An hour later, blindfolded again, he left the disgusting place, thankful for an escort back to his mule.
He was satisfied with the Watchman’s plan for stealing the horse and getting rid of his father. He’d have preferred not to involve Tillie in the scheme, but the gang boss insisted he wanted her back. Mounted on the mule, he patted the satchel slung around his body. The Watchman hadn’t advanced him as much as he’d asked for, but it was better than nothing. Once the stud fees came rolling in, he’d be a rich man, though he’d been obliged to agree to a smaller share of the profits than he’d anticipated.
*
Tillie emerged fromthe parish poorhouse, lifted her chin and inhaled deeply. The sun’s weak rays did little to chase away the chill but even a hint of sunshine was a reassurance she was still alive.
Clutching the penny doled out reluctantly by the spiteful woman employed as matron of St. John’s Parish Almshouse, she shrank deeper into the meager shawl deemed adequate by the Poor Law commissioners and set forth to make the most of the one day a week she was allowed to venture into town.
Much as she looked forward to a few hours of relative freedom, it was tempting to retreat back into the wretched poorhouse when she heard an all too familiar voice calling her name.
Instead, she summoned what little dignity she had left and accosted Arthur Coleman. “Don’t call me that,” she hissed, hands braced on hips. “I’m Matilda.”
The fiend responsible for her miserable fate had the gall to smirk. “My word! Gone all posh, I see.”
Common sense told her to get as far away from Arthur as she could, but where would she go? “No. I used my full name so your cronies in Manchester wouldn’t find me if they came looking.”
“It was brave of you to escape,” he said softly, touching his fingers to her cheek.
She tried really hard to hold back the tears and stay angry with him. “I ended up in that awful brothel thanks to you.”
“I know,” he crooned, opening his arms, “and I’m sorry. But what else was I to do? They’d have killed me if I hadn’t handed you over. And you did muff up your part of the plot to kidnap the Crompton girl.”
That wasn’t precisely the way Tillie remembered the fiasco—how was she to know the Earl of Farnworth’s valet would show up with a rifle? However, Arthur’s reappearance was perhaps a godsend. She needed a patron if she was ever to escape the poorhouse. Ignoring a faint alarm bell ringing in the back of her head, she went into his embrace, warmed by the memory of the erotic delights they’d shared. “You ’ave to take better care of me, Arthur,” she murmured.
“I will, dear girl,” he promised. “I have a plan to make us rich.”
Tillie liked the sound of riches. Then she’d have a thing or two to say to the holier-than-thou mistress of St. John’s Parish Almshouse. “I missed you,” she cooed, grinding her mons against the hard maleness that proved he still loved her. “You’ve been ’iding somewhere tropical.”
Raking a sun-bronzed hand through golden hair, he revealed he’d been working for the East India Company.
“Oooh,” she replied, cupping her hand around a lovely arousal nestled in excitingly coarse trousers. “I’ve ’eard they get up to all kinds of naughty things in India.”
“I can’t wait to show you,” he growled, linking her arm.
She went with him willingly, feeling like a proper lady on the arm of a baron’s son.
Visiting Tenants
Reasonably in controlof his anger over Orion and the thefts at Clifton Heights, Griff acceded to Susan’s suggestion they go on horseback to visit his tenants instead of taking the carriage. Even cleaned and with the wheel fixed, the vehicle wasn’t up to his parents’ standards. It suddenly seemed important to live up to their expectations. He doubted Susan had made the proposal for the same reasons. She was right again that he’d appear less like the haughty lord of the manor arriving on horseback.
This was the trouble with bluestockings. Very often, they were so annoyingly right. Suggestions from interfering females usually rubbed him the wrong way, even if they were good ones. He supposed he was getting used to Susan’s habit of speaking her mind. It was part of her personality.
He shouldn’t have been surprised when she turned up her nose at the first mare he picked out for her. She reluctantly agreed to use the lady’s saddle only after he pointed out the tenants would be scandalized if she rode astride. The argument reminded him of the night she’d ridden into the stable yard at Thicketford Manor from Chester, hair windblown, skirts up around her thighs—a gypsy. He cleared his throat when the erotic memory stirred his male interest.
He should have left well alone and allowed the groom to assist her to mount. Instead, he compounded his problem by setting his hands about her waist without so much as a by-your-leave.
Her squeal of surprise as she grasped his shoulders was gratifying, not to mention arousing. He’d soon have her eating out of the palm of his hand if the dazed look in her eyes was any indication.
*
Admittedly, the shockof finding Griff’s big hands spanning her waist took Susan aback. It was a good thing his broad shoulders provided an anchor. However, she took the unexpected gesture as proof he was falling under her spell, though exactly what she’d done to enchant him remained a mystery. She’d complained loudly about the state of his household, overstepped with his servants and made a fuss about his choice of a horse for her to ride. Mind you, Emma always said Gabriel overlooked her faults because he loved her.
Love! No, she didn’t want Griff Halliwell to fall in love with her. She stifled an involuntary snort. As if that would ever happen! He was too self-centered to care about another person. The unavoidable truth of it made her feel inexplicably sad. If he ever did give his heart…
She corralled her wayward musings, wondering about the pretty porcelain figurine he’d reverently placed on the mantel upon his return from the servants’ quarters. Jaw clenched, he’d advised her of what had transpired with Andrews and the estate manager. She’d wisely not pried into the details, though it had taken restraint not to remark it was the kind of thing one might expect of servants left to their own devices.
As they left Clifton Heights, he still seemed to be in a mood not to engage in conversation; she resolved to speak only if called upon once they reached the village where most of the cottages were apparently located.