Page 8 of Gambling with the Earl
Mother’s jewels were beautiful. A necklace of gleaming sapphires, bluer than a summer sky, a hair pin tipped with pearl and an oval amber brooch. But the piece they prized above the rest was a cross-shaped pendant embedded with blood-red rubies. Mother used to hold it up to Kitty’s neck and laugh at the similarities in shade and colour between the precious stones and her daughter’s hair.
“This one is for you, Kitty,” she’d promised. “Your dowry.”
Kitty had believed her. The future had been bright and magical then. But within five years of her mother’s death, she’d hidden the jewels inside the dresser and determined they should all be destined for Rosalind’s dowry. Every last one. Even the ruby pendant. By then, the funds inside the big coin chests in the basement were running low. Father had gambled away the silver which mother had painstakingly saved. And the Duke ofAnswick was no longer prepared to support their family, now that his niece was dead.
It was down to her. She had no one else to rely on.
Kitty straightened her back and shaded her eyes from the bright late-morning sunshine. Without meaning to, her gaze focused on the battlements of Rossfarne Castle, which reared out of the haze like some mythical creature of the deep. Her heart began to beat wildly once again, but instead of submitting to her emotions, Kitty refused to break her gaze.
It was but a castle. A stone dwelling, like any other. What harm could a mere building cause her?
Immediately, a hundred stories and warnings flashed before her eyes, but Kitty batted them away. Those stories all pertained to the old earl, who was dead and gone. She wouldn’t let fear of a man no longer living keep her from doing what needed to be done.
She would not be led by fear.
Feeling stronger, she took a deep lungful of fresh, salty air. Her mother may have been Lady Isabella of Answick, but her father was a fisherman. She came from a long line of healthy, hearty peasants who had prospered on these shores. And she wasn’t like those poor girls who had been lured to the castle in times gone by. She was prepared. She was on her guard. If the Earl of Rossfarne thought he could best her, he would have a fight on his hands.
As if simply thinking his name had conjured him up, the outline of a tall, muscular man astride a powerful horse came into view. She gasped out loud, dropping her skirts and putting her hands to her heart in fear that it may jump outside her chest. He was there, before her. The Earl of Rossfarne. It could only be him. None other hereabouts could have his bearing, his brooding presence, his looming authority which radiated across the shallow sea.
Her pulse slowed. She must have fallen victim to some trick of the hazy light, for the man on the horse was not before her. He was at the other end of the causeway, standing as still as if he had been hewn from rock.
Surveying his estate. Surveying what was his.
Surveying her?
Her stomach heaved as if she might be sick, yet still she couldn’t take her eyes from the apparition. She was drawn to him, despite all she knew. He looked so masterful, full of power, easily dominating the heavy warhorse he sat astride. She imagined the set of his shoulders, his powerful arms, the muscles in his calves, gripping the warm flesh of the horse.
Her face flushed and she stumbled back a few paces. Where had that notion come from? Kitty was not accustomed to picturing men’s calves nor any other part of them. It was the lurid tales of the old earl that had got into her head. Tales she must banish if she had any hope of succeeding in her quest.
For a moment she once again considered flight. To continue meant walking towards the terrifying figure at the other end of the causeway. Meant serving him, in his castle of ill repute.
Kitty lifted her chin, rammed her straw hat more firmly down on her head and strode onto the damp stones of the causeway. She would reclaim her family jewels and take them home for her sister. She would succeed, for she had no other choice.
Chapter Three
Guy sat astridehis charger and watched from the cliffs as the swirling sea gradually retreated from the mainland, exposing the narrow causeway linking his home to the fishing village of Rossfarne.
He had never set foot in these parts until six days prior, but what he found had pleased him for it was a wild, beautiful landscape and the rhythmic crashing of the tides eased the knot of tension inside him. In the narrow gullies on the far side of the castle, the waves sounded as loud as thunder, like an external manifestation of his own anger and pain. If he must endure several months of enforced inactivity, he would choose to endure them here, where the physical barrier of the sea and the social barrier of his uncle’s grievous reputation combined to keep prying eyes away.
Prying eyes and thieving fingers, keen to exploit his temporary vulnerability.
As if sensing his master’s surge of emotion, the horse beneath him shifted. Guy sat deeper in the saddle and wrapped his long legs around the horse’s warm belly to steady himself. He must use balance and intuition until his useless left arm had healed.
The surgeon had told him to rest completely. But Guy was a knight, used to physical extremes and constant action. He lived for the adrenaline rush of galloping across a battlefield, sword inhand. He could no more lay in bed all day than he could dance a jig.
At least his sword arm was unharmed.
The tide had drawn back. It was time to leave. Guy had no real urge to explore the mainland and risk coming into contact with villagers or farming folk, but the claustrophobic confines of the island were already plaguing him. More importantly, he had a job to do. One that he would be pleased to put behind him.
He had left the castle unannounced, dressed plainly in a linen shirt and a soft cap. With any luck, no one would recognise him. It was only the coat of arms on his carriage that had given him away at the tavern last night.
Last night. How he regretted the impulse that had propelled him into a misjudged game of dice in a grubby alehouse. He had gone in search of mild distraction and instead, had borne witness to the depravity of the human soul. The evening had sickened him.
He nudged his horse forwards, adjusting in the saddle as the long strides threatened to unseat him. A familiar surge of pain travelled from his wrist to his shoulder, and he held his body tense until it passed. Pain was good. Pain meant his arm was not fully dead and that there was hope it might recover. And then, one day, he could re-join his band of brothers on the battlefield.
Although the first thing Guy would do was track down the no-good thief who had stolen his bag of coin while he lay helpless on a hospital bed. Coin that had been hard-earned in battle against the Scots.
His muscles twitched at the memory and the powerful horse broke into a trot. Guy clenched his teeth and drew back on the reins with his remaining good hand. He must keep his emotions better under control. In all his years fighting under King Edward, he had never shown weakness. His horses could always trust him to remain calm in the face of chaos.
