A Dangerous Love (10 page)

She didn’t flinch; if anything, his tale intrigued her even more. “How did you lose both your parents at once? Was it the pox? Or a drowning accident?”

He snorted. “Do you ever mind your own business, Lady Rosalind?”

“Not where my family is concerned.” When he shot her a black look, she added mischievously, “You’re staying under our roof and roaming the place rather freely, so I think it only fair that you help me determine your potential for mischief. I can’t have a genuine menace causing trouble on the estate.”

“Then you’d best prepare yourself for trouble. I’m lower than even you could imagine. I’m the bas
tard son of Wild Danny Brennan and the English innkeeper’s daughter who was his accomplice.” He paused as if to gauge her reaction, then said in a blatant taunt, “They died on the gallows.”

She gaped at him in sheer disbelief. The son of a highwayman? Why, the bloody liar! He couldn’t possibly be related to Wild Danny Brennan—he wasn’t crude or cruel enough to be the son of the Irish scourge who’d terrorized all travelers in Essex until he’d been caught in a tavern boasting of his successes. With his common law wife.

She shivered. Wild Danny Brennan
had
been hanged with a woman, a most unusual occurrence. And Mr. Brennan
had
introduced himself as
Daniel
Brennan. That must be rather more than coincidence.

“Is that why you use a nickname instead of your Christian name?” she probed. “Because you don’t want people to make the connection between you and your father?”

A shuttered look veiled his features. “No. I’m called Griff because of the griffin.”

“Ah, yes. How odd that Mr. Knighton would choose a smuggler and a highwayman’s son to manage his vast treasure.” As his hints of past dark deeds leapt instantly to mind, she added in a tone only half-teasing, “Though I suppose it’s appropriate for him to keep a griffin at hand for tearing his enemies asunder.”

“Tearing enemies asunder hasn’t been one of my duties for some time,” he said dryly. “Though I see I’ve affronted your delicate sensibilities. With my despicable background, I’m clearly unfit for your company.”

He seemed suspiciously determined to lower himself in her esteem. Perhaps he’d merely adopted
such a history for himself as an orphan because some family was better than none.

Or perhaps it was all true.

In either case, it merely increased her determination to keep an eye on him. And though it was horribly shameful to admit, his tales about his criminal past also captivated her. It
was
rather dramatic, wasn’t it? The pauper and son of criminals made good.
If
it were true.

“My sensibilities aren’t the least affronted,” she said. “Certainly no one would call them delicate. After all, you can’t help what your parents did, only what you do yourself. You chose a better path when you had the chance. You didn’t become a thief.”

“Except for that little dalliance with smuggling,” he pointed out.

She hid a smile. “Yes, except for that. But you’re respectable now.”

“Respectable. But not a gentleman.”

“Which is probably just as well. You’re already more particular in your tastes than any gentleman I know. I shudder to think what your opinion of Swan Park would be if you came at it from a gentleman’s viewpoint. As it is, you consider it inadequate in every respect.”

“Not in every respect.” His reluctant smile softened his rigid jaw and uncompromising mouth. “It has a very nice deer park.”

“Except that the trees grow too closely together.”

“Exactly.” He paused, his steps slowing a little. “So I haven’t offended you with my criticisms?”

He sounded so hopeful, she nearly laughed. “No, indeed. As far as I’m concerned, you and your employer are free to alter Swan Park however you wish after my sisters and I are gone.”

Only when he looked sharply at her did she real
ize what she’d just revealed. Dear God, she shouldn’t have spoken so hastily. Papa would take her over his knee if he learned that she’d practically told Mr. Brennan that she didn’t expect a marriage to occur.

But then, Papa had refused to consider any of their feelings—so perhaps she should present them to someone who might be more interested. In the process, she could point out a few damaging facts that might dissuade Mr. Brennan’s employer from taking on a debt-ridden estate and three spinsters with scant portions. Yes, perhaps Mr. Knighton ought to hear that his tidy arrangement with Papa wasn’t so tidy after all.

And the best way to inform Mr. Knighton was to inform his man of affairs.

Chapter 7

She knows her man, and when you rant and swear, Can draw you to her
with a single hair.

