The Leopard Prince Page 7

“That’s nice of you.”

  “Neighbors and all.” Mr. Granville waved his hand vaguely. “I thought there must be a way we can settle this peacefully.”

  “How?” Mr. Pye’s one word dropped onto the conversation, flattening it.

  George glanced sharply at him.

  Mr. Granville turned to speak, looked Mr. Pye in the face, and coughed.

  Mr. Pye handed him a glass of wine.

  “Harry,” Mr. Granville gasped when he could draw breath. “I didn’t realize that was you until I saw—”

  “How,” Harry Pye inquired, “do you plan to settle the problem without bloodshed?”

  “It’ll have to stop, of course—the sheep poisoning, I mean. And the other mischief.”

  “Plainly. But how?”

  “You’ll have to leave, I’m afraid, Harry.” Mr. Granville shrugged one shoulder jerkily. “Even if you repaid the cost of the livestock and the damage to Father’s stable, he’s not going to let it go. You know what he’s like.”

  Mr. Granville’s gaze dropped to Harry Pye’s mutilated right hand resting on his knee. George followed his eyes and felt a cold wave wash over her body when she saw Harry flex the remaining fingers.

  “And if I don’t leave?” Mr. Pye replied in a deadly calm voice, as if he were inquiring the time.

  “You don’t have a choice.” Mr. Granville looked to George, apparently for support.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  He turned back to Mr. Pye. “It’s for the best, Harry. I can’t answer for what will happen if you don’t.”

  Harry Pye didn’t reply. His green eyes had grown stony.

  Nobody spoke for an uncomfortable period of time.

  Mr. Granville suddenly slapped his hand on the throw. “Disgusting things.” He lifted his hand, and George saw that he’d squashed the cabbage butterfly.

  She must’ve made a sound.

  Both men looked at her, but it was Mr. Granville who spoke. “The butterfly. They come from worms that devour leafy crops. Nasty things. All farmers hate them.”

  She and Mr. Pye were silent.

  Mr. Granville’s face reddened. “Well. I must be going. Thank you for the repast.” He stood and clambered back down the hill to his horse.

  Harry Pye watched him go, eyes narrowed.

  George looked down at the pickle jar beside her hand. She hadn’t the appetite for them anymore. She sighed mournfully. A perfect picnic ruined.

  “YOU DON’T LIKE HIM.” Lady Georgina frowned, looking down at the picnic blanket. She was trying to fold it, but it was turning into a tangled mess.

  “Who?” Harry took it from her and shook out the fabric, then handed her the corners on one end.

  “Thomas Granville, of course.” She held her end of the blanket limply as if she didn’t know what to do. Hadn’t she ever folded a sheet before? “You swore when you saw him, you weren’t going to invite him to join us, and when he did, you were barely civil to him.”

  “No, I don’t like Thomas Granville.” He backed up to draw the fabric taut, then brought his corners together so that a rectangle hung between them. She caught on. They folded the blanket once more, and then he walked toward her to take her corners from her. He met her eyes.

  They were narrowed. “Why? What’s wrong with Mr. Granville?”

  He’s his father’s son. “I don’t trust him.”

  “He knew you.” Her head was cocked to the side, as if she were a curious thrush. “You knew each other.”

  “Aye.”

  She opened her mouth, and he expected more questions, but she simply pressed her lips together again. Silently they packed away the rest of the picnic. He took the basket from her, and they climbed down to the waiting gig. He stowed the basket under the seat, and then turned to her, steeling his features. It was harder to keep his emotions in check around her these days.

  She watched him with thoughtful blue eyes. “Who do you think is poisoning the sheep?”

  He put his hands around her waist. “I don’t know.” He felt the stiffness of her stays, and beneath that, warmth. He lifted her into the gig and let go before she could see the longing in his eyes. He jumped into the seat beside her and untied the reins.

  “Maybe it’s Thomas Granville,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “To make it seem as if you were doing the crime? To enrage his father? Because he hates the smell of wet wool? I don’t know.”

