It was to him--to Daniel Lewis Tremayne--that the responsibility fell...no, not as the new Earl of Deverell--but as the brother of a man who died violently, for no reason, at the hands of another,,,
He would find his brother's murderer.
And he would see Giles's death avenged, for he must not fail.
He would not fail.
It was as that very resolve crossed his mind that at last he turned his mount to ride away. `Twas then he saw her--a woman watching him from beneath the shade of a gnarled oak tree. She was seated on a coverlet spread upon the ground, her legs tucked beneath her skirts. In one arm a large sketch pad lay propped; in her hand was a piece of charcoal.
Their eyes caught. As she realized she'd been discovered, her hand stilled. She hugged the pad to her breast, somewhat guiltily, he decided.
Damien approached. He stopped within several paces of her, then dismounted and crossed to her. The woman remained where she was, the slender column of her neck arching as she watched him come to a halt. Her wide, unwavering regard made him feel as if he were the very devil himself come to life. Why he should cause such a reaction, he didn't know. Though he was well aware that he was taller than many a man, he was garbed in a loose, white shirt, dark breeches and boots--surely such a picture as he presented should not frighten the chit.
"Hello," he murmured.
Her lips parted, For an instant he thought she would refuse to speak. But speak she did, in a low, musical voice that made him realize she was not frightened at all, perhaps merely wary.
"Good morning, sir."
One corner of his mouth tipped upward. He sought to further put her at ease. "I couldn't help but notice you watching me. Were you sketching me?"
There was just the slightest hesitation before she replied. "Yes. Yes, I was. I do hope you don't mind."
"Not at all," he returned smoothly. He dropped down to his haunches. "May I see?"
She hesitated, her distress obvious--her reticence even more so--but finally she relinquished the drawing.
Damien studied it. Though it was not yet finished, with bold, stark lines she had managed to capture every facet of his dark mood--his rage, his utter bleakness.
He disliked it. He disliked it intensely.
Slowly his gaze returned to her. "I should very much like to have it." He wasted no time conveying his wishes.
"Oh, such a hastily done piece is hardly worth keeping." With a shake of her head, she objected just as staunchly. "I should be embarrassed to part with such a mediocre effort."
He remained pleasant, but adamant. "On the contrary, miss. It's really quite good, and I wish to have it. The price is of no consequence."
"Oh, but it's not the money I'm interested in, sir. Tis--tis simply not for sale."
A fleeting solution buzzed through his mind, He considered keeping it, withholding it from her, for he was not a man to display his emotions for all and sundry to see; it was as if this girl had glimpsed a part of him he would much rather remain hidden. He felt--oh, as if he'd been caught in some illicit act.
From the corner of his eye he saw a small cart and pony grazing nearby. It would be simple indeed to whirl and mount his stallion, then ride off; if he were on horseback, she would never catch him.
One dark brow arched, "You're very modest," he observed.
Small white teeth caught the fullness of her lower lip. "Modest?" she repeated, her tone light. "Nay, sir, simply honest. Twould be robbery were you to part with money for this piece--and it is not yet finished!"
Damien struggled for patience. Why was she being so stubborn? For the first time then he looked a her...really looked at her.
Her beauty was like a blow to the belly.
She...
