She needs an heir...

But not a husband!

Gabrielle Frost knows that marrying any man would mean handing over control of her beloved family vineyard in Portugal to her new husband. She won’t take that risk. But she needs an heir! So when Nathaniel Graystone, Earl of Leybourne, arrives to escort her to London, Gabrielle wonders—what if this former soldier, with his courage, strength and dangerous air, could be the one to father her child?

“Allen writes Regency romances that always become favorites...Readers will enjoy the engaging plot twists and the authentic setting and characters.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Earl’s Practical Marriage

“Readers will enjoy the unique setting, the many twists and turns of the plot, and the chance to see the whole Herriard clan together again.”

—RT Book Reviews on Surrender to the Marquess

LOUISE ALLEN loves immersing herself in history. She finds landscapes and places evoke the past powerfully. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favourite destinations. Louise lives on the Norfolk coast and spends her spare time gardening, researching family history or travelling in search of inspiration. Visit her at louiseallenregency.co.uk, @LouiseRegency and janeaustenslondon.com.

Also by Louise Allen

A Rose for Major Flint

Once Upon a Regency Christmas

Marrying His Cinderella Countess

The Earl’s Practical Marriage

Lords of Disgrace miniseries

His Housekeeper’s Christmas Wish

His Christmas Countess

The Many Sins of Cris de Feaux

The Unexpected Marriage of Gabriel Stone

The Herriard Family miniseries

Forbidden Jewel of India

Tarnished Amongst the Ton

Surrender to the Marquess

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

A Lady in Need of an Heir

Louise Allen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07401-8

A LADY IN NEED OF AN HEIR

© 2018 Melanie Hilton

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Early October 1815—Douro Valley, Portugal

It was the same as his memories, yet different as a dream. The river, tricky, pretending to be benign, ran wide here, below the gorges that lurked lethally upstream. The sky was blue, dotted with clouds, a roof over the valley with its tiers of intricate ancient terraces rising on either side. The harvest was over, the grapes stripped away, the leaves hinting at a change to the gold and crimson of autumn.

There were no sounds of shots or cannon fire, no victims of the fighting clogged the swirling brown waters. From the bushes on the bank a bird sang clear and pure and the scorching heat of summer was turning to something kinder.

The tranquillity was unsettling, dangerous. This was when the enemy struck, when you were lulled into relaxation, distracted by a moment’s peace, a glimpse of beauty. Gray gave himself a mental shake. There was no enemy. He was no longer Colonel Nathaniel Graystone and the war was over. Twice over, with Bonaparte finally defeated scarcely four months ago on the bloody plains of Belgium.

Portugal was free from invaders and had been so for four years now. There were no ambushes here, no snipers behind rocks, no cavalry troops to lead into a hell of gunfire and smoke and blood. He was the Earl of Leybourne and he was a civilian now. And he was here on an inconvenient errand, the kind that assuming the title and the headship of his family seemed to involve.

The two men handling the rabelo shouted something in Portuguese as the sail flapped and Gray translated without having to think about it. He ducked low among the empty barrels as the boom swung over, then tossed a line to the man at the prow.

Doubtless it was beneath his new dignity to approach the Quinta do Falcão by working boat. He should have creaked for almost a hundred miles along the hilltop road from Porto to Pinhão in one of the lumbering old-fashioned carriages to be hired in the city, then held on to his nerve, his dignity and his hat as it negotiated the hairpin bends of the track leading down to the river. But this was the fast, efficient way to make the journey and twenty months had still not instilled in him the attitudes expected of a peer of the realm. At least, not according to his godmother, Lady Orford.

It was she, and his own uncomfortable sense of duty, that Gray could blame for his present situation. He was up to his ankles in bilge water and facing a situation that, in his opinion, called for either the skills of a diplomat or those of a kidnapper. And he was neither. It did very little for his mood and even less for the condition of his new boots.

The man managing the great steering paddle shouted something and jerked his head towards the bank. There were trees and a wide flat area about ten feet above the waterline and through the foliage he could see glimpses of red-tiled rooftops and the whitewashed walls of a low, sprawling house. As the boat steered nearer, fighting against the current, he saw gardens, then a landing stage.

‘É aquele Quinta do Falcão?’ he called.

‘Sim, senhor.’

The house, the heart of the quinta or winemaking estate, came fully into sight. It was charming, he thought, something of his edgy mood softening. It was gracious, beautifully kept, radiating prosperity. A pleasant surprise, not the down-at-heel place hanging on by a thread that he had feared from his godmother’s agitation. The boat angled closer, the boatmen struggling to find slack water nearer the bank. Through a grove of trees Gray glimpsed what looked like gravestones and a woman rising from her knees in the midst of them, a flurry of garnet-red skirts against the green. It was like a fashionable sentimental picture, he thought fancifully. Beauty amidst the Sorrows or some such nonsense.

Then, with a sudden swoop, the boat was alongside the long wooden dock. One man jumped ashore, looped a rope around a bollard and gestured to Gray to throw across his baggage. Three valises hit the dock, then Gray vaulted over beside them as the boatman freed the line and was back on board with the boat slipping fast into the current.

Gray waved and they waved back, gap-toothed smiles splitting their faces under the broad-brimmed black hats they both wore.

You may well grin, he thought. The amount I paid you. But money was not the issue. Speed was.

‘Quem são você?’

It was the woman from the graveyard demanding his identity. She made a vivid sight: garnet skirts above soft black ankle boots, a white loose shirt under a tight black waistcoat. Her hands were on her hips; her expression conveyed as little welcome as her tone.

‘Good morning,’ Gray said in English as he straightened up from his bags, ignoring her question as he studied her. The scrutiny brought up a flush of angry colour over her cheekbones and the wide brown eyes narrowed.

‘This is the private landing stage for Quinta do Falcão.’ She switched easily to unaccented English. Despite the costume and her dark hair, this was the mistress of the place, not one of the staff, he realised.

‘Excellent, then I am where I intended to be. It would have been inconvenient to be dropped off ten miles adrift.’ Gray looped the strap of one bag over his shoulder and picked up the others. ‘Miss Frost, I presume?’

A narrowing of her eyes was all the confirmation she offered. ‘I ask again, sir, who you are.’

‘I am Leybourne. You should be expecting me. You should have had a letter informing you of my arrival. Your Aunt Henrietta, Lady Orford, wrote at least a month ago.’

One lock of dark brown hair slipped from its combs and fell against her cheek. Miss Frost tucked it back behind her ear without taking her hostile gaze from his face. ‘In that case it went on the fire, as do most of her communications when she is in a managing mood. You are her godson, then, and if I remember rightly, Lord Leybourne. So you know what she is like.’

‘Yes.’ Gray held on to his temper with the same control he had used when faced with damn-fool orders from superior officers and offered no opinion on the Dowager. She was an imperious and tactless old bat, true enough, but she was doubtless right about what should be done with her niece.

‘And you expect to stay here?’ Miss Frost looked at the fast disappearing stern of the boat, her lips a tight line. A rhetorical question—unless she intended to refuse him hospitality. There were no other houses within sight and the nearest village was several miles away.

Doubtless Godmama Orford’s intentions were correct, but he was beginning to wonder if marrying off this prickly female suitably was going to be as easy as she thought. Miss Frost might be lovely to look at, but her tongue had been dipped in vinegar, not honey. ‘If that would not be inconvenient. I do not believe there is any other lodging nearby.’

‘You can stay in the Gentlemen’s House.’ Miss Frost turned on her heel and walked away towards the buildings without waiting to see if he would follow. ‘It is empty at this time of year,’ she tossed back over her shoulder. ‘We use it for visitors when buyers and officials come and there are none now, just after the harvest.’

Gray discovered that he was more amused than annoyed as he followed her. The performance was impressive, the rear view enticing and he found himself in some sympathy with anyone who consigned his godmother’s missives to the flames. On the other hand, this was clearly not the life a single young woman of aristocratic family should be living.

A stocky, swarthy man in baggy breeches with a red sash around his substantial midriff hurried out of the house towards them. ‘Senhora Gabrielle?’

‘This gentleman is the Earl of Leybourne, Baltasar,’ she said in English. ‘He will spend tonight in the Casa dos Cavalheiros and take dinner with me. Please send one of the men over to make sure he has everything he needs until then. He will require the carriage in the morning to take him back to Porto.’

‘Thank you.’ Gray arrived at her side and deposited the bags in a heap on the front step. ‘However, I fear our business will take rather longer than one night, Miss Frost.’

‘Our business?’ Her eyebrows rose. Gray found himself admiring the curve of them, the length of her lashes as she gave him a very direct look. He could admire the entire effect, to be honest with himself. She had all the charm of an irritated hornet, true, but that temper brought rosy colour to her slightly olive complexion. The Frosts had married into the local gentry at some time in the past; that was clear. Then he reminded himself that he had to extract her from this place and endure the hornet stings all the way back to England, and her allure faded.

‘I can assure you I have not returned to Portugal on my own account, Miss Frost.’ He kept his voice pleasant, which appeared to make her more annoyed.

‘You mean you travelled all this way simply as the messenger boy for my dear aunt? I had no idea that earls were so easily imposed upon. I cannot believe it will take me very long to say no to whatever it is she wants, but, please, make yourself at home, Lord Leybourne.’ She made a sweeping gesture at the grounds. ‘And stay for a week if that is what it takes to convince her that I want nothing whatsoever to do with her.’