  He could feel her gaze on him, but he kept his eyes straight ahead as he guided the horse back to the road. The gelding liked to play games if the driver wasn’t paying attention. He thought about her words. Thomas? Why would Thomas—

  A sound like steam escaping from a lidded pot came from her lips. “You needn’t blame me for his condescension, you know. I’ve already told you I don’t believe you killed the sheep.”

  She was scowling at him. What had he done now? “I’m sorry, my lady. I was thinking.”

  “Well, try to think out loud. I don’t handle charged silences well. They make me nervous.”

  His lips twitched. “I’ll remember that.”

  “Do.”

  They rode another quarter mile in silence before she spoke again. “What else did you do when you were a boy?”

  He glanced at her.

  She caught the look. “Surely you can tell me that? All of your childhood can’t be a secret.”

  “No, but it isn’t very interesting. I mostly helped my da.”

  She leaned toward him. “And…?”

  “We walked the land, checked traps, watched for poachers. That’s what a gamekeeper does.” A memory of his father’s strong, leathery hands delicately setting a trap came to him. Strange how he could remember the hands but not the face.

  “And did you find any poachers?”

  “Aye, of course.” He was pleased that his voice was steady. “There are always poachers, and Granville had more’n his fair share because he was so mean to his tenants. Many poached for food.”

  “What did your father do?” Her hand, which had been lying on her lap, slipped, resting now alongside his thigh.

  Harry kept his gaze ahead and shrugged. “Mostly he’d turn a blind eye. If they took too much, he’d tell them to do their hunting elsewhere.”

  “But that would’ve put him in conflict with his employer, wouldn’t it? If Lord Granville found out he wasn’t arresting every poacher.”

  “It might’ve. If Granville found out. Turned out he didn’t.” He’d been more interested in other things, hadn’t he?

  “I would’ve liked to have known your father,” she mused. He could’ve sworn he felt her fingers press against his leg.

  He looked at her curiously. “Would you? A gamekeeper?”

  “Yes. What else did you do when you were a boy?”

  What did she want from him? Why all these questions, and why the hand against his leg? Her fingers felt as if they burned straight through his breeches to his skin beneath. “That’s about it, my lady. Roaming the land, checking traps, looking for birds’ eggs—”

  “Birds’ eggs?”

  “Aye.” He glanced at her, then down at her hand. “Used to collect them as a boy.”

  She was frowning and didn’t seem to notice his gaze. “But where would you find them?”

  “In the nest.” She still looked puzzled, so he explained. “You watch the birds in spring. See where they go. Sooner or later, they all go back to their nests. Jackdaws in chimneys, plovers on the heath, pigeons in the crook of trees, and thrushes in a nest like a cup in the branches of hedges. You wait and you watch, and if you’re patient, you see where the eggs are. Then you can take one.”

  “Just one?”

  He nodded. “Never more than one, for my da said ’twas a sin to steal all the eggs from a nest. I’d watch the bird and slowly, slowly creep close until I could take an egg. Most of the time I’d have to wait until the bird left the nest. But sometimes if I was careful, I could reach right under the bird—”

>   “No!” She laughed up at him, her blue eyes crinkled at the corners, and suddenly his heart seemed to contract. Maybe he didn’t really care why she asked her questions—just so long as she asked them. “You’re teasing me now.”

  “It’s true.” He felt his lips curve. “I’d reach right under the bird, feel its little downy body beating and warm on my fingers, and steal an egg straight from the nest it was sitting on.”

  “Really?”

  “A fact.”

  “You’re probably bamming me again, Mr. Pye, but for some reason I believe you.” She shook her head. “But what did you do with the eggs after that? Eat them?”

  “Eat them? Never!” He widened his eyes in an exaggeratedly horrified look that seemed to amuse her. That pleased him and he was puzzled. This silly conversation was like no other he could remember. Men took him dead seriously. Women were a little in awe of him. No one giggled at his words or attempted—

  “Then what do you do with the eggs?” Her eyes were laughing up at him again.

  He almost swore, he was so startled. Was Lady Georgina—an earl’s daughter for Christ’s sake—flirting with him?

