The Fifth Wife Read online

  Old Martin was delighted, adopting her as the daughter he never had, and the two of them found common ground in a shared sense of humor and a disdain for all things pompous. The inn was generally on the quiet side and Hannah made friends with the regulars in no time at all. Many were associated with the Agisters and friends of her cousin.

  She had begun to explore the possibilities offered by being independent, and able to make decisions for herself, without any kind of retribution.

  She pulled the big quilt aside and re-made the bed with fresh linens. Plumping up the mattress and the pillows, her thoughts strayed back to this man. Was he the new Lord Penvale?

  She knew there was a strong Viking element in the line that bound her family to the Penvales. And he was certainly big enough to captain one if those long ships. Then there was the blond hair. She’d avoided his eyes, so all she had to go on was Martin’s assessment.

  Blue. He’d said they were blue.

  But he’d also pointed out the incredibly unlikely coincidence of Lord Penvale appearing at the Sow’s Ear’s front door in the middle of winter, not even a month after she’d fled the Derby household.

  He had a point.

  Sighing, she pulled the quilt back over the bed and patted it smooth, making sure there were no wrinkles anywhere. Then she arranged the towels neatly on the beautifully polished surface of the chest and stepped back to admire them.

  “Most appealing. Quite artistic in fact.”

  The voice startled her and she jumped, catching her reflection in the mirror. Behind her, leaning against the window seat, was the tall blond man.

  And his eyes were very, very blue.

  Bollocks.

  Chapter Three

  It was cold and wet and Charles knew he’d made the right decision to stay at the Sow’s Ear. Both he and his horse would have been miserable if they had attempted to complete the journey. Instead, his horse enjoyed the comfort of a snug stable with hay and a trough of cool fresh water, while he—well, he was enjoying watching an elegant sprite prepare his room for him.

  Always light on his feet, he’d walked in as she busied herself folding towels and he decided to take a few moments just to enjoy the tableau.

  She’d jumped as if stabbed when he spoke. He should have felt bad for surprising her, but he didn’t. She was adorable in her confusion.

  “Oh sir, I’m sorry. I’ll be a’goin’ now. Just wanted to make sure yer room’s all fresh and ready for yer.”

  She began to sidle past him, clutching what looked like a bundle of older linens. She kept her eyes downcast and bobbed him a quick curtsey.

  And he believed none of it.

  “Wait.”

  She stopped. “Yes sir? Yer wantin’ somethin’ else, are yer?”

  “Yes please. I’d like you to drop that atrocious accent and tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.”

  She blinked, and finally straightened, looking him directly in the eye. “I don’t understand.”

  For a minute he didn’t hear her, since he was busy drowning in the most incredible pair of eyes he’d ever seen. They were the greenish-blue of the ocean in midsummer, a rare shade made even more prominent by the smooth cream of her skin, the rich deep brown of her hair and the smattering of freckles across her cheeks.

  He recollected himself as one of her eyebrows slid upward. “I beg your pardon, I was staring, wasn’t I? Rude of me. But you are quite lovely. Enough to distract any man from his thoughts.”

  “Are you flirting with me?”

  Aha. She’d forgotten to drop the ‘g’. He knew it was a fake accent, but that confirmed it. “I don’t know you well enough for flirting.” He paused, then grinned. “Yet.”

  “Well don’t bother.” She hugged the bundle to her breast and glared at him. “You’re a guest. You will be treated as such. But I don’t come with the room, let’s get that straight right off.”

  “Acknowledged.” He tilted his head in acquiescence. “But does that mean I can’t flirt with you? Once I know your name, of course.”

  “My name? Why do you want to know my name?” She gave him a suspicious stare.

  “I have to call you something.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “What if I need another towel?”

  “Ask Old Martin. He’ll pass the message along.”

  Charles pouted. “You are quite cruel. One glance of your loveliness and I’m slain like a gladiator at the feet of a goddess. And you won’t even tell me the name of she who slew me?”

