Chapter Three

The sound of horses' hooves rang sharp in the cool evening air as a carriage pulled onto the cobblestone entrance of Stafford House. Raine remained in the kitchen with Crete when Henry left to greet the guests.

Muffled voices from the foyer preceded Henry's return. "Everyone here now, in dah dining room wid Mastah Derek."

Crete lifted the silver-domed lids on the sideboard and sneaked a peek at the food. "Nothing to worry about now, Raine. They won't notice we're in the room."

With a mirthless snicker, her knees trembling, Raine said, "Easy for you to say."

Crete carried the soup and salad into the dining room and Raine trailed with a tray of coffee and tea carafes. Seated at the head of the table, Derek nodded in her direction. An elderly man sat to his left, a woman to his right, one of the couples from the pictures.

Lyman sat mid-table with his wife—a thin, raw-boned woman—and a trio of young girls. And yes, his hair was orange, like the inside of a pumpkin.

Derek's mother, Raine assumed, her voice low, her enunciation precise, broke the silence. "It's quite brisk for October."

Silver hair framed the woman's face, accentuating her delicate features. Strength, patience and a smattering of wit resided in her bright blue eyes. Derek favored his mother, Lyman the father.

"In comparison to the blizzard of fifty-seven, we can live with whatever winter brings." The woman's husband retrieved a napkin that had fallen from his lap. "Do you remember boys, the river froze and twenty-foot snowdrifts held the city at bay for days?"

Tall like his sons, a shock of gray hair held remnants of youthful brown. His eyes, a shade lighter than Derek's, foretold shrewdness, forcing Raine against the wall with the potted plants.

"Oh, some had a marvelous time." Elne's lilting voice accompanied a dismissive wave of her hand. "Sleighing and skating parties went on from sunup to dusk."

By the time Crete retreated to the kitchen for the main entree, the middle child had already spilled one water goblet and threw her endeavors into toppling the second.

"Ophelia, how many times must you be told!" The shrill tone of Zilpha's voice rang in the quiet room. "Keep your arms at your sides, your back pressed against the chair!"

Raine dropped her eyes and tried to blend in with the fan leaf palms beside her. Until Ophelia sent another goblet hurtling from the table. Amid the child's pathetic tears and her mother's hysterics, Raine plucked the broken glass from the rug.

"I swear I'll escort you to the barn if you don't display proper manners at the table!" Lyman shrieked.

Much to Raine's relief, Elne rose from the table to comfort the child and turned to her with a smile. "Would you retrieve a towel from the kitchen, please?"

"Certainly," Raine retreated from the room and returned to a discussion between Julian and his sons.

"Nonetheless, Derek and Lyman, I'm not getting any younger, and I'm ever conscious of the fact that my sons haven't produced an heir. Why must I reiterate my terms at every turn?"

"I haven't the foggiest," Derek said. "Why must you?"

Julian ignored the cut and continued. "The father of the first male receives the legal title to Stafford House and all its holdings." He pushed his hands skyward. "I grow weary of waiting."

A rosy hue colored Elne's cheeks. "Julian, please, might we have one family gathering without discussing your desire to force our sons into producing an heir?" She smiled at no one in particular but at everyone seated at the table. "We have three adorable granddaughters and should be thankful for that."

"Elne," he replied, and Raine could have sworn he clenched his teeth, "I'll thank you to direct your energies to issues...whatever it is women are concerned with." He sent a dissonant glare to his sons. "I've been clear about the necessity of preserving the family name. My holdings will fall to charity if, at the time of my death, I can't leave them to a grandson."

"Lyman and I are aware of your wishes, sir." Derek shook his head. "How could we not be?" In a lighter tone, he added, "This is not the time to continue the discussion."

"Time," Julian replied. "I'm afraid I have little of that commodity."

Derek's lips thinned. "I'm certain after dinner we can gravitate toward the study where you can issue your threats in earnest."

