Bought for Revenge. Sarah Mallory

timbers. Ivy curled around the chimneys. the stone-mullioned windows had lost all their glass and stared like blind eyes across what had been the south lawn. It was now dotted with small trees, like the drive. It had been a fine property once, and he would rebuild it. But whether he could bring himself to live there again…

      A slight sound brought his attention back to Miss Havenham. She was leading the horse away.

      ‘Are you not going to ride him?’

      The look she gave him was positively arctic. ‘I cannot mount without a block. I shall walk home.’

      ‘Let me throw you up.’ He could see the indecision in her face and added, ‘Come, Miss Havenham. Let me atone for my previous bad manners.’

      ‘I don’t think anything can do that.’

      He grinned. ‘At least let me try.’

      She did not walk away and he took that for an assent. He approached and she waited warily, murmuring to the grey as she gathered up the reins.

      ‘Steady, Apollo. Easy, boy.’

      The horse seemed to know what was expected of him and stood patiently. Lucas ran a hand down the animal’s muzzle.

      ‘Apollo. A good name for him. He is a handsome creature.’

      She did not reply, but placed the toe of her riding boot in his cupped hands. He threw her easily up into the saddle and she made herself comfortable, at the same time controlling Apollo with no more than a quiet word. Lucas made no attempt to help her, merely watching as she slipped her boot into the stirrup and arranged her skirts to cover an extremely dainty ankle. He stepped back.

      ‘I shall be calling upon your father very soon, Miss Havenham. I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again.’

      ‘I shall tell Papa to expect you. I will also make it clear to our people that the manor is sold and is now out of bounds.’

      ‘Please, feel free to ride here whenever you wish.’

      She shook her head. ‘I do not intend ever to come here again.’ She looked around, as if committing the place to memory, then turned her horse and cantered away.

      Lucas watched her go, a slight smile playing around his mouth. Perhaps he should have treated her more gently, but she had spirit, and he had enjoyed rousing her temper. He had enjoyed kissing her, too, although that had never been part of his plan, but she had looked so damned alluring there in his arms, how could he help himself? She was no beauty, the curls that peeped beneath her riding hat were a nondescript brown, but her features were regular and he had already discovered that her generous mouth was perfectly formed for kissing. She had a good figure, too—he recalled how well it felt, pressed against his. Smiling, he picked up his axe. How much greater would be Havenham’s ruin if he lost his daughter as well as his fortune?

      Nerves jangling, Annabelle struggled to keep Apollo at a steady canter. She did not intend to slow down until the chimneys of Oakenroyd were in sight. She was shaken by her encounter with the new owner of Morwood, but not overly frightened and that surprised her. To be accosted by a strange man, one so dark and foreign looking, too, to be pulled from her horse—here she stopped herself. She must be honest. She had fallen from her horse and could have been badly injured if he had not caught her. And he had held her so easily, as if she had weighed nothing. The experience had been quite…exhilarating.

      That did not excuse his behaviour afterwards, of course, when he had kissed her. She let herself go over that moment again. She could still recall the feel of his mouth on hers, and the moment when she had felt something in her leap to respond.

      Outrageous!

      From all she had been told, all she had read, she knew she should have been terrified at being imprisoned in those strong arms. She should have fainted quite away. Annabelle gave a little huff of impatience. She had never thought much of those heroines who burst into tears at the slightest thing and swooned as soon as a man touched them. Why, that would leave the man free to behave in whatever way he wished. Surely it was better to fight and struggle, as she had done?

      And in the end he had let her go. Well, there was little else he could do. A poor start to his ownership if he was to ravish his neighbour’s daughter at the outset. She wondered if he planned to settle at Morwood Manor. As its name suggested, it had once been the major property in the area. Her father had a watercolour of the house as it had been before the fire, a substantial stone building dating back to the time of the Tudors. The wealth of its owners had declined since then, and the last owner, Jonas Blackstone, was said to have been a poor landlord. That was well before Annabelle had been born, however. Her father had bought the manor lands soon after the fire, but although he had looked after the tenant farmers, he had never done anything with the house and grounds. Morwood had remained unused and untended, and Annabelle had grown up roaming freely through the woods and the ruins. They had been her playground, but that of course was ended now. She would avoid the manor and its odious owner in future.

      Annabelle stabled her horse and went indoors. She decided not to tell her father of her meeting with their new neighbour. Papa was not yet sixty, but a serious illness a few years ago had aged him considerably and she felt very protective towards him. He had always been so much more than just a father to her. Annabelle had never known Mama, who had died giving birth to her, and the loss of her only brother ten years ago had brought her much closer to her one remaining relative. Papa was the very kindest of men and had always been both her mentor and confidant. She could not lie to him and details of her encounter with Mr Monserrat would grieve him deeply, so it was best not to speak of it at all. Besides, the man had acknowledged that he had acted improperly, had he not? So she would not dwell upon it, although she would make sure he never had the opportunity to repeat his outlandish behaviour.

      Annabelle found her father in the morning room, reading beside the crackling fire.

      ‘Ah, Belle, my love.’ He put down his book. ‘You have been a long time, I was beginning to worry.’

      She glanced at the clock as she crossed the room, stripping off her gloves.

      ‘I beg your pardon, Papa. But it has not been so very long, certainly no longer than usual.’

      ‘I wish you would take Clegg with you, my dear. I am always afraid you might meet with some accident.’

      Annabelle’s thoughts flew back to her encounter with Mr Monserrat. Could her groom have prevented that outrageous kiss?

      ‘Mayhap I will then, in future.’ Her eyes fell upon the little table beside his chair. ‘I see you have been playing chess. Have you had a visitor?’

      ‘Yes, Mr Keighley called and stayed to play a game.’ He chuckled. ‘I think his real purpose was to see you, but he bore your absence very well.’

      ‘And so he might, since it gave him the opportunity to play with one of the finest chess players in the county,’ she returned, smiling.

      James Keighley was a widower and good friend to her father. Lately he had shown more of an interest in Annabelle and she suspected that he might be thinking of making her an offer. She was not sure how she felt about this, since he was on the shady side of forty and she had not yet reached one-and-twenty.

      However, she knew the match would make her father happy. Mr Keighley’s fortune was not inconsiderable and he owned a substantial property some five miles away from Oakenroyd. As his wife she would have every comfort. Except one.

      Annabelle might despise the lachrymose heroines of romantic novels, but she had not set herself against the idea of marrying for love. She knew it was unlikely that a strong, handsome hero would appear to sweep her off her feet or save her from some hideous fate, but she still cherished the hope that she would meet a man for whom she could feel more than a tepid affection.

      Unbidden, the image of their new neighbour rose up in her mind. There was no doubt of his strength. She recalled quite clearly the powerful thighs encased in buckskins, and the wide shoulders made even broader by the billowing shirt sleeves, but in no way could she think of him