Hunter Of My Heart. Janet Kendall

mum, he will not learn anything.”

      “Mother was innocent, too. Yet he caused enough ruckus to make the authorities believe she was a spy.” Sabrina breathed deeply. “We’ll get our money and then take the twins someplace safe.”

      The duke had somehow found her, and that brought him one step closer to Alec. Lord. She wished her brother’s health was better. Living in the shadows had left her stomach permanently knotted.

      Every Sunday for the past four years, the Times last page had contained a small paragraph, one with nothing to identify the advertisement’s owner. Three facts identified her and she had discounted coincidence long ago. Still searching for Derek’s daughter Sabrina, now twenty. She guessed the notice would no longer appear now that he’d found her.

      Drawing a cleansing breath, Sabrina smelled the ripeness of the herbs intensified by the sea air. Tears threatened and she summoned the same courage she had relied on since her parents’ death four years earlier. She buried the dark thoughts and focused on the immediate problem. Opening her reticule, she pulled out her father’s pocket watch. Four-thirty.

      “It looks like rain. We’ll wait several more minutes to see if Kenilworth arrives.”

      Marga smiled, kindness warming her eyes. “Patience, ma chérie. In a few days, we will return to the little ones. This business, fini! Thomas will give us shelter until we make other plans. He need not know the truth about the debt or why we closed the shop.”

      Sabrina latched onto Marga’s optimistic words. For months, Kenilworth was just a name, but a week past, the Times featured an article on him. The newspaper described him as a man intent on helping the populace and reforming the government. Surely, the Times couldn’t be wrong about everything.

      A neighing horse and rumbling of a wagon jarred her thoughts. She spun toward the sound. In the distance, the Scottish mist obstructed her view as it meandered over a browning heather field. A breeze divided the fog and revealed a rider beside the loaded wagon. “That must be Lord Kenilworth!” Her heart drummed with expectation.

      From atop his black stallion, the man spoke to the wagon’s driver and then sang a Scottish ballad of a lad marrying a lass. Laughing, the driver turned the conveyance toward the castle. The man and horse disappeared inside the stable.

      Sabrina glanced at the horizon, now frosted with thunderclouds, and back to the stable. Turning, she handed Marga a small valise. “Watch for the mail coach. Ask the driver if he’ll wait for us. I must learn if that man who just arrived is Lord Kenilworth.”

      Marga fumbled with their baggage. “Mon Dieu! Alone? How do you know if either is his lordship?”

      “I don’t, but he looked aristocratic by the way he sat in the saddle. He looked confident! In good humor!”

      Her aunt frowned. “I should accompany you.”

      “I’ll be cautious. We can’t be in two places at once.”

      Without waiting for a reply, Sabrina lifted the skirt of her gray wool gown and ran down the garden path. The pebbles jabbed her feet through the soles of her half boots. As the wind parted Sabrina’s cloak, the clasp dug into her throat and the brisk air stung her cheeks—but those little irritants paled to her rising hope.

      After bursting into the stable, Sabrina took a steadying breath and smelled the pungent odor of moldy hay. The man’s tune drowned out her entry, and though she couldn’t see him, she followed the rich, baritone voice. Suddenly the tune stopped.

      “What the devil?” Surprise laced his words.

      Taking small steps, she edged closer to a stall. A pair of black-gloved hands broke her line of vision as they helped a filly stand. Sabrina craned her neck. He sat on the straw-hewn floor and stroked the black animal still wet from birth. When the foal’s hind legs wobbled, he steadied and guided her to the mare.

      “You’re a surprise. What shall we call you? The marking on your head says that stallion of mine is a lusty one.” Turning, the filly tried to suckle the riding crop tucked under his arm. He laughed, a deep rumble coming from his chest. “Oh, no. You’ll get no nourishment from this thing. You want this.” Placing the crop on the floor, he gently guided the filly to the mare’s udder.

      By claiming the filly, Sabrina felt certain she had found Hunter Sinclair, Earl of Kenilworth, the estate’s owner. His softly spoken words and gentle touch reinforced the newspaper’s accounting of him. Bless the Times. “Lord Kenilworth?”

      Swinging around, he stared at her with wide green eyes. “Yes?”

      “May I speak with you?”

      His brow creased. As he stood, he picked up his riding crop and brushed the straw off his buff trousers. “If you’re looking for a position, speak to the housekeeper.”

      The motion of his hand drew her gaze to his muscular thighs. Quickly she reversed her perusal. His towering height and broad shoulders, emphasized by the short cape layering his greatcoat, made him look formidable. She gripped her braid and finally pushed it over her shoulder.

      From her reticule, she retrieved a folded paper and handed it to him. “I’m Sabrina Beaumont, from Maison du Beaumont of London. This bill explains everything.”

      He snapped open the parchment and read. “I owe you six thousand pounds for women’s frippery? I pay my debts, Miss Beaumont, and this one isn’t mine.” Kenilworth flicked the paper between his fingers and held it beneath her chin. “Besides, the last time I wore a nightgown, I was a babe.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

      Her mouth parted and closed before she wrested her gaze from his well-shaped lips. “Your lordship, you or your man of business approved these expenditures. You’ve been in Barbados. Perhaps you’re unaware of this debt or didn’t receive my letters. Or forgot! I have something else.”

      Digging into her reticule, she produced his promissory note. She cautiously held the paper close to her chest as he read. Unease prickled her skin. “Sir. How long does it take to absorb one line?” She slipped the evidence into her reticule.

      Kenilworth’s green eyes narrowed, emphasizing the high bridge of his nose. He pointed a finger at her. “That’s a forgery. What deviousness are you plotting? Who sent you?”

      With his accusations ringing in her ear, she stepped backward. “What are you talking about?” She couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice. This was not the man the Times described.

      His eyes turned cold and hard. “I dislike surprises, Miss Beaumont, but welcome justice. I’ll give you one minute to tell me who concocted this alleged debt. Otherwise, I’ll take you to the authorities for trespassing, forgery and extortion.” From his waistcoat pocket, he retrieved his gold watch.

      The set of his chiseled jaw conveyed no sign of compassion, but his hard look fueled her determination. “All I know is that you owe me six thousand pounds.”

      “Thirty seconds.”

      She considered a strategy but knew she couldn’t execute it. “If you won’t listen, I’ll take this issue to court!”

      Exasperated, she turned as if to leave, but an iron grip caught her wrist. His touch made her heart jump. Still she raised her chin and pulled her arm from his hold.

      Kenilworth slid his crop through his fingers. “Go ahead. Take me to court.”

      His frigid timbre sent a chill down her spine, but from the ruffians she occasionally encountered on her errands, she had learned to show a tough demeanor. She glared at him. “The populace will think you made false promises. That you’re cheating a poor merchant. My accusations will taint your reputation, hurt your political aspirations.”

      He whacked his thigh with the whip.

      She winced.

      Kenilworth pointed his riding crop toward the barrel next to her legs. “Sit and start talking. Don’t spin a tale.”

      What