  The girl rolled her eyes. “Really? Does that work with the ladies you meet?”

  He thought about it. “Frequently.”

  “Then you should go back to them. It doesn’t work here with me.” She spun around ready to leave the room, then paused, dropping a brief and blushing curtsey. “Er…sir.”

  Well, she had at least remembered her manners. “You’re a terrible maid, you know.”

  “Probably. But since I’m the only maid at the moment, it would pay you to keep on my good side. Stop flirting and asking personal questions, and I’ll make sure there are no snakes in your bed.”

  “Will you check it out personally, beautiful one?” He couldn’t resist the chance to get in a little flirtatious dig.

  “No. Goddesses don’t stoop that low. I’ll have Tom Fincham do it. He runs our piggery.”

  And on that witty Parthian shot, she flounced from the room. Charles knew a flounce when he saw one, and yes, it had definitely been a flounce.

  He burst out laughing, delighted with whoever she was. It would seem that his time at the Sow’s Ear wouldn’t be wasted after all.

  He picked up his bag and spent a little time unpacking the contents, glad that Sharpley had included warm clothing. It looked as if he would be needing it. There was a small fireplace in his room, he noticed, and that might get a bit of use providing the chimney was safe.

  Glancing around, he realized that he could well be in a chamber dating back to the time one or other of his namesakes held the throne of England. The wall paneling, the window embrasure…they were all straight out of the early seventeen-hundreds.

  The small square panes were the clue; there had been several rooms with the same kind of windows in the oldest portions of Fontaine House. Finally they’d been replaced, but Charles had delayed as long as he could. They were works of art.

  Outside, past the mullions, he noticed that the drizzle had turned back to snow. Fluffy flakes were drifting down, and it wouldn’t be long before the grass would whiten and the branches become laden with the stuff.

  He’d made the right decision to stop here. And a pair of sparkling eyes helped. She was a bit of a mystery and he loved solving mysteries. Clearly not born to be a serving wench, she was well spoken and her hands were smooth. No years of cleaning and working there.

  An outrageous thought crossed his mind. Could she possibly be the fifth wife? She was in the general area he’d expected to find her, but here? In a quiet little inn with only an old man for a chaperone? Working?

  As soon as he considered it, he laughed at himself. Whatever her impetuous actions, Miss Derby came from a line of women raised to be Ladies, allied—albeit distantly—to the Penvale heritage.

  He just couldn’t reconcile that background to a young woman working as a servant in a country inn. She’d made the bed with a skill that spoke of many years experience, and folded the towels just as well.

  No, that would be the wildest coincidence possible. There were just too many anomalies. It might also be wishful thinking on his part. There was something about her that had snagged his attention, beside her trim figure and stunning visage. She’d been tart, quick to match his tone and not above giving him a set down.

  He was, he admitted, intrigued.

  Since Amelia, he’d not found any woman to be of particular interest. He had no intention of seducing this one of course, because taking young women who were most likely virgins, wasn’t his style. But he was pleased that
his manhood hadn’t shriveled up and died. In fact it had stirred quite respectably when he’d first looked into those mysterious eyes.

  He guessed it wouldn’t take much to rouse his constant companion to its former hardened glory. Quite possibly this girl had the key. And, dammit, he needed to find out her name. Referring to her as ‘the girl’ in his thoughts was impersonally abysmal.

  His glance fell on the ale he’d brought upstairs with him, and he crossed the room, picking up the tankard and heading for the window seat. It called to his sense of solitude and he remembered the book he’d shoved in his bag. He’d started a few chapters and enjoyed them, but the other demands on his time had pulled him from the pages.

  Now he had chance to read more and he settled himself with the thick quilt from the bed for protection from the cold air sneaking past the windows. The book was an adventure, well-written, and although the author was anonymous, “Waverly” had attracted a great deal of positive attention when it had emerged a couple of years before.

