Ned wasn’t certain what he meant, but was too tired to ask. He found his own bed, expecting to fall immediately asleep. Instead, he stared at the ceiling, thinking about the confrontation with Gemma Estep and wondering why he was so bloody aware of her. He could too easily picture himself standing beside her, as if they were acouple, something he would never do in his right mind . . . and yet, there was the image, worming its way into his brain.
Consequently, the next morning he overslept and didn’t wake until he heard shouting.
He rose up from his mattress, groggy. There were more shouts in the hall. Feminine voices. It took him a moment to grasp that he wasn’t dreaming.
A beat later Royce pounded on the door. “Wake up, sir, wake up. The matrons have stolen the Earl of Marsden. I tried to stop them but they pushed me aside. Some of those women are very strong. I felt overpowered.”
Ned scrambled to dress.
Gemma had not enjoyed a good night.
After Mr. Thurlowe had left, she’d had trouble falling asleep, and she wasn’t certain of exactly why.
She should have been disturbed over the idea of being attacked. That was enough to keep anyone wide awake in their bed... except that wasn’t what was preying on her mind.
No, what had her tossing and turning was reliving the conversation with the good doctor. He was her enemy. She understood he was determined to reclaim The Garland for flimsy reasons, and she would fight him.
And yet, she sensed a connection with him. A pull. Almost as if she’d been destined to meet him. Her gran had talked about destiny that way. She’dmarried her second cousin, a healer himself, and she’d claimed she could have married no other. Then again, perhaps what had kept Gemma up was regret. It would be a horrific thing if Paul had been her destiny. Her one and only.
She discovered in the wee hours of the morning that although she’d vowed repeatedly that she was done with men, a part of her still yearned for love. For someone she could trust. For someone with strong arms and a giving spirit... like Ned Thurlowe.
Actually, there wasn’t a woman in the village who didn’t find Mr. Thurlowe attractive. Whether he was aware of it or not, they all watched him closely. Several had even made comment to her about the private conversation between her and Mr. Thurlowe after Sunday services. There was no missing the envy in their voices. Of course, if they’d known the level of hostility he held for Gemma—
Well, they might still be jealous.
So she was up and ready to greet Mr. Fitzsimmons at half past seven, even if her brain was a bit muddy from lack of sleep. She set him to work turning over earth for the flower beds. She then brewed a cup of strong black tea. Mrs. Warbler had sent over a loaf of fresh bread and preserves on Monday, and Gemma now made a breakfast with the last of it. Sipping her tea, she determined she wouldn’t give another thought to the doctor. He was not hers to think about.
Instead, she focused on her plans for the day.She wanted to set up the main room. She would have tables for patrons . . . but she’d also decided to put together a special nook for her soaps, creams, and other concoctions that she would sell. Her gran had such a place—
The door opened in the main room with the merry jingle of the small bell Gemma had purchased from the tinker. She’d just tied it on that morning. If she’d had it in place last night, then she would have been warned before sensing someone was in her home in the dark.
Now, at the sound of it, she tensed. Then she heard Clarissa’s voice. “Gemma?”
“Back here.”
Clarissa rushed into the kitchen, her eyes alive with anticipation. She was wearing a fetching dress of blue worsted. It was high necked and quite modest. Gemma was in her black. “I hope you are ready for this.”
“For what?” Gemma asked.
“Heavens, what happened to your head?”
Gemma had taken off the bandage. She believed cuts healed better with air. She was afraid to look at it even in the small glass in the bedroom thinking it was better not to know what she looked like. “I bumped into something.”
“It must have hurt.”
“It did,” Gemma could say honestly. “So what should I be ready for?” she asked, bringing Clarissa’s attention back to her business.
“The earl has returned from London. Mrs. Warbler says they will bring him to you at once.”
“Bring him to me?”
“Yes. He’s the magistrate and you can show him your proof that your uncle left The Garland to you. Once he makes his decision, no one will question your claim ever again.”
For a second Gemma froze, struck dumb. The magistrate was coming to her?
This morning?
Now?