* * *

Gaby watched the earl follow Baltasar along the winding path to the little lodge where they accommodated wine buyers, shippers and gentlemen calling to view the quinta. As an unmarried lady it was sensible to keep male house guests separate for the good of her reputation, although Gabrielle Frost of Quinta do Falcão was regarded almost as an honorary man in the neighbourhood, at least in her business dealings.

This man was definitely best kept at a distance. She had never encountered her aunt’s godson that she was aware of, but then she had not been in England since she was seventeen. The war had seen to that. She turned away with a mutter of irritation when she realised she had watched him out of sight. The man was quite self-confident enough without having confirmation that his tall figure drew the female eye. He had been an officer, she recalled. That reference to returning must mean he’d been in Portugal during the war and he still moved like a soldier—upright, alert, fit. Dangerous in more ways than one. She should be on her guard.

The earl was probably well aware already that women looked at him, she thought, as she pushed open the kitchen door. He looked right back at them: she hadn’t missed the leisurely assessment he had given her on the dock.

Maria—the cook and Baltasar’s wife—looked up from the intricate pastry work she was creating at the kitchen table. ‘Maria, temos um convidado.’ She almost smiled at the word. Convidado sounded too much like convivial to translate guest in this particular case. ‘An English earl, a connection of my family. Baltasar is taking him to the Gentlemen’s House. Send over refreshments, please. He will join me for dinner.’

‘Sim, senhora.’ Maria gave a final flourish of the glaze brush over the pastry. She looked pleased, but then she enjoyed showing off her skills and Gabrielle, although appreciative, could only eat so much. As for Jane Moseley, her companion, she was a fussy eater who still, after almost ten years in Portugal, yearned for good plain English cooking.

Alfonso and Danilo were talking loudly in the scullery. From the sounds of splashing and clanking, they had been sent to fetch hot water for the earl’s bath.

Everything was under control, as was to be expected. The household ran like clockwork with rarely change or challenge to distract her from growing grapes and making and selling port. The goodwill of the staff and the calm efficiency of Miss Moseley saw to that.

Which left Gaby free to get on with managing the quinta and the business of creating fine wine. And that was what she should be doing now—keeping the record books up to date in the precious lull after the hectic and exhausting harvest time and before the routines of the autumn and winter work. She let herself into her office and sat down at the desk, which had, of course, a good view of the Gentlemen’s House to distract her.

She flipped open the inkwell, dipped her pen and continued with her notes about the terrace on the southern bank that needed clearing and replanting. Her father had once told her that in England there was a saying—you plant walnuts and pears for your heirs. It was not quite that bad with vines, but it would be many years before she saw a good return from the new planting, so best to get on with it at once.

She knew what Aunt Henrietta would ask about that: What was the good of maintaining and improving the quinta for posterity when Gaby had no one to leave it to? She asked herself the same question often enough, and the answer was that, eventually, she would find someone she thought worthy of it, even though she was the last of the Frosts.

Four dozen grafted rootstocks...

She stopped in the middle of a sentence and nibbled the end of the quill meditatively. But that was why Leybourne was here, of course. He had come to nag her into returning to England, leaving the quinta and surrendering to her aunt’s marriage plans. How her aunt had managed to persuade him to make the journey was a mystery, unless he had simply fled the country to escape her persistence, which was cowardly but understandable. Perhaps he was nostalgic for his war years in the Peninsula—she had caught his good Portuguese when he was talking to the boatmen and he had understood her first question.

Where were you in October five years ago, my lord? she wondered. Behind the lines of Torres Vedras, protecting Lisbon with Viscount Wellington, as Wellesley had just become, or skirmishing around as a riding officer seeking out intelligence on the advancing French? Perhaps he had been a friend of Major Andrew Norwood. No, best not to think of him, the shocking sounds that fists meeting flesh made, the lethal whisper of a knife blade through the twilight.

The violence that is in men’s hearts...

Gaby bent her head over her ledgers. There was work to be done, a winery did not run itself. She could not allow herself to think about Norwood or the nightmares would begin again. He was gone, dead, and she was not going to allow him to haunt her.

* * *

The clock in the hall struck six as she finished her notes and lists. She put down her pen, blotted the ledger, assembled the papers and allowed herself to look out of the window at last. And there her uninvited guest was, strolling bareheaded through the cherry orchard as though he was surveying his own acres. He was heading directly for the burial plot.

She was probably overreacting, Gaby told herself as she ran down the stairs and out through the front door. There was no reason why he should not look around the grounds—they had been laid out as a pleasure garden, after all, and she was proud of them. It was perfectly natural that he should visit the burial enclosure and pay his respects, if he was so inclined. As for what he might find there... Well, that was not his business. He was a messenger passing through and would soon be gone. What he thought of her was not of the slightest importance.

She found him standing at the foot of her parents’ graves, head slightly bowed, apparently deep in thought. She stood on just that spot almost every day, collecting her thoughts, asking questions, wrestling with difficult issues. She did not expect an answer from beyond, of course, but simply thinking about how her parents would handle any problem often gave her own ideas direction and validation. Her father had never given her firm instructions about the business, he taught by example and encouraged innovation. The only hard line either parent had laid down was, ‘Follow your conscience, always. If you are uneasy in your mind, then listen and do the right thing.’ It was a rule she attempted to live by.

‘December 1807,’ the earl said, looking up as she reached the headstone and faced him. ‘The month the French took Porto for the first time.’

‘Yes. There was an epidemic of the influenza, just to add to the general horror. I think the anxiety and stress of the invasion made my parents particularly vulnerable to the infection.’ She could say it unemotionally now. Sometimes it even seemed like a dream, or a story she had read in a book, that time when she found herself orphaned with a fourteen-year-old brother and a quinta to, somehow, protect against the armies fighting to control a country in turmoil. She missed them all every day. The pain had become easier to live with, the sense of loss never seemed to diminish.

‘And this is your brother.’ Leybourne had moved on to the next headstone, reminding her just what a bad job she had done of protecting Thomas. He crouched down to read the inscription. ‘September 1810. We were behind the lines of Torres Vedras, holding Lisbon by then. I remember those months.’ Not with any pleasure, from the tone of his voice.

‘The French killed Thomas. Not disease.’ The French and treachery.

‘Hell, I’m sorry.’ He had bent down to read the inscription, but he looked up sharply at her words, then back to the stone. He reached out one long finger to trace the dates of birth and death. ‘I had not realised he had been so young, only seventeen. What happened? Were they scavenging around here?’

‘Only just seventeen.’

Old enough to be thinking about girls and so shy that he had no idea how to talk with them, let alone anything else. Old enough to be shaving off fluff and young enough to be proud of the fact. Young enough to still kiss his big sister without reserve when he came home and old enough to resent her worrying...

‘He was with the guerrilheiros. Not all the time, only when your Major Norwood thought to...use him.’ Exploit him.

Leybourne’s head came up again at the tone of her voice. ‘Andrew Norwood, the riding officer?’

‘The spy, yes. He was happy to find an enthusiastic, idealistic lad who knew his way around the hills here.’ An inexperienced boy. One who might well get himself killed—and then how useful that would be for Major Norwood, she had realised far too late. Gaby kept her voice studiedly neutral. Norwood might well have been a friend of the earl when he had been an officer here. He might be the kind of man Norwood had been.

‘Could you not stop him?’ Leybourne stood up. ‘I’m sorry, no, of course you could not if he was bent on fighting the French, not without chaining him up. We had boys younger than that lying about their age to enlist.’

‘If I had thought chaining him would work I would have tried it, believe me,’ she said, heartsick all over again at the remembered struggle, the arguments, the rows.

We are English and Portugal is our home, Thomas had thrown at her. The French are our enemy and the enemy of Portugal. It is our duty to fight them.

‘I told him that we had a duty to try and keep the quinta going, to give work and shelter to our people, to have something to offer the economy when the fighting was over so the country could be rebuilt,’ she said now. ‘The French would go soon enough, I argued.’

While we skulk here, nothing but farmers and merchants. We are descended from earls, her brother had retorted, impassioned and idealistic. We Frosts fight.

Gaby came back to herself, furious to find her vision blurred. She blinked hard. ‘I was so proud of him and so frightened for him. He was a boy who had the heart of a man and he was betrayed in the end.’

‘By whom? Someone within the guerrilheiros? It was the same with the Spanish guerrillas, a few had been turned by the French for money or because their families were threatened.’ The earl had his hand on the headstone, the strong fingers curled around the top as though he would protect it.

‘No. But it doesn’t matter now. The person responsible is dead.’ Her voice was steady again and she had her voice and her emotions under control. She resisted the impulse to glance at the riverbank where two men had gone over, fighting to the death, into the rushing water. There was a wood stack there now, although no traces had been left to hide.

How had this man manged to lure her into revealing so much? So much emotion? Gaby found a smile and turned to lead him out of the plot, past the graves of her grandparents Thomas and Elizabeth and her great-grandparents Rufus and Maria Frost, who had first owned the quinta. Weathered now, that first stone bore the family crest the quinta was named for, a falcon grasping a vine branch, faint but defiant on the old stone.

‘Lord Leybourne, if you come this way I will show you the rose garden.’ The roses were virtually over, but it would serve to move him on to ground that held less power over her.

Or not, it seemed. ‘Call me Gray, everyone does,’ he said. The infuriating man was walking away from her towards the southern corner of the plot, not the gate. ‘What is this?’ He had stopped at the simple white slab that was tilted to face the rising sun.

L.M., he read. He glanced up, frowning at her as she came closer, then went back to the inscription. March 25, 1811. Remember. ‘That is the date of the battle of Campo Maior. Who is this stone for?’

She smiled at him, amused, despite her feelings, by the way he frowned at her. It was clear that he resented not being in total command of the facts of any situation. The impulse to shock him was too strong to resist.

