She sat on the couch, listening to the rain on the roof and sipping the sweetish Madeira. Though she wasn’t cold, she shivered. Looking around, she wondered how he could describe this as a cottage.
The cottages in the village of Cainewood were generally tiny and dark, single-room buildings with rough plastered walls and trodden earth floors. This cottage was impeccably clean and boasted large glass windows. The wooden walls and floors were polished to a gleam, and her feet rested on a lovely Oriental carpet. Besides the couch, there were two chairs and several small tables, two marquetry cabinets, and a desk in one corner.
She walked over to it and ran a hand along the smooth, rich wood. Everything on top was neatly arranged. Setting down her goblet, she slid open the top drawer to find a stack of paper and bottles of ink. Her hand went to the bottom drawer and tugged, but it was stuck closed or locked. She frowned at it, then turned to survey the rest of the enormous room.
A beautiful carved dining table and chairs sat on another patterned carpet, obviously imported from lands far away. A peek through an archway revealed a spotless, quite modern kitchen, the shelves heavily stocked with victuals. Another archway opened onto a corridor, which apparently led to several more rooms.
Some cottage, Kendra thought. All furnished, food and drink…Trick seemed quite at home. Maybe he lived here, after all. She’d never thought much about where a highwayman might live, but she hadn’t expected it would be a hunting lodge, or a cottage, or whatever he wanted to call it. She’d assumed they slept in inns or the like.
When the door opened and Trick walked in and swept off his cloak, she rushed back to the desk and reclaimed her goblet.
“It’s not letting up,” he announced, stomping the rain off his boots.
She was relieved that he didn’t seem to care she’d been nosing around. “Is this…yours?” she blurted, making her way to sit on the couch. “I mean, do you live here?”
“Um…close enough.”
Kendra felt her face heat. She really shouldn’t be so curious. It was none of her business whom the cottage belonged to, and now she’d put Trick on the spot.
Of course he didn’t own it. Many highwaymen had a reputation for being gentlemanly, but that didn’t mean they were actualgentlemen. Men of property didn’t turn to the roads for sustenance.
Thankfully, he looked amused rather than annoyed or embarrassed. He swiped his wine off the mantel and sat beside her.
The room was quiet except for the soft pit-pat of rain. She sipped from her own goblet, peeking at him over the rim. He gazed at her through the ends of his damp golden hair, and she saw his eyes darken. But surely he had no reason to be angry.
No, it was something else.
Her heart sped up, and of its own accord her hand rose to sweep clear his forehead. Horrified at herself, she snatched it back just in time.
With a sudden grin, he gave a toss of his head that flung the hair from his eyes. “We were speaking of my name,” he reminded her—or himself.
She gulped more wine. “What did your parents name you, really?”
“Patrick Iain Caldwell.” He settled back slowly. “But my father was away when I was born—Father was always away—so my mother named me. Scots–Irish, she was. In any case, he was appalled when he finally ventured home to meet me. Said she’d tricked him good, giving his English son two barbarian names.”
Kendra grinned. “Trick…since she’d tricked him?”
“And short for Patrick, though he’d never admit it. They hated each other, they did. It was an arranged marriage.”
“That sounds rather old-fashioned. Why?”
“Damned if I know.” He drained his goblet and stared at it pensively, twirling it by its stubby stem. “Neither of them would talk of the other long enough for me to find out.”
“How sad,” she murmured, the sincere tone of her voice drawing his gaze.
Five
TRICK LOOKEDup to see Kendra shaking her beautiful head. Sweet Mary, she was lovely. And regardless of the dreary, rainy day, she smelled of sunshine and lavender. It was all he could do to keep from leaning close and burying his nose in her burgundy curls.
Damn. Why couldn’t she be a bloody serving maid? It had been a long time since he’d bedded a woman—a long time since he’d felt attracted to one—but Cainewood’s sister was not the female on whom to slake his pent-up lust.
He shouldn’t have asked her to the cottage, shouldn’t have encouraged her to stay. Jason Chase would have his head if he knew she was here, unescorted. But with the rain and all, it had seemed the gentlemanly thing to do. And he hadn’t seemed able to help himself.
Still, the last thing he needed was her sympathy regarding the childhood he’d just as soon forget.
“Not so sad,” he said, tearing his gaze from her face only to have it land on her chest. Pert breasts were molded within her riding habit’s collarless jacket, in perfect proportion to her small stature. His eyes moved down to her waist, and his palms itched as he remembered his hands spanning it. He forced himself to look out the window. A raindrop trailed in a slow, crooked line. “Arranged marriages are common enough.”
“For some, perhaps. The peerage is often compelled to wed for alliance.”