  After two hours of losing himself in the hero’s adventures, Charles could see why. Whoever wrote this book did a damned fine job. It was exciting, engrossing and kept him turning the pages for longer than he’d realized. The light was fading, and although it was early, he knew darkness would fall before long.

  Heavy clouds had gotten even heavier and the steady snow looked like it meant business. His stomach reminded him that ale wasn’t the most sustaining of luncheons, so he tossed the quilt back onto the bed, straightened his shirt and shrugged back into his riding jacket. It was time to investigate the possibilities of a meal.

  And perhaps catch a glimpse of his blue-eyed sprite again.

  On that hopeful note, he quit his room and headed downstairs, where he could now hear voices.

  That was a good sign.

  *~~*~~*

  “We’re in trouble, Martin. No doubt ‘bout it.”

  Hannah bit her lip as she listened to the Chesham brothers. They’d come in to the inn fifteen minutes ago, cold, damp and obviously distressed.

  “Don’t see what I can do to ‘elp, lads. Yer welcome to stay here, an’ the families too, if’n yer need someplace… Yer know that.”

  “Do indeed, an’ we thank ye.” Older Chesham nodded.

  “What’s going on, gentlemen? Sounds like trouble.” Charles strolled up to the bar. “Can I help?”

  Martin glanced at him. “Can yer herd sheep?”

  Charles blinked. “Er…”

  “’Cos there’s a herd o’stragglers stuck out in this snow and it ain’t gonna get any better. An’ the brothers is like to lose half of ‘em. They was hopin’ we had a few regulars who’d lend a hand, but it’s just us.”

  “Well now,” Charles stroked his chin and frowned. “I’ve got a damn fine horse. I’ll lend a hand if need be. Are the stragglers in one field?” He looked at the younger brother.

  “Wish they was, sir. Two fields. Next to each other but gettin’ harder to see in the snow.”

  “Well then. No time to waste.” He glanced at the girl. “Can you ride?”

  She glared at him. “Of course I can ride.”

  “Good. There’s one more horse in the barn and I’m going to guess it belongs to either you or Martin here. Correct?”

  “She’s mine. Old gal, but still got some spirit in ‘er.” Martin nodded.

  “Perfect.” He turned back and looked down at her. “You ride the mare and we’ll circle the fields and find the stragglers. Between the two of us, we should be able to pull in more than a few. Then these lads can either come and get them or we can perhaps act as herders ourselves and drive them toward wherever you need to be.”

  “Oh…well…” The brothers looked surprised at Charles’s enthusiasm.

  “What we need is a damn good sheepdog, but with luck we humans can take its place.”

  “That would have been nice.” She sounded almost wistful. “I saw one working once. My goodness, he was clever.”

  “Time’s a wastin’.” Martin reached behind the bar and started laying out warm clothing. “I’m gonna close down here for a bit an’ come with yer.”

  “Martin, are you sure? It’s getting bad out there. You don’t want a chill…” A little hand touched the gnarled one on the bar.

  “Don’t worry about me, Hannah, lass. I got some good warm clothin’. Here. Yer take this. Go put it on wi’ yer boots an’ wrap up warm.”

  A massive, heavy wool cloak was passed over the bar. It would smother her, but it would keep her warm and dry.

  Hannah. Her name was Hannah.

  As Charles prepared himself for an adventure in the snowstorm, he shook his head.

  What were the chances? Fate must be laughing itself sick at his expense. He wondered if she knew who he was. If he told her his name would she recognize it? And what the hell was he supposed to do now? Announce to the inn’s only servant that she was supposed to marry him but would she mind taking a nice little settlement instead?

  If he was wrong and she wasn’t the Hannah Derby, he was going to come off looking like a total and complete idiot.

  He tucked a small dagger into his sock because one never knew what a trip through bad weather might bring—an old habit he’d never lost. Then he tied thick wads of wool over the tops of his boots, as he’d done before when braving bad weather, he stood and wrapped his own cloak snugly around himself, belting it on the outside to keep his arms free. He’d need them to control the horse, which was about to get quite a strenuous exercise session.