John Dryden, English poet, critic, and playwright, Translation of Persius
, Satires

G
riff had no idea what to make of Rosalind’s comment. After this morning, he had no idea what to make of the woman at all. She’d endured his criticisms with surprising equanimity. She’d even laughed at him, as if she’d guessed his tactics.

She probably had. He gained hourly proof that the woman was even more clever than he’d given her credit for. She’d run Swan Park adequately, despite her eccentric methods. Granted, he wouldn’t have painted the outside of the dairy a periwinkle blue to compensate for the “dull” white on the inside. But the facility itself was scrupulously clean and seemed to have a superior output, judging from the cheese she’d made him sample.

He wouldn’t have hired as grooms three itiner
ant actors from Stratford-upon-Avon, who at first seemed incapable of anything but reciting
As You Like It
for milady’s pleasure. But they’d done a decent enough job with the stables when one considered that her horseflesh served only to carry her and her sisters about the estate and into Stratford.

With such knowledge of her capabilities, he couldn’t let her strange comment about leaving Swan Park pass with no explanation. “What do you mean, ‘after my sisters and I are gone’? Surely if one of you marries my employer as your father plans, you would all continue to live here.”

She loped down the path ahead of him. “Just because Papa has offered us up like cattle to be auctioned doesn’t mean we’ll go meekly to the slaughter.”

He followed her in a daze. “Do you mean to tell me that you and your sisters don’t wish to marry my employer?”

“That’s precisely what I’m telling you.”

Damnation. Not only were they innocent of taking part in their father’s blackmail plans, they weren’t even eager to marry him. How in hell could that be? “You know you’ll lose Swan Park if one of you doesn’t marry Knighton.”

“What do I care? It’s a bloody inconvenience running an estate, I’ll have you know. Especially one as deeply in debt as Swan Park.”

“It’s a great deal of work, I’m sure.”

“It’s not the work I mind.” She glowered at him as if he’d just insulted her. “I’m not afraid of work, for pity’s sake.”

“Then why—” He broke off as an image of her brandishing a sword leapt into his mind. “Ah, yes. It’s the
kind
of work that annoys you. Too dull, I would imagine.”

Her exaggerated sigh gave him his answer. “Not all of it. I like overseeing any redecorating or construction. I like supervising the staff. I like planning dinners.”

“Overseeing, supervising, planning.” He smirked at her. “You like being in charge, don’t you?”

She shrugged. “I suppose I do. But the other duties are so tedious. I hate going over the books with our steward and settling stupid tenant squabbles and attending to a thousand boring details. I do it because I have to—because no one else will—not because I like it.”

He wondered if that were entirely true. She could let the “boring details” fall by the wayside; plenty of people did. But he wouldn’t argue that point. Instead, he played devil’s advocate. “All right, so you don’t enjoy running the estate. But you needn’t abandon it entirely. If Knighton marries one of your sisters, he’ll run it, or pay someone else to run it. You can just live here, you and your sisters, and enjoy yourself.”

“I don’t want to live here, no matter what happens,” she surprised him by saying. “What is there to enjoy in Stratford? I want to live in London.”

He should have known. “Then you should marry Knighton yourself and have him take you there.”

For the love of God, what was he saying? “Knighton” wouldn’t marry any of them, even her, he reminded himself. Indeed, if matters went as planned, the entire family would be evicted from Swan Park within a matter of months.

The thought roused his conscience from the dead.

She scowled. “Marry Knighton? No, indeed! I wouldn’t do so for all the wealth in England!”

The insult sent his conscience fleeing back to its grave. “That’s a bit strong, isn’t it?” The woman ought to be glad
anyone
would marry her, consider
ing her years and her…peculiar ways. “Does the thought of marriage to Knighton disgust you so much?”

She blinked at his acid tone. “No…yes…I mean, it’s not
him
I object to, not exactly. It would be the same with any man Papa picked without considering my feelings. This isn’t the Dark Ages, after all. Women ought to be free to choose their own husbands, don’t you think?”