  He’d gone insane. “I’d take a pin and poke a tiny hole in each end of the egg and let it dry. I had a shelf next to my bed with a whole row of eggs, brown and white and clear blue. Blue as…” He trailed away. Blue as your eyes, he’d meant to say, but he remembered suddenly that this woman was his employer and he her servant. How could he forget that fact? Irritated with himself, he faced forward again.

  She didn’t seem to notice his pause. “Do you have the eggs still? I’d like to see them.”

  They’d rounded a bend in the road, and Harry saw that a tangle of branches blocked the way. A tree had fallen across the lane.

  “Whoa!” He frowned. The lane was hardly wide enough for the gig as it was. It would be a devil’s job to turn the carriage around. What—?

  Four men suddenly appeared from behind the tangled branches. They were big, they looked mean, and they each held a knife in their hand.

  Shit.

  Chapter Six

  George screamed as Harry Pye made a heroic attempt to pull the horse around. The lane was too narrow, and the men were upon him in seconds. Mr. Pye kicked the first in the chest with a booted foot. The second and third overwhelmed and dragged him from the carriage. The fourth dealt him a horrendous blow to the jaw.

  Oh, my sweet Lord! They were going to kill him. George felt a second scream clog her throat. The gig jolted as the horse half-reared. It was frightened and trying to run, stupid animal, even though it had nowhere to go. George frantically scrabbled for the reins on the floor of the gig, cursing under her breath and banging her head against the seat.

  “Watch it! He’s got a knife!”

  That wasn’t Mr. Pye’s voice. George chanced raising her head and saw to her relief that Harry Pye did indeed have a knife. He held a thin, gleaming blade in his left hand. Even from this distance it looked rather nasty. He was in a strangely graceful fighter’s crouch in the road, both hands in front of him. He appeared to know what he was doing, too. One of the villains was bleeding from his cheek. But the other three were circling, trying to flank him, and the odds didn’t look good.

  The gig lurched again. She lost sight of the action as she fell and cracked her shoulder against the seat.

  “Will you hold still, you silly beast?” she muttered.

  The reins were sliding toward the front, and if she lost them, she’d never get control of the gig. Shouts and grunts came from the fighters, interspersed with the awful sound of fists hitting flesh. She daren’t risk looking up again. She held on to the seat with one hand to steady herself and strained with the other toward the slithering reins. Almost. Her fingertips grazed the leather, but the horse jolted, sending her back against the seat. She just kept her footing. If the horse would only hold still.

  One.

  More.

  Second.

  She dived and triumphantly came up with the reins. Quickly she sawed them, little minding the horse’s mouth, and tied them to the seat. She chanced a glance. Harry Pye was bleeding from his forehead. As she watched, an attacker lunged at him from his right. Mr. Pye whirled in a powerful move and kicked at the other man’s legs. A second thug clawed at his left arm. Mr. Pye twisted and performed some sort of maneuver, too fast for her to see. The man screamed and staggered back with a bloody hand. But the first man took advantage of the distraction. He hit Mr. Pye again and again in the middle. Harry Pye grunted with each blow, doubling over, valiantly trying to swing his knife.

  George set the carriage brake.

  The third and fourth men advanced. The first man punched Mr. Pye once more, and he fell to his knees, retching.

  Mr. Pye was going to die.

  Ohmygodohmygodohmygod! George scrambled under the seat and brought up a sackcloth-wrapped bundle. Shaking the cloth free, she clutched one of the dueling pistols in her right hand, raised it with a straight arm, aimed at the man standing over Mr. Pye, and fired.

  Bang!

  The explosion nearly deafened her. She squinted through the smoke and saw the man reel away, clutching his side. Got the bastard! She felt a thrill of bloodthirsty glee. The remaining men, including Harry Pye, had turned in her direction with varying degrees of shock and horror. She raised the second pistol and took aim at another man.

  The man flinched and ducked. “Gorblimey! She’s got a pistol!”

  Apparently the thought that she might be dangerous had never crossed their minds.

