Winning the War Hero's Heart. Mary Nichols

taking it on. Of course, you need to get the men together and work out how it can be done. Some of you will have specialist skills: ploughing, drilling, looking after animals. And shooting. I believe the land is plagued by rabbits. My friend will supply seed and equipment, whatever you need to start you off.’

      ‘Who is this friend of yourn?’ Jack asked warily. ‘What’s he want from us?’

      ‘He wishes to remain anonymous and he wants nothing from you. He is what you might call a philanthropist.’

      ‘Supposing times get better and some of us are offered our old jobs back?’

      ‘Then your piece of ground will go to someone else who needs it with compensation for the work you have done on it.’

      ‘Sounds all right,’ Jack said, still dubious.

      ‘Get the men together and ask them. Vote on it if you like, but do not say I have a hand in it. I am only a go-between, you understand.’

      ‘Oh, to be sure, I understand,’ Jack said, grinning.

      Miles left him to his gardening, knowing the man had guessed the identity of the philanthropist, but he would not say so, neither out loud to him nor to the men when he called them together.

      He returned to the kitchen where Helen was nursing young Eddie, who had fallen asleep in her arms. She smiled up at him and put a finger to her lips. He sat down silently and accepted a cup of tea from Mrs Watson, not once taking his eyes off the woman and the sleeping child. The hard-nosed business woman who could write such vitriolic attacks on the nobility, who could get her hands covered in ink, stand firm in a mob and never turn a hair at broken limbs and bloody noses, was a nurturer at heart. The picture she presented, her grey dress dishevelled, her hair tousled by chubby fingers keen to explore, was one of domesticity. It gave him a lump in his throat. It was sympathy for her, he told himself, sympathy and at the same time unbounded admiration, nothing to do with the fact that he might never enjoy having a family like it himself.

      Chapter Three

      With the tea drunk and the child roused and taken from Helen, they took their leave. If she had expected him to ride away, she was mistaken. He insisted on escorting her home, walking beside her, leading his mount.

      It was at least three miles and for a little while they walked in silence. She was acutely aware of him beside her, his height and strength, his warmth which was as unlike the coldness of his father as it was possible to be. His limp she hardly noticed—it was part of the man. ‘Mrs Watson seems to be managing very well with Mr Byers’s help,’ she said. ‘But she tells me he is working for bed and board only and that does not help his wife and family. And people who do not know the truth of it are gossiping. He really cannot stay there.’

      ‘I know. I have a friend who has some spare land who has come up with an idea to help the unemployed men, which will give them work. The idea is that a strip is given to each man to work as a market garden, but lodgings are another matter. There is an old barn on the far side of Ravensbrook. I don’t know if it is watertight, but if it could be made so, it could house several families.’

      ‘Who owns it?’

      ‘The man who owns the land,’ he said evasively.

      ‘Your friend is very generous.’

      ‘No, simply wishing to help.’

      ‘And what is the identity of this man, my lord?’

      He laughed. ‘Do you think I would tell you? It will be all over the next edition of the Wa r b u r ton R e c o rd.’

      ‘Why not? It would be good to publish some good news for a change.’

      ‘I will tell you more about it when it is all arranged, then you can let the world know that Warburton and its neighbouring villages look after their men.’

      ‘I wish the weather would improve,’ she said. ‘It would make all the difference, not only to the men’s chances of working, but to their spirits, too. Some days it is nearly as dark as night and, what with the rain and gales, everyone is miserable. We need a little sunlight and then we shall all feel more cheerful. And market gardens will not flourish without it.’

      ‘I know. I notice the parson prays for good weather in every service and the amens after that are louder than usual.’

      ‘Let us hope his prayers are answered. If the men cannot cultivate the land they are given, it will not help them, will it?’

      ‘No. I have been thinking about that. At Ravens Park we have a great glasshouse in which all manner of things grow regardless of the weather. The men could build some of those. I am sure my friend will provide them with wood and glass and there are bound to be carpenters and glaziers among them. They could grow more exotic things, which fetch more on the London markets.’

      ‘The generosity of this friend of yours seems unending,’ she said with a smile. She had already guessed the identity of the benefactor. It put her in a quandary. How could she maintain her antipathy towards him when everything he did was to his credit? She could only do it by reminding herself over and over again that he was his father’s son, that when he inherited he would undoubtedly revert to type. How could he not do so with that great mansion and a vast estate to maintain, not to mention the society with which he would have to associate? She hoped that would not happen before the good he was trying to do came to fruition.

      ‘If it keeps the men busy and stops them attending seditious meetings, that is all to the good, do you not agree?’ he said.

      ‘Oh, most certainly.’ The clouds were darkening the sky again as they approached the town. ‘If it rains again before you arrive home, you will be soaked,’ she commented. ‘Why not leave me? We are almost in the town. I shall be perfectly safe.’

      ‘I will see you to your door, as I promised, and I always have a serviceable cloak rolled up on my saddle. I met weather worse than this in the Peninsula when we were on the march and am none the worse for it.’

      ‘It must have been a hard time.’

      ‘No worse for me than hundreds of other poor beggars. As an officer, I could ride when they had to march and officers had billets when the men had to sleep where they dropped, whatever the weather, sometimes so hot it was like an oven, at other times freezing with hale and snow and biting wind.’

      ‘I wager you did not always take the billets, but slept with your men.’

      He laughed. ‘How do you know that?’

      ‘Because I am coming to know the man,’ she said simply.

      He turned towards her in surprise, but decided not to comment. If she was beginning to look more favourably on him, that was all to the good. If they could work together and not on opposing sides, who knew what they could achieve? But he decided not to say that either.

      They stopped outside her door. ‘Thank you for your escort, my lord,’ she said, wondering if she ought to invite him in for refreshment, but decided that would be going too far. She could almost see the curtains twitching in the house across the road. Instead, she held out her right hand.

      He took it in his firm grip. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Wayland. Take care now and if you need me, I am yours to command.’ And with that he lifted the back of her hand to his lips.

      Even through her thin glove, she could feel the warmth of his gentle kiss coursing through her and ending up in her cheeks. She was sure they were flaming. Was he simply being polite and behaving as a gentleman would to a lady? But she was not a lady and the situation in which they found themselves was not an occasion for the formal niceties of society. Oh, how she hoped the curtain twitchers had turned away at that moment.

      She retrieved her hand, bade him a hurried farewell and fled indoors, leaving him staring at the closed door.

      He shrugged, fetched out his cape and put it on before mounting and cantering away in the rain. Had they or had they not established a rapport? He