Claiming the Ashbrooke Heir. Mary Nichols

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СКАЧАТЬ would want anything from her. Her purse was empty and the parcel she was carrying contained nothing of any value, though she knew people had been attacked and even murdered for less.

      She hurried on, turning left before she reached the castle. It was a forbidding building which housed the city’s prison population, and she always passed it as quickly as she could, as if afraid that she might be drawn into it for some misdemeanour she was not even aware of. It was then she saw him—the man she had stumbled into the day before. If he was her follower, he must have turned down a side street to come at her from a different direction.

      She put her head up and made to pass him, but he barred her way and doffed his hat. ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We meet again.’

      Could it be coincidence? Why would he remember meeting her, of all the hundreds of people that thronged the city’s streets? ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said, wishing he did not look so much like Jeremy. It was unnerving—more so when she carried on walking and he dropped into step beside her.

      ‘I was hoping you might help me,’ he said.

      ‘Help you? If you are looking for directions, then you have asked the wrong person. I have not long lived in Norwich …’

      ‘Did you, by any chance, once live in Riseborough in Suffolk?’

      The shock made her stumble, but she quickly recovered her balance and began walking again, faster than ever.

      He was easily able to keep up with her. ‘I think from your reaction I might be right. Is your name Annette Ryston?’

      She had been expecting the next question and was ready for it. ‘My name is Mrs Anstey.’

      ‘Ah, then I am right. Becky said that was the name you intended to use.’

      ‘Becky? I do not think I know the lady.’

      ‘Oh, Annie, you know her very well, and so do I.’

      She stopped suddenly and turned towards him. ‘Who are you?’

      ‘I am Major Charles Ashbrooke.’

      She should have known; his likeness to Jeremy was uncanny. It was a likeness that had been passed on to her son. She saw it every day when she nursed him: Jeremy’s golden hair and blue eyes, the squarish line of his jaw—a stubborn jaw even in one so young—but it did not fill her with any desire to see the young man again. She could not, would not forgive him.

      ‘What do you want with me? If Jeremy has sent you …’

      ‘No, my brother did not send me—unless it be from the grave. He is dead.’

      ‘Dead?’ The stark word shocked her, but being in mourning probably accounted for his dark clothes. ‘How?’

      ‘I could explain if you would listen.’

      ‘Why should I? He is … was … nothing to me.’

      ‘Really? Now, do you know, I rather thought you had once been close?’

      ‘Close. That’s a funny way of putting it.’

      ‘Putting what?’

      ‘What he did to me. I did not ask for it. He came to my room and forced himself on me. Did he tell you that?’ Her voice betrayed her bitterness.

      ‘No, he did not.’ He was shaken to the core. He knew his brother had been a rakeshame, who had loved and laughed without a thought for the morrow, but he had never thought him capable of such a despicable act. A tumble, he had said, adding that he did not know what the girl had to complain of. Had she complained? ‘I find that impossible to believe.’

      ‘I care not whether you believe it or not, sir, it is the truth.’

      ‘Not something said to make you feel less guilty?’

      ‘I do not feel guilty. I never have. I feel hurt and … angry.’

      ‘Then all I can do is offer a heartfelt and humble apology on behalf of my brother.’

      ‘It was not your fault,’ she conceded.

      ‘You did not stay at Mrs Porter’s lodging house?’

      ‘It did not suit me.’

      ‘So you have moved on. Are you going to tell me where?’

      ‘No. I cannot for the life of me think what you want with me. Lady Ashbrooke turned me off in a snow-storm without a character. I have no business with anyone from Riseborough Hall. If, as you say, Jeremy is dead, then I am sorry for you, but it is nothing to do with me.’

      ‘You are sorry for me?’ He frowned. ‘I think perhaps the shoe is on the other foot.’

      ‘I do not need or want your pity, Major Ashbrooke.’

      She was too proud for her own good. ‘Then I will not offer it. Where are you going?’

      ‘I am going to deliver this parcel.’

      ‘It looks heavy. Please let me carry it for you.’ He reached out and took it from her fingers. ‘That’s better.’

      They walked side by side in silence, making their way round the cattle market, noisy with farmers selling and buying the Highland cattle which had been driven down from Scotland to be fattened up before being sent to London. He stuck to her side, one hand on her elbow to guide her through the throng as a gentleman would a lady. She should have thrown him off and left him, but he had her parcel, and that represented money and food she could not afford to lose.

      ‘Where are we bound?’ he asked.

      ‘We are bound nowhere, Major. I am going to St Stephen’s Street, and as we are nearly there I bid you good day.’ She held out her hand for the parcel.

      Reluctantly he relinquished it and bowed to her. He watched as she hurried along the road, and then followed her to see her turning in at the gate to one of the large houses that lined the road. Did she live there? He did not think so, because she had said she was delivering the package. He hadn’t done with her. He could not get out of his head her accusation that Jeremy had forced himself on her. He could not believe it of his brother, but if she was telling the truth then it was his responsibility to try and make amends, if such a thing were possible. One thing Jeremy had been right about: she was definitely not the usual run of domestic servant.

      He stood, idly leaning against a tree trunk, watching the house for her to emerge, wondering what it was that made her so different. She was clean, for a start. Her face shone with cleanliness, as did her hands and fingernails. Her gingham day dress, which had once been smart and modish, was now sadly dated, but that, too, was clean. It was not that. Jeremy had called her a pretty little thing, but she was more than that: she was beautiful. She had classic oval features, large luminous soft green eyes, neat brows and a firm mouth—a kissable mouth, he realised with a sudden start. No wonder Jeremy had been attracted to her.

      He watched her come out of the house, still bearing the brown paper parcel—or perhaps it was another one. He wondered what was in it. Her step was light and she carried herself like a lady, СКАЧАТЬ