A shake of head.
Her sea-blue eyes drowned his fearful emotions and in their place rose a heady awareness, the sensation of her cold skin in his heated palm, her parted lips and the press of her willow form.
And like a sailor to the mermaid, he leaned forward, kissed her forehead, heard a gasp but neither did she draw away.
Lower, he trailed an open path to those eyes, kissed them closed, felt the flicker of lashes, whispered his breath over her tear-laden cheeks, then lower, where he laid the most chaste of kisses upon her soft lips.
When at length he drew back, she brought quivering fingers there. “You…kissed me.”
“I could kiss you forever and a day, Hebe Locke.” Never had he uttered such words, and yet…it felt right.
A furrow creased her brow. “Truly?”
He cocked his head at such a serious countenance. “Er… Well, we might need to pause for breath on occasion and our lips could become a smidgeon raw but…yes.”
A tentative smile broke. “You may be a scoundrel, Lord Ernest, but you are a nice one.”
He grinned. “Why did you scream so, Hebe? What scared you?”
With a shudder, her head jerked, eyes shifted over his shoulder and he twisted them both, till it was he that faced whatever had caused her such terror.
Ernest drew a sharp breath.
He’d seen dead animals aplenty as nature could be a cruel mistress but…
This was not nature but a perverse act of man.
Who would place such an atrocity here? And why? A cowardly joke? Or to frighten Hebe Locke? Surely not.
“My lord?” A panting Redmond burst into the garden, followed by Daniel, Thos and Mary. “We took the wrong bloody path.”
Ernest felt the chill as Hebe drew away. “Someone knows it well enough.” And he tipped his head to the poor bird.
The foursome grimaced, Mary instantly tearing her eyes from the sight and tiptoeing to Hebe. “Madam, I be taking thee from here,” she whispered. “A hot bath will see thee right.”
Hebe twisted to him, fingers drifting to her lips once more before she allowed the maid to lead her away, Daniel escorting them at Ernest’s nod of head.
“Curse ’em,” barked Redmond, glowering at the bloodied bird, arms folded. “It’ll come back to haunt them, so it will. Sparrows hold the souls of sailors, don’t ya know.”
“I’d not realised you were superstitious?”
The stable master turned an incredulous face. “I’m Irish.” As though that explained all.
Placing hands to hips, Ernest debated a course of action. Was it all connected? The missing horses and now this?
“Redmond, do you think you could search the paths for anything suspicious? Any clue as to how this came to be here?”
“Aye, course, my lord.”
And Ernest watched his stable master disappear into the hedges, his eyes scanning the grass.
This morning he’d reviewed Redmond’s letters of recommendation and the estate manager’s interview notes to find naught amiss. And indisputably, there was something about O’Conner which spawned trust – maybe it was the manner he tended a skittish mare or the way he gazed longingly after Mrs Cassell.
A useful man who could question the locals in the surrounding stables and taverns about the vanishing horses as Ernest, with his noble accent and Rothwell face, would be met with buttoned lips. His brother may have brought prosperity back to the area, but the Rothwells were still the aristocratic overlords when all was said and done.
He swivelled back to the bird, anger rippling at such cowardly violence, and paced the garden with heavy strides, searching for boot prints or snags of clothing on the hedge.
But naught.
