usual spot so that he wouldn’t awaken the entire household.
Which meant Sinclair would also likely still be asleep.
Perfect for her plans.
Silently, Hester made her way up the stairs, each step filled with determination. Tucking the small, wiggling sack more firmly against her side, Hester quietly made her way down the hall to Sinclair’s room. The idea had come to her two days ago while walking to check on the pigs and hearing the beasts squeal in terror.
A smile tugged at her lips.
Piles of dung placed nearly everywhere that Sinclair might walk hadn’t worked. Nor cabbage or the extreme boredom of the countryside, but possibly, her latest gambitmight. If she were lucky, after she placed the sack in his room, Mr. Sinclair would decline to spend another night at Blackbird Heath.
“Stop that,” Hester whispered to the twisting sack as she tiptoed to Sinclair’s room. “We have an agreement. You frighten him half out of his wits and slink off somewhere. Pretend to be fierce.”
Dawn was just starting to pink the sky. The house dark and still. Hester turned the knob to Sinclair’s door, gratified to hear not a squeak of the hinges. She’d had the foresight to oil the hinges yesterday while Sinclair walked along the sugar beet fields pretending interest in her crops. Opening the door to Sinclair’s room, Hester stepped inside.
The scent of cedar and leather filled her nostrils as she carefully stepped over his boots. Sinclair was sleeping on his stomach, his arms stretched out on either side, sprawled across the bed. The sheets were twisted about his hips.
Her heart thumped hard inside her chest.
The broad line of Sinclair’s back lay exposed, a collection of sculpted hollows of muscle and curved sinew. The shock of thick hair, the same color as fresh gingerbread covered his eyes and cascaded over his cheeks. Long, elegant fingers were stretched out in Hester’s direction.
Her fist tightened on the sack she carried.
Goodness, he was beautiful.
He is the enemy.Best to remember that no matter how splendid he looked shirtless.
She crept towards the bed and lifted just the edge of the sheet. Opening the sack, Hester released the grass snake before she could lose her nerve. The sheets moved as the snake, thrilled to be free, started to explore.
Perfect. Now Hester only had to get out of Sinclair’s room and down the stairs before her little friend made his presence known. She backed away, so intent on watching the tiny snake move beneath the sheets, Hester didn’t remember the boots she’d stepped over moments ago were right behind her. She tripped, her backside hitting the floor with a thud, and cursed. Rather loudly.
Thomas Morton wasn’t much of a father, but he had taught Hester how to curse.
That’s probably what woke up Sinclair. The cursing. Not the snake.
One of Sinclair’s eyes, like the leaves in the depths of the forest, peered through the tangle of his hair. His fingers curled on the bed sheet. He twisted gracefully, muscles rippling as he moved, never once looking away from Hester and reached into the sheets. Sitting up in one fluid move, Sinclair held up the poor, wiggling grass snake.
“Good morning, Mrs. Black.” The words held a hint of amusement, but nothing remotely friendly shone in his handsome features.
“Good morning,” she whispered, horrified to the very depths of her being at being caught.
“I’ll assume this belongs to you.” He held the grass snake up higher, mossy gaze flicking to the sack clutched in her hands.
Hester lifted her chin. She could brave this out. Possibly. There wasn’t any good excuse why she would be in his room with a snake except the obvious. “Indeed. I was attempting to retrieve him.”