His pride remained bruised, although he agreed with her in principle. “And I suppose you want to be free to choose a husband who hasn’t built his business on smuggled goods.”

He expected her to deny it, but she met his gaze steadily. “Now that you mention it…yes. How could I respect a man who put fortune above every other consideration—above morality, law, and honor?”

He stalked resolutely ahead to prevent her from seeing his anger. What did she know about putting “fortune above every other consideration”? She had her deer park and her servants and probably a portion as well. It might not be large, but then,
large
was a relative term, wasn’t it? Long ago, large would have meant twenty pounds to him. She’d never known a life like
that
, he’d wager.

Still, the more he considered it, the more her response astonished him. He was used to women who “put fortune above every other consideration,” who’d been willing to overlook his questionable past if it meant being the wife or even the mistress of the very rich Mr. Knighton. Yet here was a woman who actually considered his money a liability, a demonstration of his poor character. He didn’t know whether to admire her ideals or deplore her snobbery.

As if realizing she’d insulted him, she caught up,
and murmured, “It’s not only the smuggling, you understand. I believe a woman—people—ought to marry for love.”

He glanced at her. She stared off down the path as if she looked toward a future where some man might fall in love with her. It was hard to believe this Amazon had romantic notions about marriage. Mercenary, yes, or even condescending. But romantic? Extraordinary.

“Isn’t that an unusual point of view for someone of your station?” he asked. “Doesn’t your sort believe it’s as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one?”

“I don’t know what ‘my sort’ believes, but I personally believe it isn’t easy to fall in love with anyone, rich or poor.” She cast him a sidelong glance. “And what do you believe? That a man should marry a rich wife when he can? Or perhaps you already have a rich wife back in London.”

“No,” he said firmly. “No planned or actual wife, rich or poor. I have…other matters that concern me more than marriage right now.” Matters that might make it even more difficult for the Swanlea Spinsters to marry. He squelched the guilt that rose in his chest.

“So you don’t plan to marry at all, for money
or
for love?”

“Not for money, and certainly not for love. I don’t believe such a dubious emotion exists—I’ve never felt it myself. People merely mistake desire for love, a dangerous error that induces men to act like fools and women to choose bad husbands when their…er…urges to lead them into disaster.” A caution he ought to remember when dealing with Lady Rosalind—for if anyone could lead a man into disaster, it was she.

“What a cynic you are. From what I understand, love differs vastly from desire.”

“But you don’t know for certain? You’ve never been in love yourself?”

Her gaze swung to his, startled, then wary. The gold flecks in her hazel eyes echoed the glint of sunlight on the glossy oak leaves overhead. He held her gaze, a strange tension building in his chest as he watched faint color tinge her cheeks.

Then she snapped her gaze back to the path ahead. “No, I don’t think so.”

He resisted the urge to ask her the next logical question—if she’d ever felt desire—since any answer was liable to fire his own “urges.” “Don’t you think you’d remember if you had been in love?”

That made her smile. “Yes, I suppose I would.”

He suddenly wanted desperately to prevent her rare smile from vanishing. “Then your objection to marrying Knighton has nothing to do with some secret and vastly inappropriate suitor you’ve stashed away.”

Laughter bubbled out of her, light and airy and immensely satisfying to hear. “No, indeed not.”

“What about your sisters?” he asked, ruthlessly reminding himself of his greater purpose, which would be better served by delving for information than by flirting with Lady Rosalind. “Have they any suitors hidden away?”

“Not that I know of.” She walked with a more relaxed gait now, her limbs looser, more fluid, as if telling him her thoughts on marriage had freed her to be more comfortable with him. “But I don’t check the deer park regularly. And there’s always the stables—you did find the grooms very incompetent, as I recall. They could be suitors in masquerade.”

Fanciful woman. He knew very well she hadn’t
been taken in by his criticisms. “Yes, who knows what devious elopement plans one of them might be hiding?” He crunched along through the leaves. “So your sisters don’t wish to marry Knighton either?”

She hesitated before answering. “Juliet is difficult to read—unlike me, she desperately wants to remain at Swan Park. And Papa presses her on the matter constantly. Despite all that, however, I think she’d balk in the end.”