‘My lover.’

Chapter Two

Gray straightened up, not at all certain he could believe what Gabrielle Frost had just said.

‘Your lover? Your betrothed, you mean? Which regiment was he in?’

‘No, you did hear me correctly, my lord. My lover. And, no, I am not discussing him with you.’ She bent to brush a fallen leaf from the stone, then walked away from him, seemingly unconcerned that she had just dropped a shell into his hands, its fuse still hissing.

Lover? She was ruined. His godmother would have hysterics because no one, surely, except some bankrupt younger son, bribed to do it, would take Gabrielle Frost now. What the hell was she doing, admitting to it so brazenly?

Gray pulled himself together and strode after her out of the grave plot, letting the little wrought iron gate clang shut behind him. The garnet skirts swished through the grass ahead. Her legs must be long for her to have gained so much ground. He lengthened his stride for the dozen steps it took to bring him to her side.

‘Miss Frost, stop, please.’ It was more an order than a request and all the effect it had on her was to bring up her chin. As though he had not spoken she continued until she passed through an arch cut in a high evergreen hedge.

‘Here is the rose garden. If you are going to rant at me, my lord, at least we are out of sight of the house here.’ She made her way to a curving stone bench and sat down. It was a charming spot that overlooked a pool and fountain set in the middle of the curving rose beds, but Gray was in no mood to appreciate it.

He stopped beside her, his shoulder dislodging the petals of a late, deep red bloom the same colour as her skirts. The petals fell like bloodstained confetti on to her hair and he repressed a shudder at his own gruesome imagery. Thinking about that battle must have released memories he had buried for four years or more.

‘Is this widely known?’ he demanded. ‘I heard no gossip, no whispers in Porto.’

‘Of course it is not known. Do you think me a loose woman to brag of my...adventures?’

‘Then why tell me, a total stranger?’

‘Because you are the total stranger who has been sent to lure me back to England, I suspect, and now you know a very good reason why I should not go. You are also an English gentleman and you will not, I think, gossip, whatever you think of me.’ She looked up at him, her head tipped slightly to one side like an inquisitive cat as she waited for his reaction.

‘You shock me, Miss Frost.’ Had the woman no shame?

‘Then I am sorry you have had such an affront to your delicate sensibilities, my lord.’

‘I do not have sensibilities, Miss Frost. Your aunt, however, does.’ And they wouldn’t have to be delicate to be outraged by this.

She shrugged, provoking a strong desire in him to give her a brisk shake. ‘Yes, of course, I am sure she is all fine feelings. However, my aunt is a long way away and I do not care about her opinion.’

In the face of that brazen indifference there seemed little point in attempting to remonstrate with her. Besides, the horse was well and truly bolted and attempting to close the stable door was pointless.

Gray watched her face. Miss Frost was thinking, it seemed. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Did you fight at Campo Maior, my lord?’

‘I did. Why? And call me Gray.’ There was no point in being at odds with her and he hated being my lorded.

‘Why do I ask? You might have been close by when he was killed.’ She said it without overt hostility, more, he thought, as though she was calculating carefully which of his ribs to slide a knife between for the tidiest extermination.

‘Which regiment?’ he asked.

‘Infantry,’ she unbent enough to admit.

‘I was cavalry, probably on the opposite flank.’

‘Then we have nothing to discuss, have we?’ Gabrielle shifted her gaze from his face and looked out over the garden. Something, a frog perhaps, plopped into the pond, and a pair of magpies flew over, cackling wickedly. ‘Gray,’ she added, as though there had been no pause.

‘We must talk,’ Gray said after another silence that, peculiarly, seemed almost amiable. He found himself reluctant to break the tranquillity of the garden with speech.

‘You must, I suppose,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Then you will consider your duty done to my aunt and can return to England. I do hope you have some other business in Portugal, because this is a long way to come just for a talk.’

‘It is, however, the sole purpose of my journey.’ A talk and a return with one young lady who was already proving ten times more tricky than he had imagined she would be. ‘I could stock my cellars with port while I am here, I suppose.’

‘Of course.’ Gabrielle turned to him, something coming alight behind those mocking brown eyes. He had her serious attention at last and it felt like something alive, something vibrant. ‘What do you hold at the moment? Is there a weakness in young growths to lay down, or perhaps you are running low on wines to drink at the moment? Or are you interested in investing in some fine old vintages? I can let you have good prices, although naturally you will want to do some tastings and see what is available elsewhere.’

She broke off, apparently lost in calculation. ‘How long are you staying? I could take you to the Factory House, of course, make introductions and then go with you to the best lodges—not necessarily the biggest or best known.’

‘The Factory House? That is some kind of club, isn’t it? I had dinner there a few times when we retook Porto for the second time.’

‘It is where all the growers from the English and Scottish houses come together, along with owners of the lodges and the shippers. It is a cross between a club and a trading house and a mutual support society, I suppose.’

‘But you are not a member, surely? You are a woman.’

Gabrielle stood up, forcing Gray to rise, too. Despite being shorter than he, she contrived to look down her nose in disdain. ‘This—’ She waved a hand to encompass the garden, the house, the terraces rising above. ‘This is Quinta do Falcão. This is Frost’s, one of the great estates, and I am its owner. I would have to commit a far greater sin than failing to possess a penis, or being suspected of somewhat loose morals, to be barred from the Factory House.’

Gray took two long, slow breaths. He had faced charging French cavalry and been bellowed at by Wellington and had stood up to both. He was not going to be reduced to fuming incoherence by one young woman who said penis without blushing and who admitted to taking a lover.

‘Besides, there is the question of money,’ she added with what was suspiciously like a fleeting smile. ‘Ports are blended. This is not winemaking as in Burgundy or Bordeaux. We cooperate, work with the others to create our wines. It would be in the interests of no one to antagonise Gabrielle Frost of Quinta do Falcão.’

‘I see. It is a matter of trade and profits.’ He sounded like a stuffed shirt to his own ears. A pompous, disapproving outsider. Lord knew why he could not seem to get a secure footing in dealing with this woman. She was three years younger than his own twenty-eight, he knew that. He was an earl, he had been a colonel and yet there was nothing in his experience to give him the slightest clue as to how to handle her.

His own marriage had hardly been one of perfect tranquillity, but Portia, when unhappy, had sulked and brooded in a ladylike manner, not fought back with sharp words and a complete unconcern for propriety. But then, he reminded himself bitterly, he had made a poor business of marriage and he clearly understood nothing about the female mind.

‘Yes, trade,’ Gabrielle agreed now, far too sweetly. ‘The sordid business of working to create something wonderful which you aristocrats can enjoy and for which you may despise us, even as you pay your inherited money to secure it. I am in trade, my lord, just as surely as the tailor who makes your very fine coats to fit your torso to perfection or the bootmaker who moulds that leather to your calves or the gunsmith who creates the perfect balance for your hand.’

‘Are there any other parts of the male body you are going to enumerate this afternoon, Miss Frost?’ Gray enquired, hoping for a tone of reproof and probably, he thought irritably, merely managing to sound pompous again.

‘I will spare your blushes and refrain from mentioning breeches, my lord,’ she said, with a comprehensive downward glance at his thighs.

Gray sent up a silent prayer that he was not blushing—and when was the last time he had feared that he was? Ten years ago?—and returned to the attack. ‘You are from an aristocratic family yourself, Miss Frost, hardly in a position to sneer at my title.’

‘I do not sneer at your title, Gray. I sneer at the nonsense of looking down on trade and industry and the creation of wealth.’ She smiled suddenly and his breath hitched in his chest. ‘You will join me for dinner, I hope, and sample our port.’

She was gone, her skirts whisking behind her with the rapidity of her steps, before he could reply. That was probably a very good thing because, he realised, he had been within a hair’s breadth of lowering his head and kissing those full red mocking lips.

‘Hell’s teeth.’ Gray sat down again, the better to swear in comfort. What the blazes had come over him? Barring lust, insanity and some sort of brain fever, that was. Gabrielle Frost was infuriatingly unlike any woman he had ever encountered and that included some very fast and dashing widows. She was independent, outspoken, immodest and outrageous. She was a damned nuisance to a man who had intended a rapid return to his own affairs, because he could not think of any way to extract her from her precious quinta short of kidnapping.

He had expected to find a lonely, struggling young woman bowed down by the burden of her inheritance and only too grateful to be whisked back to luxury and the glamour of the London Season. Gabrielle Frost appeared to be healthy, lively, prosperous and decidedly unbowed. She was no timorous innocent, but a woman of the world with an intense pride in what she did.

But he could not leave her here, not without making some effort to persuade her to do the right thing. He had promised his godmother to try to bring Gabrielle back with him and he could not break his word, not without a good reason. And he could see no reason other than her own stubborn inclinations—she was a young, single Englishwoman of good family and she should be back in England under her aunt’s protection until a suitable husband could be found for her. He was beginning to get an inkling of why no local gentleman had offered, he thought grimly.

She had already compromised herself thoroughly with this lover of hers, unless, of course, she was lying in an attempt to shock him so comprehensively that he left her here as a lost cause. But in that case, who was the memorial intended for? A friend? A man she had loved chastely?

Gray leaned back against the carved stone of the seat and attempted to think about the problem in military terms. If Miss Frost was the enemy entrenched in a fortress, how would he get her out? Starve her out? Bombard her defences until there was a breach in the walls and then storm in? Use an inside agent and have them unbar a gate? Use diplomatic means and negotiate a surrender?