"I haven't worked all these years to see the fruits of my labor fall into the hands of women or their shiftless spouses. I'll sell Stafford House to virtual strangers before I see that happen."

Raine jumped when the ogre banged his fist on the table.

Elne pierced her husband with a withering glare. "Julian, you must stop!"

After a flippant wave of his hand, Julian stabbed the generous slice of roast beef on his plate with a fork and began dissecting it with his knife.

From beneath half-shuttered eyelids, Raine glanced at Derek, and wished she hadn't. He blew air through his lips. Her gaze moved on to Zilpha. The woman's lower lip protruded, proof she knew Julian's last comment was intended for her and her inability to produce a son. Lyman battled indecision. First, he lifted his chin as if to offer an apology for his inadequacy, but soon dropped the jutting protuberance to his chest. How strange to feel like a fly on the wall while listening to a family's most private conversations.

The remainder of the meal passed without incident, much to Raine's relief. When she finished washing the dishes and stacking them on the sideboard, Crete released her for the evening.

She rushed from the kitchen, bypassed the study and headed to her room. Intent on passing the remainder of the evening in the garden, she changed into comfortable attire and crept down the stairs.

Passing the sitting room, Zilpha's harsh screech drifted under the door, followed by a mournful wail from one of her daughters. "Ophelia," she whispered under her breath. "Poor, clumsy girl, you're destined to a life of misery."

Raine picked up her pace, and moments later stood in the garden among the fat pumpkins and goose-necked squash. She gathered the last of the summer beans in a basket, plucked a row of late radishes and moved on to the heady blossoms in the flower garden several feet away. Dropping onto a nearby bench, she closed her eyes, and tried to still the inner turmoil by concentrating on pleasant thoughts.

Images of her parents and their recent deaths brought tears to her eyes. She looked at her surroundings and despair clutched her heart. Her thoughts turned to her grandfather. How she missed him. In a quandary about how to notify him of his son's death, she failed to hear Derek until he slid into a bench opposite her.

"Why the sullen face, you did a splendid job?"

Derek's smile dazzled her. "Thank you for the vote of confidence."

A mask of solemnity erased his grin. "I've heard nothing regarding your parents yet. Have you given more thought to contacting your grandfather?"

"I cannot," she said.

"You think highly of him, don't you?"

Tears brimmed in her eyes without warning. "He's an irascible old Scotsman, but enormously lovable."

"A Highlander, then. An intriguing lot, if not a bit eccentric."

"He is rather unconventional."

"In what way?"

Her gaze wandered to the flowers on her left while she struggled to find the words.

"Oh, come now, he can't be that peculiar."

She turned toward him again, and stifled a silent gasp. A triangle of light from the setting sun fell upon his features, more perfect than she'd realized. She'd never thought of using the word beautiful to describe a man. Until now. His skin was bronzed by the sun, a sharp contrast to the dark blue eyes and even, white teeth. He had removed his formal dinner attire and now, leaning against the back of the bench, she noticed a shadow of curly, dark hair beneath the open button of his shirt.

Good Lord, had he asked her a question? Something about her grandfather? "The good citizens of Camden find him odd at times. And no, I've not posted a letter to him about my parents. I've written several but shredded them." She tried to ignore the wild thumping of her heart. "It occurred to me he might already know about the accident."

One black eyebrow rose. "Who would have sent word to him?"

"No one has to tell him," she said on a sigh. "He possesses the gift."

The gorgeous man across from her continued his slow perusal, his expression passive. Like a hapless schoolgirl, she rambled on. "Visions and dreams come to him; foretell the great events of his life before they occur."

Derek leaned forward, his knuckles resting under his chin. "Continue."

"Or soon thereafter. He bears the mark of the quarter moon on his left shoulder, the same as his grandfather and those before him."

"An intriguing phenomena."

Two things intrigued her, the hard muscles of his thighs straining against his breeches and a more private area lined up with her vision. Oh, go away, please go away. "Many claim it's a curse."

"Do they now? Tell me more."

