The Outcast's Redemption. Sarah Mallory

first reaction was to run away, but it was too late for that, he had spotted her. She should not look at him, but could not drag her eyes away from the sight of his half-naked body. The buckskins covering his thighs could not have been tighter, but although he was so tall there was nothing spindly about his long legs. They were perfectly proportioned. He had the physique of an athlete, the flat stomach and lean hips placing no strain on those snugly fitting breeches, but above the narrow waist the body widened into a broad chest and muscled shoulders, still wet and glinting in the morning sun. He bent to pick up his towel, his movements lithe, the muscles rippling beneath the skin. As he straightened she noted the black beard on his cheeks and watched as he flicked the thick dark hair away from his face. Droplets of water flew off the tendrils, catching the light. Like a halo, she thought wildly. A halo for a dark angel.

      ‘Good morning, Miss Duncombe.’

      Her throat had dried. She knew if she tried to speak it would be nothing more than a croak so instead she inclined her head, frowning in an effort not to blush. She forced her legs to move and walked on, feeling very much like one passing a strange dog and not knowing if it was going to attack. The line was only yards away from the pump and, keeping her back to him, she concentrated on pegging out his shirt. Her fingers felt stiff, awkward and her spine tingled at the thought of the man behind her. She had noticed faint scars on his body, signs that he had not lived a peaceful life.

      * * *

      It was very quiet, perhaps he had gone, after all he had finished washing himself and it must be cold, standing in this chill wind, naked...

      ‘Thank you for going to so much trouble for me.’

      She jumped at the sound of his deep voice. She turned to find he was very close, towering over her. He was towelling his wet hair and with his arms raised he looked bigger and broader than ever. The skin beneath his ribcage was drawn in, accentuating his deep chest with its shadow of dark hair. What would it be like to touch him, to run her hands over his skin and feel those crisp, dark hairs curling over her fingers?

      Shocked, Grace stepped back and hastily picked up the washing basket, holding it before her like a shield while she tried to gather her scattered wits. She must answer him.

      ‘It was nothing. We c-cannot have you going about the village like a beggar.’ She began to move backwards, as if she was afraid to turn her back on him. ‘Once you are dressed Mrs Truscott will serve you breakfast in the kitchen.’

      He kept his eyes on her, his look dark, unfathomable. She felt like a wild animal, in thrall to a predator.

      ‘Then I had best make myself presentable.’

      She swallowed.

      Pull yourself together, Grace!

      ‘Yes. Please do. And do not take too long about it. My servants have a great deal to do today.’

      From somewhere she found the strength to turn and walk away. She wanted to run, she could feel his eyes boring into her and a shiver ran the length of her spine. She had never met anyone who made her feel so ill at ease. Or so deliciously alive.

      * * *

      When Grace went down to the kitchen later she found their guest sitting at the table, enjoying a hearty breakfast. Mrs Truscott was also there, but Grace’s relief at finding that she was not alone with the man was tempered by the housekeeper’s behaviour. She was standing at one end of the table, watching the stranger with a look of motherly satisfaction while he addressed his plate of bacon and eggs. It was understandable, thought Grace, fair-mindedly, for the stranger had clearly made an effort to clean himself up. His hair was still damp but the dark curls were now brushed and gleaming and his lean cheeks were free of stubble, making him look much younger.

      And much more attractive.

      He looked up at that moment and she blushed.

      ‘Good morning again, Miss Duncombe.’

      He rose, but Grace quickly gestured to him to sit back down. He was so tall she did not want him towering over her. Again.

      ‘Pray, go on with your breakfast,’ she told him, not meeting his eyes. ‘I came to fetch tea. My father and I always enjoy a cup at this time, before he goes to his study to work.’

      ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Grace. I’ve been that busy I forgot all about it. I will make it now, just as soon as I have cut some more bread for Master...er...Mr...um...’

      ‘Peregrine,’ said Wolf, as the housekeeper stumbled over how to address him. He gave her a reassuring smile, which would have included Grace, if she had been attending, but she was already busy at the range, preparing tea. He had noted the tell-tale flush on her cheeks when she saw him and thought how well the extra colour suited her. She was a long Meg, no doubt about it, but not thin. He watched her now as she bustled about gathering cups, milk and sugar. Her movements were actually very pleasing to the eye.

      Wolf told himself this was no time to be considering a flirtation. But he could not resist one more small tease.

      He said, ‘I would very much like some tea, ma’am, if you can spare it.’

      She was pouring tea into the two fine porcelain cups as he spoke and he saw her hand shake a little.

      ‘You may have what is left in the pot.’ Still she would not look at him. ‘Mrs Truscott shall pour more water on the leaves for you, but if you will excuse me I must take these upstairs. Papa will be waiting.’

      And with that she whisked herself out of the kitchen. The housekeeper let out a whistling breath.

      ‘Well now, I’ve never known the mistress so curt before. I’ll make fresh tea for you, master, don’t you fret.’

      ‘No, no, you heard Miss Duncombe. The remains of this pot will do well enough for me. And do you sit down and join me.’

      ‘Nay, Master Wolf, that wouldn’t be fitting, me being a servant and all.’

      He pushed his plate away. ‘I have sat at table with much worse company than honest servants, Mrs Truscott, believe me. And I pray you will stop treating me like some great gentleman.’

      ‘But you are master of Arrandale, sir. How else am I to treat you?’

      ‘Like the scrubby schoolboy that used to creep into the parson’s garden and steal the best plums from the tree! Lord, how you used to scold me in those days. What a rogue I was.’

      ‘Aye, a rogue, sir, but never a villain,’ replied the old woman, her eyes unnaturally bright. ‘That I will never believe.’

      But could he ever prove it? thought Wolf. He saw the housekeeper surreptitiously wiping her eyes and he continued cheerfully, ‘Now let us have that tea while it is still drinkable.’

      ‘It will serve several times yet,’ she told him, fetching more cups. ‘I shall use the leaves again for Truscott and me, and then dry them and give them to the poor.’

      ‘Times are hard here?’

      ‘Times are hard everywhere, Master Wolf, what with the war and everything, but there’s no doubt that since your parents died, life has become much more difficult in Arrandale. The steward was carried off in the same epidemic and that made matters even worse, for there was no one to run the estate. These London lawyers don’t understand, you see. They expect their rents every Quarter Day and make no allowances for bad harvests, or sickness. What charity there is in the village comes from Mr Duncombe and his daughter.’ She hesitated. ‘There is some hereabouts that blames you for the troubles, Master Wolfgang.’

      ‘And with good cause. If I had not been so wild no one would have believed me capable of murdering my wife, I would not have fled the country and my parents would not have died.’

      ‘You don’t know that, sir.’

      ‘No, but it is what many believe, is it not?’

      ‘Aye, sir, it is. Which is why you must take care. There’s some in the village as would give