He could not spend the time to sit on her doorstep for months until he wore her down, although what she was being so stubborn about he could not comprehend—surely she employed a competent manager who actually ran the place?

A siege would likely take years. Force was completely ineligible, which ruled out slinging her on to a boat and simply kidnapping her. An inside agent or diplomacy seemed the only feasible methods. He would begin with her lady companion, always assuming that the mature female his godmother had assured him was in residence hadn’t been driven out—or driven distracted—already. He would not put either past Gabrielle Frost.

Gray closed his eyes and considered how to use whatever support an obviously ineffective, woolly-minded and careless chaperone might give him. He opened them a heartbeat later. The image on the inside of his eyelids was not some browbeaten widow, but Miss Frost herself. And he could think about siege works and chaperones all he liked, but the honest truth was that he found the woman profoundly, inconveniently, embarrassingly arousing.

He moved, a frustrated jerk of his shoulders, and rose petals fell on to his hands. He touched one with his fingertip: soft, velvety, infinitely feminine.

This time he did not swear. Gray buried his head in his hands and groaned.

* * *

Well. That had been stimulating, in much the same way that a wasp sting was energising. Gaby swept in through the back door and went straight down the stone steps into the cellars. The door at the top had been open and there was a wash of lantern light at the far end, so she knew her cellarman was working.

‘Jaime!’ she called into the gloom.

‘Sim, senhora?’ He peered around a thick pillar, a dusty bottle in his hand, his wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his nose.

‘We have a guest for dinner this evening,’ she said in rapid Portuguese as she joined him. ‘An English aristocrat who needs port for his cellar.’

‘Needs it?’ Jaime queried with a grin.

‘Every English lord needs our port,’ she chided, returning the smile. ‘Whether he knows it or not.’

‘He is knowledgeable?’

‘Probably not about the detail, or the business. I imagine he has a good palate.’ Although how she knew that she was not certain. The fact that the man had the taste to dress well in a classic, understated style should have nothing to do with his appreciation of fine wine. ‘He was here fighting during the war.’

Jaime grunted. ‘You want to serve him the best, then?’ He would approve of any Englishman who had fought against the French. He had been with the guerrilheiros. So had his son who had not come back.

‘Yes.’ Although not because she wanted to honour the earl’s military service. ‘And the new white.’

The cellarman’s eyebrows rose, but he nodded and followed her as she walked along the racks of the unfortified wines, selecting bottles to accompany the food. One did not distract the palate from good port by eating at the same time. By the end of the evening, unless the Earl of Leybourne was a philistine, he would appreciate why she must stay here, comprehend the importance of her work.

And then he would go away and stop distracting her with thoughts that were absolutely nothing to do with vines and more about twining herself around that long, muscled, elegant body.

Laurent. Gaby bit her lower lip until the prickling behind her eyelids was under control. She had not been so naive as to think that the numbness of loss would last for ever. They had been lovers, friends, but not in love, after all. She was a young woman, and one day, she had supposed, there would be someone else who would stir her blood. She had not expected it to be an English officer.

But at least, she thought as she climbed the steps back into the daylight and dusted the cobwebs from her hands, it was only her body that was showing poor judgement, not her brain. That knew peril when it saw it.

She would listen to what he had to say after dinner, allow him to recite his message from Aunt Henrietta, then refuse whatever it was he was asking—presumably a demand that she move to England. She would say no politely this time. She should not have teased him in the rose garden. She had made him colour up, but she did not mistake that for anything but shock at her unmaidenly behaviour. This was no blushing youth, this was a mature, experienced, sophisticated man.

Lord Leybourne could hardly remove her by force—she would put a bullet in him first if he tried—but he had the power to disrupt her hard-earned tranquillity and peace of mind and those she could not protect with her pistols.

* * *

‘Lord Leybourne.’ Baltasar wrapped his tongue efficiently around the awkward vowels as he opened the dining room door and ushered in her uninvited guest.

Add exceedingly elegant to sophisticated, experienced, mature, et cetera. Gaby fixed a polite social smile on her lips and rose. Beside her Jane placed a marker in her book and stood, too. Elegant, but no fop, she added mentally, watching the way he moved.

‘Lord Leybourne, may I introduce you to my companion, Miss Moseley. Jane, Lord Leybourne, who is making a short stay.’ Very short.

Of course he had managed to pack evening clothes in those few portmanteaus and of course they had to emerge pristine, despite the fact he was not accompanied by a valet. And doubtless, those skintight formal breeches were at the pinnacle of whatever fashion was this month in London.

‘Miss Frost, Miss Moseley.’ He sat down when they did and smiled at Jane. ‘Are you an enthusiast for port wine production as well, Miss Moseley?’ Gaby gave him points for civility to a hired companion of middle years and no great looks. For many gentlemen Jane was, effectively, invisible. Not that she thrust herself forward to be noticed, and as a chaperone, she was indifferent to the point of neglect, which suited them both very well.

‘No, I would not say that I am,’ Jane replied, blunt as usual.

‘That must make living in the midst of such intensive focus on the wine business somewhat dull for you.’

‘Not at all. The effect of soil and rocks on the quality of the grapes and the effect of such a standardised form of agriculture along the valley is most interesting from a scientific point of view.’

‘It must be.’

He really was making a very good job of sounding interested, yet unsurprised, Gaby thought. Most people were silenced by Jane in full flow. Many were intimidated or dismissive. She decided to take pity on him. ‘Miss Moseley is a natural philosopher, my lord.’

‘Gray,’ he said, frowning at her. ‘Please call me Gray, both of you.’

He should frown more, Gaby thought whimsically. It rather suited him with those severe features and dark brows.

Then he did smile and it was positively disconcerting how difficult it was not to smile back. ‘I became so used to it in the army that I find myself looking round to see who this Leybourne fellow is.’

Now his attention had returned to Jane. ‘Are you familiar with the map that William Smith produced this year, Miss Moseley? It delineates the stratigraphy of England and southern Scotland.’

A miracle, the man is as interested in rocks as Jane is.

Gaby settled back in her chair and let their conversation wash over her. While he was talking about natural philosophy—and they had got on to the subject of Erasmus Darwin’s strange ideas and his even odder poetry now—he was not thinking about ways to persuade her to go back to England.

‘Madam, I have the wine.’ Baltasar was back with the dusty bottle she had chosen earlier.

‘An aperitif,’ Gabrielle said and the other two stopped discussing fossils and looked across at Baltasar opening the bottle.

Again, as she had instructed him, Baltasar showed the label to Gray.

‘A white port?’

‘Yes, and a single quinta port, which is very rare.’ She took the wine and poured it. ‘Almost all port is blended so that we combine the grapes from different soils, different aspects, to give a richer, more complex result. I have experimented with using only our own grapes, but from both sides of the river and from different heights on the slope. I am really very excited with the result.’

Gray took the glass, sniffed, tasted and raised his eyebrows. ‘That is very fine. I had never thought much of white ports before, but this is superb.’

‘I think so.’ She could say so without false modesty. It was essential to be critical of what she did, and this was, indeed, a triumph. ‘Now we have to see how it matures, because I intend leaving it on the wood for another three years. Meanwhile we will begin again this year and treat twice as much the same way.’

‘Three years?’ Gray’s assessing gaze moved from the wine glass to her face. He was not insensitive, he must have heard the commitment in her voice.

‘Yes.’ She met his gaze squarely. ‘The satisfaction of personally developing and nurturing wine like this is what I live for.’

And you are not going to wrench me out of this place.

‘That sounds very like passion to me, far more than satisfaction,’ Gray said. His tone was neutral, as though he was making a commonplace observation, but there was something in his eyes, a glimmer of warmth, that made passion and satisfaction strike a shiver of erotic awareness down her spine. His gaze moved to her mouth and Gaby realised she was biting her bottom lip. Perhaps it had not been her imagination back there in the garden when she had thought for a fleeting moment that he was about to kiss her.

‘Jantar está servido, senhora.’ Baltasar had given up on English.

Gabrielle finished her wine. ‘Shall we go through?’

Gray offered his arm to Jane, which earned him a look of grudging approval. Jane might be used to dismissive bad manners, but that did not mean she enjoyed them. Not that she allowed any annoyance to show. When subjected to such neglect Jane was more than capable of producing a book and reading, ignoring the visitors in her turn.

* * *

Dinner was surprisingly enjoyable. Gray showed an intelligent appreciation of the unfortified local wine she served with the food and made flattering comments on the various dishes. His words would make their way down to the kitchens and please Maria, as he clearly intended. And he kept strictly off the subject of England and her aunt, much to Gaby’s relief.

When the meal was over, she rose and he politely came to his feet. ‘Will you join me for a glass of port in the drawing room, Gray? We do not drink it in the dining room, where the smell of food dulls our palates.’

If he was surprised at not being left to enjoy the decanters by himself, he managed not to show it, but followed her and Jane out. He did look somewhat taken aback when Jane bade him goodnight and turned to the stairs.

‘Miss Frost, your chaperone has abandoned you.’ He stood at the door, holding it open.

‘My companion has clearly decided that you are not bent on seduction this evening. Do come in and close the door. You are quite safe, you know.’

‘I am? That is hardly the point in question. You should not be alone with me, Miss Frost.’

‘As we are the only occupants of the house except for my very loyal servants, I hardly think we are going to cause a scandal, Gray. Now, come in, sit down, try this very excellent tawny port and listen while I tell you that whatever you have to say I am not going to England. Not now. Not ever.’

Chapter Three

‘And do, please, call me Gabrielle,’ Miss Frost added with a smile so sweet it set his teeth on edge. She poured two glasses of amber liquid from the decanter on a side table, handed him one and sank down gracefully into an armchair.