"The mark skips a generation and appears on male members of our family." His sudden interest in her affairs unsettled her, but nonetheless she proceeded. "People seek him out for the laying of the hands. Throughout my childhood, strangers appeared at our door pleading for him to cure their headache or continual pain. Some asked that he discharge nervous ailments or..."

His eyes narrowed. "Or?"

"Dispel demons."

"Did he cure them; was he able to bring them ease?"

She nodded. "Some call it legerdemain—trickery—but I saw grown men in wheelchairs walk again, and women barren for years bring forth life."

"How does he explain the gift?"

"I assure you, he doesn't take it lightly, nor does he flaunt it for gain or fame." She assumed her best Scottish brogue. "Lass, the mind is powerful. If it be true that I have the gift, 'tis through the Lord's blessing. His divine intervention works through these work-hardened hands. On the day I meet Him face to face, I shall thank Him."

Raine studied Derek, waiting for a roll of his eyes or a wave of his hand, but on the contrary, he seemed absorbed in the conversation.

The rich timbre of his voice soothed her turbulent emotions. "Little wonder you adore him."

"Yes, well, I'm sure you have better things to occupy—"

"No, I don't, and I hoped to find you in the garden."

She watched his every move when he rose from the bench and plucked an aster from a stem. When every muscle in his back flexed beneath the white cotton shirt, an ache took flight low in her belly. What on God's earth is wrong with me?

He didn't offer her the flower, but rather placed it on the bench beside her and resumed his prior position. "I apologize for my father's insane outburst at the table."

"Insane is a mite strong."

He smiled again. "What the house staff must think of my father's rants."

"I don't know what the others think, but I gather it's imperative one of his sons sires a male child."

Beneath the calm façade, a muscle in his cheek twitched. "Imperative is an understatement. My father's wishes in this regard are unwavering." He emitted a sarcastic chuckle. "The years have passed and we've failed him. Lyman and Zilpha have three daughters and I have nothing to show for my years of marital bliss."

Had he hissed the last word? "Forgive my boldness but why is it important to him?"

"You shared your family's oddities with me, so I'll do the same. I warn you, it's complicated." His gaze shifted away from her. "It goes back a very long time in the Stafford family. The manor has been in the hands of the Staffords since Norfolk's early days, either managed or owned by a male descendant. My father believes if a male child isn't produced to carry on the Stafford name, his life has been for naught."

"He loves his granddaughters?"

"I imagine in his peculiar way, yes. Yet he makes it clear that when he passes on, the Stafford name must continue, recreate for centuries." A long sigh left his lips. "He believes his soul will wander the halls of oblivion forever."

"You're serious?"

"I warned you, the situation is complicated."

"But mortals don't control the gender of an infant."

His voice took on a thoughtful tone. "Some would disagree with you. Various theories exist on that particular subject, some legitimate, others the result of delving into voodoo and other holistic concoctions. Papers have been published on how to manipulate the gender of a child."

Raine fidgeted on the bench. The conversation had veered into intimate, if not outlandish. To discuss the desire to have a male child was one matter, to explore methods to alter that desired result another. And yet, she was drawn to the conversation, and everything about the man.

Sensing her distress, he apologized again. "Forgive me, the matter weighs on my mind and I get carried away over the possibilities."

Mesmerized by his classical features and the high cut of his cheekbones she wondered about being carried away with him. Since a demon had stolen her tongue, she acknowledged his apology with a nod.

"It's one thing if one chooses to explore such avenues," he continued, "but inappropriate to discuss them with an innocent."

Dismissing his remark about innocents, she pressed him. "Did your wife know of your father's wishes?"

"Oh, yes." He chuckled again. "My father and Lucinda's father arranged the marriage. My wife descended from a long line of blue bloods in Norfolk, a prominent, wealthy clan. They wear the pride of heritage on their breasts like war medals. Lucinda's mother bore nine healthy children, her grandmother ten. My father surmised Lucinda would follow in their footsteps." He shook his head with another round of laughter. "I find it amusing."