  She came downstairs, all but cocooned in her own cloak, but—like him—her arms were free.

  He walked over to her. “Warm enough?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I’ll do. How about you?”

  “I think I’ll do as well. Now here’s the plan. These fields…they’re square?”

  She thought for a moment. “Yes I think so. The further one borders a small stream, there’s an opening between two large trees and the nearer one leads right down to the barn where Mr. Chesham overwinters most of his flock. They don’t mind snow, but this year’s grazing wasn’t too good. I think he’s worried that if they get too snowy they might not have the strength to reach the barn.”

  “Makes sense.” Charles knew how valuable livestock was to farmers. A good herd might make the difference between life and death. Or at least feast or famine. Winter took its toll, and not only on people. A diminished flock, or herd of cows, meant less for everyone. He understood the urgency felt by the Cheshams.

  He watched her bank up the fire with extra logs and make sure that it would be good and hot on their return. A wise move.

  “Let’s go, Miss Hannah.”

  She glanced at him. “You heard my name.”

  “I did. Mine’s Charles. Charles Fontaine.”

  He watched her expression change and knew the answer to his unasked question. “When we return, and the Chesham sheep are safe, we have to talk.”

  She sighed then, and her shoulders sagged. “Yes.”

  He felt an odd pang of sympathy. “Don’t be concerned. We’ll come up with something.”

  She threw him a quick look, puzzlement in her brilliant eyes.

  He smiled. “Let’s go. The snow’s picking up.”

  Together they strode out of the inn and into the face of a steadily increasing storm.

  Chapter Four

  It was rough going.

  The sleet and snow had turned the lanes to mush and the fields weren’t much better. Charles gave thanks for his mount, a well-trained and much loved beast who proved that his name—Hannibal—had been appropriate. The horse refused to hurry, but plodded with care over the rough ground, getting the job done at a speed that made Charles itch with impatience, but proved effective.

  The snow had picked up in intensity, and visibility was getting worse as the light began to fade. Sheep being sheep, they weren’t too hard to spot, since they tended to flock in groups and a dirty white lump making sheep noises was a good indicator o
f their presence.

  In spite of the awful conditions, Charles found himself enjoying the challenge. He could see Hannah in the near field, her cloak whitening, her horse obeying her every instruction, and her voice loud as she yelled at the poor befuddled creatures she drove toward the gate.

  “Come on, you buggers. I don’t want to be out here all night.”

  Charles chuckled to himself. He had the same sentiments, but hearing them in a woman’s voice was damn funny.

  “How many do you have left?” He called across the white expanse of grass, noting that his horse’s hoof prints were filling with snow much more quickly now.

  “No more than three or four, so I sent Old Martin back to the inn to stoke up the fire. What about you?”

  Since he’d managed to drive almost all of his sheep over to her field, he was amazed at the effective job she’d done with the extra numbers. “Only one. Over by the stream. I’ll get it and head over to you.”

  “Very well.” She waved briefly, a wool-clad hand over her muffled head. Then she turned her horse and headed to the last quarter of her designated search area.

  The Chesham brothers were busy making sure that the animals driven toward them took the correct turn onto the fenced path and hence to the shelter of the barn.

  Charles had a sneaking suspicion that the damn things were glad to have someone tell them where to go to get out of the storm. Why they hadn’t worked it out themselves, he had no clue. But overall, he wouldn’t be turned away from a nice mutton stew just because he’d rescued some of its relatives.

  His horse whinnied and came to a halt amidst a renewed and much more energetic burst of snow. There was a faint baa from ahead, but there was also a small stream. Hannibal was quite clear about the whole thing. He was not, under any circumstances, getting his feet wet.

  With a sigh, Charles slid from the saddle, wincing at the soggy squish as his boots met snow-covered field.

  The stream was full, but not in spate, thank God. He neared it with respect, knowing from many less-than-pleasant childhood experiences that country waterways were unpredictable at the best of times.