Gray would have had money on it that the exaggerated grace was as much a calculated provocation as the sweet smile. He took the glass with a smile at least as false as hers and settled into the chair opposite. ‘Very well, Gabrielle. Tell me why you refuse to countenance whatever your aunt’s request might be?’

‘I assumed rightly, did I not? She wants me to go to England and has sent you to fetch me.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed. Gray crossed his legs, lifted the glass, inhaled and almost closed his eyes in pleasure. The wine could not possibly taste as good as the nose promised. ‘It seems a perfectly reasonable suggestion to me.’ It had actually been rather more of an order, but saying so was hardly likely to help and he had to agree with his godmother. Gabrielle Frost was too young, too well bred and too lovely to be alone and running a business in a foreign country with only a bluestocking as an exceedingly careless chaperone.

‘If I go to London, she will insist that I marry George.’ Gabrielle’s lips tightened into a straight line. ‘I will not, of course, but arguing about it is a crashing bore.’

‘I understand your objection to a first-cousin marriage,’ Gray said. ‘But Lord Welford is your aunt’s stepson, not a blood relation in any way.’ He took an incautious mouthful of the tawny port, choked and stared at the glass. It was every bit as good as the aroma had promised. ‘This is superb.’

‘It is indeed, whereas George is a spoilt, dim, selfish, pompous little lordling.’ Gabrielle took a sip from her own glass and allowed her lips to relax.

Gray crossed his legs. ‘Not so little. He’s my height now.’ Still spoilt, still inclined to be pompous. Selfish? Gray had no idea, although it was to be expected that the indulged heir to an earldom would have a well-developed sense of entitlement. For himself the army had knocked any self-importance that he’d had out of him, but George, Viscount Welford, had never been allowed near anything as dangerous as a militia exercise, let alone a battlefield. ‘I have to admit, he is not exactly the sharpest knife in the box, but he is not an idiot and it is a good match.’ He took a more restrained sip of the port. He deserved it. ‘And she cannot force you to the altar.’

‘She will nag and cajole and lecture and hector and make my visit an absolute misery. But let us assume that I am foolish enough to do as you ask and weak enough to give way to my aunt’s matchmaking. Let me calculate who gains what.’ Gabrielle, whose wits were clearly as sharp as any boning knife, began to mark off points on her fingers. ‘I gain the heir to an earldom, the expectation of becoming a countess one day and the opportunity to enjoy the English climate—I understand that rain is supposed to be good for the complexion. In return I give up my inheritance, cease the work I love, subjugate myself to the dictates of a man less intelligent than myself and who would run the business into the ground and surrender to being bullied by my aunt. Somehow I do not think that a title and clear skin weigh more heavily in the scales.

‘George, on the other hand, gains a very valuable wine estate and me. With all due modesty, I believe I am wealthier, more intelligent and better-looking than he is. Of course, there is a something on the negative side for him, too—I would make his life a living hell in every way I could think of.’

Put like that, Gray could sympathise. In her shoes he would not want to marry Lord Welford either. ‘Leaving aside Lord Welford—’

‘By all means, please let us do that.’ She was positively smiling now. One glossy lock of brown hair slid out of the combs that she wore in it, Spanish-style, and slithered down to her shoulder. Gabrielle moved her head at the touch on her neck and the curling strand settled on the curve of her breast, chocolate against warm cream.

He could not keep crossing his legs. Gray ground his wine glass rather vigorously in his lap, refrained from wincing and ploughed on. If he had wanted to spend his life negotiating with hostile powers, he would have joined the diplomatic corps, not the army. ‘Leaving him aside, you clearly cannot remain here.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘You are single.’

‘Portugal is full of single women.’

‘You are inadequately chaperoned.’

‘Fiddlesticks.’

‘Fiddlesticks? You admit to having had a lover—what kind of chaperonage does that argue?’

‘The kind I want. I am very glad I had a lover. That lover.’ Her chin came up, but there was a sparkle in her eyes that hinted at tears suppressed. Or anger.

‘Very well.’ Clearly he couldn’t shame her into doing the right thing. ‘Who are you going to leave this quinta to? I hope you have a long and healthy life, but one day, you will need an heir.’

‘To leave it to my own child would be ideal. Unfortunately that requires a marriage.’ She shrugged. ‘Back to the problem with husbands.’

He tried for a lighter note. ‘They are really such a problem?’

‘If I marry a local man, the quinta will vanish into a larger holding and lose its identity. If I was fool enough to marry in England, what husband is going to want the trouble of an asset so far away? He will sell it or hand it over to some impersonal manager. It will no longer be Frost’s, either way. “By marriage, the husband and wife are one person in law: that is, the very being or legal existence of the woman is suspended during the marriage.” That is William Blackstone, the legal writer. Believe me, I have read all round this. How would you like your very being suspended? More port?’

‘Thank you. And, no, I would not like it. But then, I am a man.’ Gray got to his feet, glass in hand as she glared, tight-lipped. He needed to move before he gave in to the urge to shake the infuriating female. Or kiss her. That combination of temper and intelligence and sensual beauty was intoxicating and he was tired after a virtually sleepless, uncomfortable river journey, exasperated and, totally against his will, aroused.

If he had not been concentrating on the sideboard and the decanters, he would have seen her rise, too. As it was, they collided, her forehead fetching him a painful rap on the chin. Gabrielle clutched at him one-handed. He did the same to her and they swayed together off balance, breast to breast.

She smelled of roses and rosemary and something else herbal he could not identify. Her breath was hot through the thin linen of his shirt and her body was soft and supple against his, which was as hard as iron. Gray steadied them both, set her back a safe six inches and took the glass from her hand. ‘I’ll get the wine.’

From the grip that she had on her glass, and the second or two it took for her to relax it, that collision had shaken her as much as it had him. Gray made something of a business of pouring the port, careful about drips, precise in replacing the stopper in the decanter, anything to give them both time to compose themselves from whatever that had been. Other than lust.

‘Thank you.’ When he turned back, Gabrielle was seated again, fingers laced demurely in her lap. She took the wine from him, her hand as steady as his was, and he wondered again at her composure. Or, at least, the appearance of it.

‘What are your plans for tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘Please, feel free to rise at any time that suits you. If you could look in at the kitchen on your way past as you leave this evening and tell them when you would like hot water brought over and breakfast prepared, that would be helpful for the staff.’

Gray wrenched his thoughts away from speculation about how her skin would taste. Plans? Was there any point in staying here other than to torture himself? Gabrielle’s answer to his godmother’s demand that she travel to England was clear enough and he couldn’t blame any woman with a choice in the matter for not wanting to marry George.

On the other hand he had promised to try. A good night’s sleep might present him with an idea and more time might show him a lever to use against that strong will of hers. After all, she did not have to marry George: London was full of eligible young men whom any sensible lady would be happy to marry. After such plain speaking, surely even his godmother would realise that a match with her stepson was a lost cause and would focus her attention on finding her niece an acceptable partner.

Gabrielle was attractive. She had a flourishing vineyard and port business as a dowry. Her connections were good and no one needed know about the lover unless she had an inconvenient conscience and decided to confess. She could make a highly respectable match if she would only control her devastating frankness. He should make some effort to persuade her, he told himself. She might be set against marriage now but, surely, all it would take would be to find the right man.

As a gentleman he could not, with a clear conscience, leave her alone out here even though she showed every sign of being completely in control of her world. As a gentleman, he reminded himself, he should not be thinking about her in the way he was.

Gabrielle cleared her throat and he recalled that she had asked him a question. ‘Plans? I would like to see your vineyards, if that is possible. Learn a little about the production of this elixir.’ He toasted her with a lift of his glass and she inclined her head in acknowledgement. The curl slid across the swell of her breast, and another, he was certain, was about to slip free. Breathe. ‘And this is far better than anything I have. You are right, I should see about adding some to my cellar. I will rely on your advice.’

Gabrielle did not seem too disturbed by his intention to stay a few more days. Perhaps the opportunity to sell him an expensive cellarful of wine counterbalanced the irritation his presence caused her. Perhaps she had failed to notice that he was fighting arousal with all of his willpower. Probably every man she came into contact with simply seethed with desire around her and she ignored them all.

‘Stay, then,’ she said, her voice indifferent, holding neither confusion over that...moment just a few minutes before, nor resentment over an uninvited guest. If she had noticed that his breathing was tightly controlled, then apparently it did not disconcert her in the slightest.

‘I will be taking a boat down to Porto in a few days’ time on business. You could come with me,’ she suggested. ‘I can recommend places to stay until you find a ship to give you passage home, which will not be difficult.’

‘Thank you. That would suit me very well.’ Possibly by tomorrow he would have recovered the use of his brain and could produce some arguments for her returning with him.

‘I am sorry you have had a wasted journey,’ she said as he put down the glass and got to his feet.

‘It is not over yet. Who is to say whether it will be wasted or not? Goodnight, Miss Frost.’

Chapter Four

‘Goodnight.’ Gaby looked at the closing door, then down at the dregs of her port, then back at the door. Neither glass nor wooden panels gave her any insight into why she had made that idiotic suggestion. What was she thinking of, giving Gray the opening to stay for five more days? And then to commit to his company for a day on the river and perhaps another day in Porto was madness.

He was a threat. Not that she believed for a moment that he would succeed in persuading her to go to England against her better judgement. But that was hardly the problem, was it? The problem was that she found herself strongly attracted to him and, it seemed, that feeling was reciprocated. He hid it well because he was a sophisticated, experienced man, but she had recognised the signs. It was merely a physical attraction, obviously, but even so...

