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A mockingbird flew from a tree outside the open window and landed on the sill, bathed in sunlight. Suddenly, the room was filled with the bird’s melodious song. Nick closed his eyes and drank in the sound. He hadn’t heard a bird sing since he left for war, more than two years ago.
He took it as a very lucky sign.
County of Surrey, England
One Month Later
A high-pitched squeal pierced the humdrum stillness of the country lane. Sir Nicholas Sinclair shifted in the saddle, gauging the direction of the sound. The stand of sycamores near the bend ahead? Aye, the perfect place for robbers to hide, ready to lift a purse or to steal a horse from an unwary traveler.
Nick’s hand hovered over his pistol holster. He almost hoped a highwayman would charge. Anything to break the tedium of the long ride since leaving London.
A feminine giggle, more distinct this time, alerted him to the dense elderberry bushes growing near the river. Drawing the seaman’s telescope from his pocket, Nick brought it to his eye.
A trail of scattered clothing led from the riverbank to the thicket A man’s patched leather breeches and faded shirt poked through the reeds. The tangle of russet skirts billowed atop a mound of wild daisies, and a black corset lay momentarily forgotten amid tufts of grass.
Nick recognized the russet skirt as similar to the one the tavern wench wore only last night at the Seven Swans. While serving him venison pasty and ale, she’d winked and brushed her mountainous white breasts across his hand. When he refused her offer, she sniffed scornfully. He’d have followed her gladly, but he had no time to linger. The sooner he settled his matter with Thornwood Hall, the sooner he’d be at sea where he belonged.
But if he arrived at the estate dressed as the king’s dandy, the locals might not trust him enough to tell what he heeded to know about the estate. Not one to miss an opportunity, he dismounted and strode toward the garments half-hidden in the weeds. A low passionate moan drifted from the elderberries. Nick chuckled as he saw the moon-shaped elder blossoms shake and the bushes rustle in the familiar age-old rhythm.
Nick snatched the man’s breeches and shirt and assessed the owner’s height and size. Grateful the man was tall, as well as randy, Nick quickly undid the ribbons at his neck and cuffs. Within minutes, he had discarded his ruffled silk shirt, robin’s-egg blue velvet breeches and jacket, and dropped them upon the grass beside the other garments.
Before the lovers’ cries ceased and the thrashing stopped, Nick had changed into the man’s clothing and mounted his horse. He tossed his wide-brimmed hat—the last evidence of the court clothing he’d been given—and watched it sail through the air and land atop the strewn garments. With a sense of freedom, he galloped down the lane toward Thornwood Hall.
Fancy clothes meant nothing to him. He much preferred his naval uniform, but until he was back at the helm of the new ship, he’d settle for comfort. His new ship! Thank God for Finn, who had managed, with the help of the king’s mistress, to obtain a loan for the new ship, using Thornwood Hall as collateral. Now, all Nick needed was a buyer for the estate so he could pay back the loan from the moneylender.
He’d set himself a new course: to find out what ailed the estate, then sell the damn place and repay the moneylender. By then, his ship would be built and he’d return to war, the king none the wiser.
A short while later, Nick found the lane had dwindled to a well-worn sheep run. The overgrown hedges grew so tangled that even the devil would have trouble gaining foot. From what he could see as he peeked through the rare openings, the land lay barren. Spindly corn stalks choked with weeds fought for their place in the sun. In the distance, the crofters’ shacks, like untidy hay bundles, dotted the wildflower meadow.
He stared at the holding in dismay and growing irritation. Obviously Thornwood Hall had fallen into neglect after the general had died, but who could imagine such a pile of beetles and weeds? Apparently the king hadn’t known; otherwise he couldn’t have kept a straight face when he’d awarded this run-down pile of brambles as a reward for Nick’s bravery.
A string of loud curses broke his thoughts. Nick wheeled his horse around. Unable to see anything through the fence of brambles, he dismounted and crept to the hedgerow. He tried poking a hole through the fence, but a stout sweetbriar thorn snagged his arm. With a growl, he jerked free.
“Damn!” he muttered. Remembering his telescope, Nick extended the tube and thrust it through the hedge like a sword.
He gazed through the lens. In the meadow, a tall whip of a man, his shirt stained with splotches of sweat, flailed an enormous black bull with a switch. The man yanked on the rope attached to the ring in the animal’s nose, shrieking oaths that would have raised a blush from the crew of the Hesper. The bull snorted, pawing the ground. Then the man whipped the beast again.
In the distance, a rider sped hell-bent toward man and beast, the horse’s hooves tearing up clumps of sod as she sped across the meadow.
Aye, the rider was female. Nick’s fingers squeezed the spyglass. Ebony ribbons of hair whipped behind her head as she swooped upon her target, like a Harpy in Virgil’s Aeneid. She brought her mount to a stop and slipped from the saddle in one fluid motion.
The girl charged at the bully, her blue skirts billowing behind her. She tore the whip from his fist and cracked the strap across his back.
Damn, if the man struck her back, Nick thought, how would he cut through the damned hedge in time to save the plucky lass? But instead of shielding himself, the bully cowered like a boy.
As though satisfied, the girl threw down the switch, then whirled to face the animal. Nick blinked. For the first time, he noticed the monstrous bull in detail. Long horns poked out from the wide brim of a hat lying atop its head. A Cavalier’s hat, by God! A red-feathered plume curled along the band.
What the hell was she doing? Fascinated, Nick watched as the girl gently stroked the animal’s chin. Then she began to sing. Or was he hearing an angel? High, lilting tones, like harp music, floated on the summer breeze.
The king had said that General Forester was in his eighties when he’d died. Now, his widow ran the manor, with the help of the general’s bastard son. Maybe this lass with the siren’s voice was the old man’s granddaughter.
In less than a wink, the bull moved from standstill to trot. The girl, holding the rope, ran alongside, as if they were one. The man took up beside them. Finally, she relinquished the lead, flinging the rope back at the man. With an arrogant toss of her head, she mounted her horse, then watched at a distance.
The bull kept its pace. The red feather bounced jauntily with each jerk of the animal’s ponderous steps. The man bobbed up and down, his arms and legs windmilling at his sides, laboring to keep up. Nick couldn’t help but laugh.
He moved his telescope back to the amazing girl. Woman, he corrected. Through the scope, Nick watched her pert breasts lift and drop with her laughter. Her lovely face flushed with amusement as she watched the man and beast trot off.
She was not more than twenty and some, he decided. From her plain dress, she was a servant, but her bearing was that of a queen. Only when she turned and rode in the other direction did Nick realize he had been staring at her longer than necessary.
A while later, Nick continued riding, periodically ducking his head under the low-hanging limbs. The path had dwindled to a trail of dense weeds.
Ahead, stood a three-story, Tudor-style stone monster of a house. Knee-high twitchgrass grew to the entrance. Shutters hung