It Started With A Look. Miranda Lee

a testing course for any horse and rider—it could prove disastrous to someone unfamiliar to it.’

      ‘My experiences have taught me how to read every kind of terrain.’

      ‘Of course. I forget you are a soldier.’

      ‘Was,’ Kit corrected. ‘I did serve for a time in the Low Countries, which was where Blackwell and I became acquainted—but we were never friends.’

      ‘What’s he like?’ Serena ventured to ask tentatively. ‘Our homes are close, but I cannot say that I know him well—not even after what occurred between us yesterday. It would not have happened had he not been drunk.’

      Kit lifted a dark, winged brow, knowing that drunk or sober made no difference to Blackwell’s behaviour. He was often to be found frequenting brothels where there were women aplenty to gratify his sexual appetite. But Kit could not tell this young maid the full extent of Blackwell’s bestiality, of his brutal methods when dealing with others.

      Blackwell’s reputation was sealed by the aftermath of a massacre of nine Catholic women—five of them nuns—at a convent a short distance over the border from the United Provinces in Flanders. By all accounts Blackwell had stood and watched his soldiers violate the women before butchering them, and afterwards had drunk a toast to their deaths.

      But well before that his arrogant bullying style had made him feared by his enemies and hated by the soldiers beneath his command. Kit had not met Blackwell before the massacre; in his opinion Blackwell was one of the cruellest, most dissolute officers he had ever known. Coming upon the murdered women at the convent, Kit had considered Blackwell’s behaviour so outrageous that he was moved to complain to a higher authority. Shortly afterwards Blackwell’s regiment had been recalled, but his reputation was blackened forever.

      ‘I shall not offend your senses by giving you an account of Blackwell’s crimes in the Low Countries. Be satisfied when I tell you that they were committed with the utmost barbarity, and that he should have been hanged for them.’

      ‘Then why wasn’t he? Lesser mortals would have been.’

      ‘True. But Blackwell has friends in high places—not least Salisbury, the king’s chief minister. Blackwell is famed more for his valour in the boudoir than on the battlefield,’ Kit told Serena with a cynical smile. ‘He is not a particularly savoury character and made many enemies when he was in the Low Countries. Living his life on a short fuse, he has a penchant for excessive carousing and brawling. Wherever he is to be found wars are not always confined to the battlefield. In between fighting he has led a pretty dissolute life, both in London and abroad.’

      Kit was still curious as to how Serena had come to be alone with the villain yesterday. Did Blackwell accost her or did she meet him of her own free will? He had a strong suspicion it was the latter. ‘Take care, Mistress Carberry,’ he said, his tone grave. ‘You would do well to steer clear of Blackwell. He is not a man to be trifled with or made a fool of.’

      ‘Which I have discovered to my cost,’ Serena replied drily, yielding her gaze to Kit’s unwavering regard. ‘Do not underestimate him either, Lord Brodie,’ she advised. ‘You may have cause to regret stepping in to rescue me. Since his father’s death, Thomas has become a man of importance and influence.’

      ‘Blackwell is also a man of arrogance,’ said Kit, a wry twist curling his lips. Grinning suddenly, his eyes gleamed across at her wickedly. ‘Do I detect a note of concern for me in your voice, Mistress Carberry? If so, I am deeply touched.’

      Serena’s cheeks burned and she lifted her head imperiously. ‘Oh! You insufferable beast. You are mistaken.’

      Kit laughed softly at her confusion, enjoying watching the fluid motion of her body as she sat her horse. His gaze dwelt on the rain running down her hat and settling on her hair, fascinated by the mass of tiny curls that clung to her face. Droplets of moisture clung to her thick lashes and upper lip. Unconsciously she licked them off with the point of her tongue, and Kit found this small action provocative in the extreme and felt the heat flame in his belly.

      He felt the urge to pull her on to his horse, to hold her, to have her body pressed close and have his own mouth kiss away the droplets of rain from her lips, to taste their velvety softness, sure they would taste as sweet as honey. He looked straight ahead, the rain swirling all around them, knowing it was madness to think like this when his thoughts should be directed towards his betrothed, to that gentle creature soon to be his wife in shared tenderness, faith and mutual respect.

      Forcing his mind along a different path, Kit remembered there were things he wanted to ask Serena concerning her father that had troubled him before leaving London and which, since reaching Dunedin Hall, now troubled him more.

      ‘I’m glad to have this opportunity of speaking to you alone. There’s a serious matter I wish to speak with you about,’ he said after a long interval, his voice grave and his expression serious. ‘If you will permit me, that is.’

      ‘What is it?’ Serena asked, glancing across at him curiously.

      ‘Last evening you mentioned that Robert Catesby came to see your father to purchase some horses.’

      Serena stiffened. Although she didn’t look at him, she felt Lord Brodie’s scrutiny. The time her father had spent alone with Sir Robert and Mr Grant when they had come to Dunedin Hall concerned no one but them, and was not to be discussed with this Protestant stranger she had no particular liking for.

      ‘Yes, he did, but if you don’t mind, Lord Brodie, I—’

      ‘Understand that I have no wish to pry or to meddle in your father’s affairs,’ Kit interrupted quickly. ‘I do so on this one matter only out of deep concern, for I strongly suspect that the purchase of those horses will, in time, have a far-reaching and disastrous effect on a great many people.’

      With a growing dread, Serena looked at him, a feeling of doom curling itself round her heart. ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Tell me—how many horses did Catesby and John Grant purchase?’

      ‘Twenty, in all,’ Serena told him with reluctance. ‘Why is it important for you to know?’

      Kit shrugged easily, watching her reaction closely. ‘I’m interested. I consider it a number far beyond domestic requirements. Come. Why the secrecy?’ he demanded, his eyes narrowing in question.

      ‘I wasn’t aware that I was being secretive. But if you are to see Mr Grant at the hunt later, perhaps you should ask him why he purchased them.’

      ‘But would I get the right answer?’

      ‘Why ever not?’ Serena bestowed a brittle smile upon him. ‘Although he might surprise you and tell you to mind your own business.’

      ‘I expect he would—and I would not blame him in the slightest.’

      ‘Don’t concern yourself, my lord,’ Serena said lightly, trying to ease the sudden tension that had developed between them. ‘Let me put your mind at rest. The reason for the purchase is quite simple and can easily be explained.’

      ‘Then tell me.’

      ‘Mr Catesby is hoping to obtain a military commission under the Archduke Albert in Flanders, which, as you will know, being a military man yourself, is a perfectly legal venture after the signing of the peace treaty with Spain last year. He needs horses to form a troop of horse and my father has horses to sell. Have you reason to doubt what I tell you?’

      ‘Yes, I do. Who told you this?’

      ‘My father,’ Serena replied, trying to sound calm, but she was more troubled than she cared to show.

      ‘And you believe him?’

      ‘Of course I do,’ she flared, indignant. ‘My father does not lie.’

      ‘I would not insult him by accusing him of such. But I suspect that if this is what Catesby told your father, then it’s a useful piece of