She found she was on her feet and pacing. It was really insufferably hot indoors. No, she was insufferably hot. It was a long time since she had lain with a man and, apparently, the hard, distracting work was no longer enough to keep any yearnings at bay.

Gaby rehearsed a string of the riper Portuguese oaths that she had heard at the height of the harvest when everyone was hot, tired and at the end of their tether. They did not help. Why couldn’t she desire one of the numerous charming gentlemen who came her way both in local society and among the English and Scottish merchants and shippers in Porto?

There were enough of them, for goodness’ sake. Intelligent men, handsome men, amusing men. Men she could probably marry if she got to know them better, if marriage was not such an impossible trap. Marry and she lost control of everything, became a chattel of her husband’s, surrendered Frost’s totally to his mercies.

It was cooler out on the terrace with the breeze from the river rustling the creepers on the walls of the house. She closed the double glass doors behind her and walked up and down, smelling the night-perfumed flowers, watching the bats harrying the moths, willing her nerves to calm.

It was time to move on. She had sensed that for a few months now in the restlessness of her body, the way the sharpness of grief had mellowed somehow into sadness and regret. Betrayal was no longer the word if she found another man to...love? No, desire. She had been close to loving Laurent and perhaps, if they had had longer together, then their feelings would have become even deeper, more intense, but she thought not.

If I did find a man I could like and we had a child, but without marrying...

Gaby stopped dead in her tracks. That had never occurred to her as a solution. What was the Portuguese legal position on illegitimate children inheriting? Possibly it was the same as in England and they would have no claims by right, but she could will her property to whomever she wished if she was not married, she was sure of that.

Why hadn’t she thought of it before? It would take a great deal of working out, of course. Gaby paced more slowly. The position of a child born out of wedlock in this conservative country would be at least as difficult as in England, if not worse. She would have to seem to be married and yet without the legal burden of a husband controlling everything. A widow, in fact.

Now, how—short of marriage and murder—did one achieve that?

* * *

‘O senhor está fora,’ Baltasar informed her as he brought in her breakfast.

‘He is outside? Since when?’

‘He has been there since early. He asked for his hot water and his breakfast for six o’clock and he was already awake when Danilo took them over. I think he has been walking. Now he is sitting on the dock, watching the river.’ Baltasar rolled his eyes. ‘I do not understand these English gentlemen. He is a lord. He does not have to rise so early. He has no work to do. Why does he not sleep?’

‘I think he is a restless man, if he has nothing to occupy him,’ Gaby suggested. ‘He is a man used to action, to having a purpose.’ And that purpose, that sense of duty, however misguided, had driven him here. He had failed in his mission and now he had an enforced holiday.

How dreadful for him, to have to try to relax and enjoy himself, to be a tourist.

She finished her breakfast and went to the window. Yes, there was that dark head, just visible through the screen of bushes. She poured another cup of coffee, filled up her own and went out across the terrace, carrying them in steady hands to the steps down to the dock, just above where he was watching the Douro’s relentless flow.

Gray was sitting on the boards, left leg drawn up, supporting his weight on his right arm, the other resting casually on his knee. She felt a fleeting regret that she could not draw. All it would take would be a few economical lines to catch that long, supple, relaxed body.

‘Good morning.’ He did not turn his head and she was certain she had made no sound.

‘You have sharp ears.’

‘I can smell the coffee.’

She came down the steps, set the cups down and sat beside them, an arm’s length away from him. ‘It might have been Baltasar.’

‘Not walking so softly.’ He turned his head, then smiled faintly. The lines bracketing his mouth deepened, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at her and then he went back to studying the water. ‘Thank you.’

‘You have shaving soap on the angle of your jaw.’ She extended one finger, almost close enough to touch, then he turned his head and the tip of her finger made contact with smooth skin. Gaby jerked her hand back.

He was freshly shaven, his hair slicked down with water, but the rest of him was casual, relaxed. He put up his free hand, scrubbed along his jaw.

‘That has got it.’ Her voice was quite steady, considering that she felt as though she had been stung.

She leaned back on both hands, her legs dangling over the water as she watched him from the corner of her eye. A loose linen shirt, a sleeveless waistcoat, a spotted kerchief tied at his neck like a coachman, loose coarse cotton trousers tucked into a battered pair of boots, a broad-brimmed hat discarded on the planks by his side. He was dressed like a man who understood the heat of this valley in summer, one who had fought through the dust and the baking sun while wearing uniform. Now, in the milder warmth of October, the costume was still practical for wandering about the countryside.

‘Is it strange being back here in peacetime?’ she asked, following through her train of thought.

Gray was silent and she wondered if she had been tactless and he would not answer her. She had no idea what his experience of war in this country had been like. For some, she knew, it had been hell. For others, luckily placed, a jaunt. But he was simply marshalling his thoughts, it seemed.

‘It is a pleasure to see the country tranquil, to watch children playing, people working, young men flirting without having one hand on a weapon,’ he said. ‘But it feels like a dream. There are moments when I hear gunfire and have to remind myself that it is hunters, when I smell smoke and tell myself it is a farmer burning rubbish, when the birds stop singing for a moment and I have to stop myself looking around for the ambush. It is hard to spend nine years fighting and then shrug off the habits and the reflexes that have kept you alive all that time. I look at this river—’ He broke off with a shake of his head.

Ah. So he has seen the hell, ridden through it.

‘And watch for the bodies being carried down,’ she finished for him, repressing the shudder. There had been too many to retrieve for a decent burial. Many must have found their graves in the sea. Certainly no one had ever reported finding the body of Major Norwood that she knew of.

‘Yes. One of the things I like about England is the absence of vultures.’

Gray picked up his cup and looked directly at her over the rim. Dark grey eyes like water-washed steel.

‘I should not be speaking of such things to a lady.’

Gaby looked away from those compelling eyes. They saw too much. She shrugged. ‘I lived through it, too, I saw the bodies, the wounds, the hunger. Most times it is better not to remember, but sometimes it is hard when you need to talk and you cannot, because other people cannot bear to listen.’

Gray made a soft sound. A grunt of agreement. He understood, perhaps, although he would have fellow officers to talk to, men who had been through it and knew, men he could be silent with and yet feel their support and empathy. She had no one she could speak to about the things that had happened. But that was probably the burden that most women who had been through war carried: no one wanted to admit that shocking things had happened to them, had been witnessed by them. It was much easier to pretend nothing had sullied their sight, nothing had disturbed their ladylike lives.

Gray had been married. She recalled Aunt mentioning it in a letter in the days when she did not simply toss them aside unopened. A good marriage, apparently, by Aunt’s definition of good. But his wife had died some years ago. A tactful woman would not refer to it, but then, she wanted to understand him for some reason and that was more important than tact.

‘Did your wife ask you about it? Or did she want to pretend that it was all beautiful uniforms and parades and glory?’

‘We were married for three years. We were together for, perhaps, six months in that time. I was home wounded for three months after Talavera. She noticed it was not all parades then.’ His hand went to his left shoulder as he spoke. Gaby doubted he realised he did it. She had seen no awkwardness in the way he moved that arm; it must simply be the memory of old pain.

‘Was it serious, the wound?’ The way he spoke about his wife—or, rather, the way he did not—made her wonder what kind of marriage it had been.

‘Bad enough to send me home. Not bad enough to prevent me getting her with child while I was convalescing.’ Now he sounded positively cold.

‘You have a child?’

‘Twins. A boy and a girl. James and Joanna.’ He was looking out over the river again, his profile stark and expressionless and she suddenly understood. Twins, but his wife dead, presumably in bearing those children. What must the guilt be like for a man who had left a pregnant wife behind to bear his children and die doing so? A wife, it seemed, he hardly knew and, she suspected, had not loved at all.

‘So they are about five now. Where do they live?’

‘Winfell, my house in Yorkshire.’ He lifted the cup to his lips and drank deeply.

‘You must miss them.’

‘They have my mother. But, yes, I miss them. They have got used to me being home this past year and I have not yet become blasé about the novelty of watching small children grow.’

Charmed despite herself, Gaby felt a twinge of guilt. ‘You left them behind to perform this errand for your godmother.’

‘I thought it my duty.’ The severe lines that had softened when he spoke of his children were set again. ‘I did not—do not—like to think of an English gentlewoman alone and unprotected in a foreign country.’

‘It is not foreign to me. This is my home,’ she pointed out. ‘No one thought to bring me to England when the war was on.’

‘I did not know you were without your parents then.’

But my aunt did. I was not an heiress until Thomas was killed, though. No benefit in taking all that trouble with me before then.

‘And if you had?’

‘I would have done my best to get you to Lisbon. You and your brother.’

‘We would not have gone. We would not have abandoned the quinta and our people. You had your duty. We had ours.’ He made a noise suspiciously like a grunt. ‘If an enemy invaded England, would you expect your mother to abandon Winfell, your staff and tenants, your inheritance?’

This time the grunt was nearer a smothered laugh. ‘I would expect her to have the Civil War cannon refurbished and to settle in for a siege. Woe betide any enemy who attacks what is hers.’

Gaby did not make the mistake of pushing the point. She finished her coffee, flicked the dregs into the river and watched as fish rose hopefully to investigate. ‘How do you intend spending the day?’

‘What are your plans?’

‘To walk the terraces. Now the harvest is finished, it all needs checking over.’

‘Don’t you have people to do that?’

‘Of course. And I have their reports, but I still see for myself. I must prioritise the work, think about the more long-term planning. Do you leave your estate in Yorkshire in the hands of your steward and never check on what he tells you? No, I thought not.’