Curiosity would one day be her undoing. "Why did you agree to the marriage?"

A lengthy silence lapsed before he spoke again. "I suppose for the same reason Lyman and I tolerate his badgering over our wretched failure to produce an heir. I can't speak for my brother, but I enjoy my station in life. The notion it could be snatched away disturbs me."

"A good name is rather chosen than great riches."

"More wise words from your grandfather?"

She nodded.

He loosened the collar of his unbuttoned shirt. "I don't expect you to understand."

"What I don't understand is why you married a woman of your father's choosing."

"For the sole purpose of producing an heir. Pitiful, isn't it?"

"And rather ironic Lucinda couldn't bring one forth in light of her family history." A chill snaked down Raine's spine. She almost expected to feel the icy draft envelop her again. She wanted to tell him about his late wife's spirit but she didn't have proof, not yet. She came to her feet. "I should return to the manor now."

He rose from the bench with fluid grace. "I apologize again for my father's outburst and for troubling you with my woes."

The man was a cad, and selfish to boot, yet for some odd reason, she longed to say something to ease his troubled mind. "Grandfather says we alone are the landlords of our souls."

"And less troubled souls there would be if we followed his advice." He inclined his head in her direction. "Enjoy what's left of the evening."

"Goodnight, Derek." She walked to the manor with the acute sense the magnificent eyes watched her every step of the way.

* * *

Derek remained in the garden until the waning rays of the sun shifted into a dusky pink. An hour had passed since his encounter with Raine, yet her scent still lingered in the air. The word enigma did not begin to describe the girl. She could have taken his offer to return to Maine at his expense, but a strong sense of pride ran through her veins. Well-grounded and wise beyond her years, her admirable qualities could be attributed to this grandfather she loved.

From the moment he spied her sitting on the bench, his cock had hardened and a fierce longing cramped his gut. Her face was turned toward the setting sun, her long hair tumbling down her back in waves of burnished silk. The mesmerizing eyes were closed. When she opened them and looked up, every drop of his blood rushed to his expanding shaft. Breathtaking. Sublime. He couldn't imagine she hadn't married yet.

Everything about her―the sleek lines of her neck, the sculpted cheeks, and plump, lush lips―pitched his lust-starved libido into a carnal tailspin. He wanted her writhing beneath him, calling out his name.

He should strangle Masterson for convincing him to employ her. Once he saw the blasted woman, every body part above his shoulders headed south and everything from torso down turned to putty.

He should have called on the coroner by now, encouraged him to expedite the matter and declare her parents lost at sea. After seeing her perched on a bench in his garden, he couldn't imagine her leaving. Not until he tasted those lips, sank his cock hilt-deep into her warm depths.

He assembled a list in his mind. Column one held her venerable traits, column two; possible weaknesses. No simple-minded maiden this one, and the core values she held in high regard could complicate matters. Although she'd recited a passage from Proverbs, the quote had more to do with her ability to provide impromptu wisdom rather than memorize religious passages.

The preposterous, outlandish plan taking seed in his mind refused to take its leave, regardless of how hard he tried to dismiss it. Whenever Raine Brinsley came into view, existing barriers toppled like wheat stalks slain by a giant scythe. He needed the woman. She held the key to his future, his entire future.

He wanted her too. The guileless voice in the back of his mind screamed, "You lust after her like a demonic incubus."

His thoughts drifted back to the imaginary list. Money motivated people in the end, and a sum of cold, hard cash would speak volumes with the Scottish lass. He was relying on her desire to return to Maine, and his ability to shrug her off like a fly on his shoulder when their business concluded. He knew nothing of her maternal instincts, but people often surrendered their souls for wealth.

Why should Miss Raine Brinsley be any different?

A few loose ends remained, but after tomorrow, they wouldn't exist. By mid-afternoon he'd put his ingenuous scheme into motion, beginning with a straightforward proposal to the woman of his every fantasy.