  Harry Pye rose, pivoted silently, and slashed at the man nearest him.

  “Jaysus!” the man screamed, holding a hand to his bloody face. “Let’s go, lads!” The thugs turned and dashed back the way they’d come.

  The lane was suddenly quiet.

  George heard the blood rushing in her veins. She carefully set the pistols down on the seat.

  Mr. Pye still looked in the direction the men had disappeared. He seemed to decide that they were gone, for he lowered the hand holding the knife. Bending, he slipped it inside his boot. Then he turned to her. The blood from the wound on his forehead had mixed with sweat and smeared down the side of his face. Stray hairs from his queue stuck to the gore. He breathed deeply, his nostrils flaring as he tried to catch his breath.

  George felt strange, almost angry.

  He walked toward her, his boots scraping against the rocks in the road. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d brought pistols?” His voice was raspy and deep. It demanded apology, concession, even submission.

  George didn’t feel like giving any.

  “I—” she began firmly, strongly, even haughtily.

  She didn’t have a chance to finish because he was in front of her. He grabbed her about the waist and yanked her from the carriage. She half-fell against him. She put her hands on his shoulders to keep from toppling over. He pulled her against him until her breasts were quite squashed into his chest, which, strangely, felt very nice. She lifted her head to ask him what, exactly, he thought he was about—

  And he kissed her!

  Luscious, firm lips that tasted of the wine they’d drunk at luncheon. They moved over hers in an insistent rhythm. She could feel the prickle of his stubble and his tongue, running over the crease of her lips until she opened them and then… Ohm. Someone was moaning, and it might very well be her because she had never, never, never been kissed like this before in her whole life. His tongue was actually inside her mouth, stroking and teasing hers. She was about to melt—maybe she already was melting, she felt absolutely drenched. And then he lured her tongue into his mouth and suckled it, and she lost all control and wrapped her arms about his neck and suckled him back.

  The horse—stupid, stupid animal—chose that moment to whicker.

  Mr. Pye jerked his head away. He glanced around. “I can’t believe I did that.”

  “Nor I,” George said. She tried to pull his head back down so he would do it again.

 
But suddenly he picked her up and deposited her on the carriage seat. While she was still blinking, he crossed to the other side and jumped in.

  Mr. Pye placed the still-loaded pistol in her lap. “It’s dangerous here. They may decide to come back.”

  “Oh.”

  All her life she’d been warned that men were slaves to their desires, that they held their impulses in barely controlled check. A woman—a lady—must be very, very careful of her actions so she did not put spark to the gunpowder that was a man’s libido. The consequences of a lady’s carelessness were never fully explained, but the hints were dire indeed. George sighed. How deflating now to find Harry Pye was the exception to the rule of male instability.

  He maneuvered the gig around, alternately cursing and cajoling the horse. Finally he got it turned back the way they’d come and urged the gelding into a brisk trot. George watched him. His face was grimly set. There was no evidence of the passion with which he’d kissed her only moments ago.

  Well, if he could be sophisticated, then so could she. “Do you think Lord Granville had those men attack us, Mr. Pye?”

  “They attacked only me. So, yes, it could be Lord Granville. He’s the most likely.” He looked thoughtful. “But Thomas Granville rode up the lane only minutes before we did. He could’ve warned the toughs if they were in his pay.”

  “You think he is in league with his father, despite his apology?”

  Mr. Pye pulled a handkerchief out of an inside pocket and gently wiped her cheek with one hand. The handkerchief came away with blood on it. He must have rubbed his blood on her when they’d kissed. “I don’t know. But there’s one thing I’m sure of.”

  George cleared her throat. “What is that, Mr. Pye?”

  He tucked away his handkerchief. “You can call me Harry now.”

  HARRY PUSHED OPEN THE DOOR to the Cock and Worm and was immediately smothered in smoke. West Dikey, the village closest to Woldsly Manor, was just large enough to boast two taverns. The first, the White Mare, was a half-timbered building with a few rooms and could be called an inn. Because of this, it offered meals and drew the more respectable business: passing travelers, local merchants, and even gentry.