‘Might I come with you?’

‘If you wish.’ She glanced at his boots. They certainly looked sturdy, but she felt the temptation to needle him. ‘Can you walk far in those?’

‘You think a cavalryman cannot march?’ Gray got to his feet in a sudden, fluid movement and held out his left hand to pull her to her feet.

His fingers were dry and warm as they fastened over hers and he lifted her easily towards him. The shoulder wound had healed cleanly, it seemed. ‘I have no idea. Can you?’ She led the way back to the house.

‘For miles if we have to. But do you not ride?’

‘No, not to inspect the terraces. It is such a bother mounting and dismounting endlessly.’ She opened the kitchen door. ‘Maria, food for his lordship as well, please.’

Her own capacious leather satchel was already waiting, bulging with water bottle, notebooks and packets of food. Maria bustled out of the pantry with another in her hands and offered it to Gray with a twinkling smile. His compliments on dinner had obviously reached her ears and even now, despite several years of peace, she still believed in feeding everyone as though there would be famine tomorrow.

Gaby looped the strap of her own satchel over her shoulder, shook her head at Gray’s attempt to take it from her and led the way out past the winery and on to the track. ‘I will check this side of the river today and the other bank tomorrow. I looked at the more distant areas the day before you arrived.’

She strode up the slope and turned on to the first terrace. Jorge, her manager, had noted nothing at this level, but she never took anything for granted. Gray paced along behind her as she shook posts, checked the wires, peered at the terrace walls, then followed her back and up to the next level.

A miracle, a man who does not have to talk about himself the entire time.

These support posts were looking worn. Gaby dug out her notebook, made an annotation, moved on.

Gray’s silent presence was oddly companionable and she could check the vines without having to think what she was doing, which left her free to brood about yesterday’s insane scheme. But was it insane?

She needed an heir—or an heiress, she wasn’t fussed which—and the child needed to be legitimate or, rather, to appear so. She could not afford the risk of marrying because the man would take everything by law so... I need a convincing husband to kill off.

‘What did you say?’

‘Hmm?’ Oh, Lord. Had she been thinking aloud?

Gray was staring at her. ‘You said something about killing someone off.’

‘Scale insects.’ Gaby flipped over a badly mottled leaf to show him the tiny dark brown lumps. ‘They are the very devil to kill off because they have a sort of shell, a bit like limpets. But they suck the goodness out of the leaves and spread diseases, so we have to try.’

They carried on.

Supposing I find a suitable man, one I can bear to lie with, one with intelligence.

She was thinking along the same lines as breeding livestock, she realised with a little inward shudder, but brains appeared to be something that were inherited and this child was going to need their wits about them.

‘Can you hold that wire taut?’ she asked. Gray took a firm hold on the one she indicated and she went to the other end of the row and gave it a twang. As she thought, loose. ‘Thank you,’ she called and made a note.

So, find the right man, think of a way of ensuring that when I come back here as a pregnant sorrowing widow people will believe in the marriage.

A hawk screeched overhead, a lonely sound in the vastness of the sky. Gaby tipped back her head to watch it and met Gray’s gaze as he looked up to do the same thing. He grinned and pushed the broad-brimmed straw hat further back on his head.

Something was niggling at her. Could she use a man like that and then simply vanish with his child? Wouldn’t he have the right to know he was a father? Would she want anything to do with a man who did not care if he was? This scheme was full of pitfalls. So, to square her conscience she would have to discuss it with him, make certain he had no scruples. Was it even ethical to use a man as a stud in this way, even if he was perfectly willing, or was she being absurdly overscrupulous? Men married to breed heirs every day of the year. Her wretched conscience. How much easier to simply not care about how her actions affected anyone else...

‘This banking looks unstable to me,’ Gray called and Gaby went over to where he was crouched down at the foot of the terrace wall. ‘Something has been digging.’

‘A fox, I expect.’ Another note. She carried on along the foot of the terrace wall.

‘Rights?’ Gray had come up close at her shoulder without her even realising. ‘The rights of man? Rights of way?’

Hell, I must be thinking out loud again.

‘Water rights.’ Gaby improvised as he strolled off to look at a clump of late orchids. ‘We can cut up to the next level from the end here. We do not need to walk right back along the terrace.’

She had to find an intelligent man who would happily give up his rights in his child and who would not turn round and blackmail her. She clambered up the stones at the far end and walked slowly back until she found she was standing above Gray. He had leaned back against the stone wall, hat in hand, and was looking up, watching the hawk and its mate circling high above them. His hair was thick, curling slightly at the crown, thick and virile and temptingly touchable.

There was a fig tree at the back of the flat area and Gaby went and sat under it, took a long drink from her flask and checked her notes against Jorge’s. That was better than thinking about how a man’s hair would feel between her fingers, how his weight would be over her, how those broad shoulders would...

Stop it.

She made a few annotations, but the sun was in her eyes and Gray was still somewhere below. She tipped her hat down over her nose and closed her eyes against the glare, the better to think.

Chapter Five

Gray wandered across the short grass beside the row of vines looking for Gabrielle. She was very quiet—he couldn’t even hear the occasional muttering that seemed to signify deep thought.

He was impressed by her work here, as he knew she intended him to be. She was proud of her quinta and she had every reason for that. If Gabrielle had been a man and his godmother was agitating for a return he would have told her, in no uncertain terms, to leave well alone. But she was not a man. How she had escaped the war unscathed he could not guess, although obviously the loss of both her brother and her lover must have left emotional scars.

Luck could last only so long. Sooner or later if she stayed here, she was going to need help and support, the strength only a husband could give her, but she seemed to cling to her independence and her control of the quinta, as a mother clung to a child, terrified to let it walk off on its own. If she chose her husband well he would surely place the estate in the hands of competent managers, although, given the distance from England, he supposed selling would be prudent.

A splash of colour under the angular arms of a fig tree betrayed her presence. Deep blue skirts today, with a similar linen undershirt and black waistcoat to yesterday. It seemed to be her working uniform, practical but feminine. And she was asleep, he realised. Only her chin, firm and decided, and her mouth were visible beneath the tilted straw hat. The lower lip was full and sensual, the upper curled a little as though she dreamed of something pleasant.

Gray moved silently across the parched grass, avoiding dry leaves, a twig, until he could fold down cross-legged, facing Gabrielle. Her notebook had fallen from her hands and lay open in her lap and he squinted at the pencilled notes, trying to read upside down.

3 ps on 2 rotten

3 wires?

5 wall—fox?

Blackmail

He blinked and looked again. The cryptic notes obviously referred to different terraces and ps probably meant posts, but blackmail? It was hardly an ambiguous word. Was someone trying to extort money from her, or did she believe her aunt was blackmailing her in some way to return? Perhaps she was marshalling more arguments to throw at him if he tried to persuade her again.

Arguments were not all she might throw, he thought whimsically. She had a knife in a slim sheath attached to her belt. It lay beside her now, a workmanlike blade that she had used to probe rot in a post and lop off a broken trail of vine.

The erratic shape of the fig threw a comfortable patch of shade just where he sat, but the October sunshine was warm on his back and he felt his muscles ease, his shoulders drop. Had he really been this tense? He supposed he must, because he could not recall feeling consciously relaxed since he had heard of his father’s death and had left the familiar army life for one of ancient obligations, new duties, half-understood roles.

Home had held the children, yes, but they had been upset and confused because their beloved Gran’papa was no longer there, only Gran’mama and she was sad. And he had felt himself struggle to feel at home in a house that held memories of his own marriage and his singular failures as a husband.

He thought he had left everything better than he had found it. Jamie and Joanna ran to him now when they saw him, smiled at him, held up their arms to be lifted. His mother was slowly coming to terms with her loss and he was throwing himself at all he had to learn as though the outcome of a battle depended on it.

But when he got back to England again he was going straight home and paying no heed to any demands but those of his immediate family and the estates. He was going to live for the present and the future. He’d had enough of guilt and regrets.

Meanwhile he could practise living in the moment by basking in the sun and looking at a lovely, if maddening, woman and listening to the birds and the rush of the river far below.

* * *

She had been asleep, Gaby realised. She felt too limp and comfortable to do much about waking up, not for a minute or two, although she opened her eyes just a little. The weave of her straw hat was a light open work and through it she could see Gray sitting cross-legged in front of her, shoulders in a comfortable slump. For the first time he did not look like an ex-officer, just a big, rather weary, distractingly attractive man.

And he was looking at her mouth. She licked her lips and his gaze sharpened, fixed and, in the moment, she was hot and there was a disturbing, throbbing ache low down. Then Gray moved, swivelled the satchel on his hip and took out the water flask and the heat ebbed, leaving only a distracting tingle.

He is the first new, interesting man who has come into your life since you have begun to recover from losing Laurent, she told herself.

One had to be practical and recognise this for what it was: a rather inconvenient attack of lust. To which the interesting man in question was contributing by tipping back his head to drink and showing off a long bare throat with a gleam of sweat and the slightest hint of dark chest hair escaping at the point where his neckcloth was pushed aside.

Gaby sat up rather too fast, pushed her hat back on her head and reached for her own water. ‘Have I been asleep long?’

Her voice sounded surprisingly normal without, to her ears, any hint of ‘let me bite your neck and discover what you taste like.’

‘Ten minutes.’ Gray pushed the cork back into the flask. ‘A catnap.’ He got to his feet, casually letting the satchel swing down in front of him, but not before Gaby was aware that she had not been the only one becoming a trifle...heated.

Mischief made her reach up to him in an invitation to pull her to her feet. His hand was big and hard with rider’s calluses and she had a sudden desire to see him on horseback.

‘This is almost the top terrace.’ She released his hand with a nod of thanks. One could tease a man too far and she had no intention of provoking anything. At least, she hoped she had not. ‘We can eat up there. The view is excellent.’

They climbed in silence, checked the final terrace, then walked along to where the shell of a stone pigeon tower gave both shade and a support for their backs. Gaby checked for ants and scorpions, kicked aside a few pebbles and settled down on a flat stone that had fallen from the parapet. Above their heads wild rock doves flew out in a noisy clatter of alarm.

‘I remember these towers.’ Gray eyed it, staying on his feet. ‘They were perfect for snipers.’

‘And they make good watchtowers. I think centuries ago they were both dovecotes and lookouts.’ She tried to keep her voice neutral. One could not, after all, go around flinching from a feature that was scattered throughout the length of the valley.

‘Yes.’ He sat almost reluctantly, as though he could feel the sights of a rifle trained on his chest. ‘I can see three more from up here.’ He pointed across the river and eastward. The furthest was the most tumbledown, a haunt for owls and jackdaws now.

When she did not answer Gray looked at her sharply. ‘What is wrong?’

‘That one.’ She pointed to the furthest, the half ruin. ‘That was where the French found Thomas. They had sent a scouting party down, and he was watching for them. He would have seen them, crept out intending to make his way down to the river, taken his small boat and let the current carry him swiftly down to Régua, where there were still Allied troops. You had not all fallen back on Lisbon then.’

‘But he didn’t make it?’

‘They must have known he was there. Someone had circled round behind him and they caught him as he left the tower. They beat him, shot him, left him for dead.’ She said it calmly, clinically, so she did not have to think about the reality behind those bland words, her brother’s battered, bleeding, abused body.

‘How do you know this? Were there others with him?’

‘He was alone. I know it because my lover brought him to me. He found him barely conscious and brought him home. He did not approve of treating idealistic boys as though they were hardened guerrilheiros.’

Gray would work it out in a moment, he was not stupid or slow.

‘Your lover was French?’

‘Yes, he was a French officer, although he was not my lover until later. I did not know him then.’ Gaby let her head fall back against the warm stones, closed her eyes. She did not particularly want to see the expression in his, just at that moment. ‘He found Thomas, gave him water, bandaged the gunshot wound, asked him where home was and Thomas trusted him enough to tell him.’

‘An honourable man, your French officer.’

That she had not expected. Gaby twisted round to look at him. ‘Yes, he was.’ For a moment she thought she saw sympathy, understanding even, before she realised that the very direct look held questions and suspicions. ‘And I am an honourable woman. An Englishwoman. I had nothing to tell him, no intelligence to give him, no safe harbour for him or his comrades and I would have given none of those things if I had. We were two people who came together in the middle of an...an earthquake. There was no politics, no war for us. It lasted a few nights over many weeks, that was all.’ She turned away again, hunched her shoulder in rejection. What did it matter what he thought of her?

‘How did you know of his death?’

‘I gave Laurent a locket. It had the crest of Quinta do Falcão on it and a lock of my hair. Six months after the battle, it reached me with a note inside. My hair was missing but there were a few strands of Laurent’s blond hair and a scrap of paper with the name of the battle and the date. He must have confided in a friend, told him what to do if he was killed.’

‘Did you love him?’ Any trace of sympathy, softness, had left his voice.

‘Do you think me wanton?’ She watched the sunlight on the water below. She had no need to read whatever his thoughts were in those steely eyes, she could guess. ‘That I would sleep with any man who happened by?’

Had I loved Laurent?

She would never know whether that potent mixture of attraction, gratitude, liking—need—would ever have amounted to love because she was never going to become emotionally entangled with another man, ever again. Thank goodness. There would be nothing to compare. But there might be the love for a child if she could only find her way through the maze of problems, actual and moral, that her insane idea was throwing up.

‘Are you going to report all this back to my aunt?’ That would certainly put the cat among the pigeons.

‘Hell, no,’ Gray said. He sounded properly outraged. ‘What do you think I am? A spy for her? She should have sent one of her moralising friends if that is what she wanted. She is correct. You should not be here, alone. You should come back to England, make a proper marriage. I promised her I would try to persuade you of that and give you escort, but I undertook nothing else. Certainly not to critique your morals.’

‘Thank you for that, at least.’

There was silence, strangely companionable. Gaby let out a sigh she had not realised she had been holding and let her shoulders relax back against the rough stones.

This was becoming all too comfortable. Confession was clearly a weakening indulgence. She sat upright again, opened her satchel and began to take out the food. ‘Would you like to come with me to a dinner party tomorrow night?’

Gray had found a chicken leg and paused in midgnaw. He really does have a fine set of teeth... A sudden flash of where those teeth might be employed made her grab for a bread roll.

‘Yes, very much, thank you. But will your hosts not mind an uninvited stranger?’

‘Not at all. I will write a note when I get home. It is only up there, see? To the left of that big rock on the shore? The next quinta along. Their house is close to our boundary and the estate stretches away to the east. They are another Anglo-Scottish-Portuguese family, the MacFarlanes, and they have been here as long as the Frosts.’ Gaby stuffed the roll with cheese and found a tomato. ‘I like him a lot. She is a terrible snob, so she will be delighted to have an earl at her table, but other than that and the fact that she wears pink too much, she is tolerable.’ She bit into the tomato, then sprinkled salt on the exposed flesh and decided she had been fair to Lucy MacFarlane. ‘Her husband, Hector, has been like an uncle to me. They throw big dinner parties so there will probably be at least a dozen other guests.’

‘Will they not have invited a gentleman to balance you?’

Gaby shook her head, her mouth full, and swallowed. She never tired of the sweet tang of the tomato juices on her tongue, the warm pungency of the cheese, the springy resistance of the fresh-baked crust of the bread. Here in the sunlight, with the scent of herbs and the distant sound of the river, was a kind of sensual little heaven.

‘There are so many spare gentlemen around, what with visiting buyers and partners and officials from the government making inspections,’ she explained as she split another roll. ‘The ladies are always outnumbered.’

‘Stops the gentlemen becoming complacent.’ Gray reached for another chicken leg.

She was not going to watch him eat it. Her imagination was doing a perfectly good job of visualising those muscles moving in his neck as he chewed and swallowed, his tongue coming out to lick his lips and savour the herb-infused oils it had been cooked in.

‘The gentlemen are much more concerned with discussing the harvest, debating whether or not to declare a vintage, garnering information and downright gossip about rival quintas, rival lodges. The ladies are so much ornamentation as far as they are concerned.’

‘Except you.’ He said it seriously, not as though he was mocking her, which was a pleasant surprise.

Gaby risked a look. The chicken leg was nothing but a bone now, dangling from long, lax fingers. ‘Except me,’ she agreed. ‘I spend the evenings carefully not flirting, not gossiping, not discussing the things the men consider feminine concerns. Then when the ladies withdraw I stay put and they simply pretend I am not female. Obviously I must put something of a crimp in the conversation if they are dying to discuss mistresses or boast of their sexual performance or relieve themselves, but they can always take their cigarillos out on to the terrace and do all of those things.’

Gray gave a snort of amusement. ‘I do not think your aunt has the remotest idea just who she is expecting me to bring back to London. I look forward to watching you. Do you scandalise the other ladies?’

Gaby shrugged. ‘They are used to me. This will be a social evening only, I think.’ Some of the other women she even thought of as friends, although she had little in common with their day-to-day lives. ‘Wine?’ She passed him the flask of red.

‘Good. Yours?’ Gray wiped the neck with one of the napkins Maria had wrapped the food in before passing it back to Gaby, then ruined the civilised effect by scrubbing the back of his hand across his lips.

The soldier, not the society gentleman, Gaby thought, repressing a smile.

‘No. This is a MacFarlane vintage. They make more table wine than I do. You’ll have to talk to them at dinner tomorrow—I’m sure Hector MacFarlane would be delighted to sell you—’

She broke off as a flicker of darkness scuttled out from a boulder beside Gray’s left boot. The knife was in her hand ready to throw, then she realised that he had slid his own blade from his boot and had it poised in his hand. They both watched the scorpion, then it skittered off over the edge of the terrace and they relaxed in unison, shoulders touching as they leaned back.

‘These days I don’t like killing anything I don’t have to, even those wicked little devils,’ Gray said as he slid his knife back out of sight.

‘Neither do I,’ Gaby agreed. There was a mark on her blade, a smear of sap, and she rubbed it clean with her thumb.

‘How well can you throw that?’ Gray asked.

‘Very well. Old Pedro, my father’s steward, taught me when I was only ten. See that dead plant over there?’ A large, desiccated thistle was silhouetted against a post on the edge of the terrace.

‘You can hit that from here?’ He sounded politely sceptical.

Gaby shifted the knife into a throwing grip and sat up. Beside her Gray stood and out of the corner of her eye she saw him draw his own knife again. His throw followed hers in a fraction of a second. Hers skewered the head of the thistle to the post, his cut the stem beneath the head.

‘I’m impressed.’ He walked across to retrieve both knives.

‘So am I. Shall we go back down again now? Now, what was I saying? Oh, yes, Uncle Hector is sure to offer to sell you wine.’

She thought she heard him mutter, ‘Everyone in this damn valley wants to sell me something,’ but when she looked at him he grinned back.

Really, the man was all too easy to like—she couldn’t recall now why she had found him so severe, so difficult, when he had first arrived. Perhaps she could survive a week of his company, after all. Provided she could stop looking at his mouth. Or those shoulders.

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