She’d felt nothing like it since childhood. She swallowed.
He jerked back as if he, too, resisted the strange pull. ‘The fox will be along any moment now, if he’s coming.’ His voice sounded harsh, his breathing rushed, but his expression seemed quite blank as he stared ahead as if completely oblivious to what had just happened between them.
Nothing had happened.
She must have imagined the sense of connection. How could she feel such a thing for a man she’d met only a few times? But he was unlike anyone she had ever met. Handsome and arrogant, and occasionally humble. Well educated, too. He even knew about Mrs Radcliffe. Fascinating. And obviously very dangerous to her senses.
He touched her arm. ‘Look,’ he said in a soft whisper.
Pencil poised, she stared at the sleek red creature trotting into her field of vision. His bush hung straight to the ground, his shiny black nose tested the air and his ears pricked and twitched in every direction.
With held breath, she sketched his shape. Focused, imprinted the colours on her mind, even as her hand caught his outline, the shadow of muscle, lean flanks, the curve of his head. Attitude, intense and watchful—not fearful, though. Eyes bright, searching, body sleek, softened by reddish fur.
Apparently satisfied, the fox trotted the last few feet and, after one glance around his domain, disappeared into his lair.
Frederica didn’t stop drawing. The image firmly in her mind’s eye, she captured the narrow hips and deep chest, the tufted ears and pointy muzzle, the white flashes on chest and paws.
Finally, she stopped and rolled her shoulders.
‘Did you see him for long enough?’ he murmured.
She jumped. She’d forgotten his presence. ‘Yes.’
‘You draw with your left hand.’
The devil’s spawn. She waited for him to cross his fingers to ward off evil spirits the way some of the other servants did. She should have used her right hand as she’d been taught by hours of rapped knuckles. But then the picture would be stilted. Useless. Tears welled unbidden to her eyes. How could she have let him see her shame? She never let anyone watch her draw. She transferred the pencil to her other hand. ‘I-I—’
His hand, large and warm, strong and brown from hours outdoors, covered hers. ‘My older brother is left-handed.’
She glanced up at his face and found his expression frighteningly bleak. ‘Y-you h-have a b-b—’ she swallowed and took a deep breath ‘—brother?’
‘Yes. I have two brothers and three sisters.’
‘How lucky you are. Do they live near?’
She winced at his short, hard laugh. ‘I don’t know about lucky. They live in London most of the time.’ He shrugged. ‘What about you? Do you have any siblings?’
How had she allowed the conversation to get on to the topic of families? Had he really not heard the gossip about her mother, or was he looking for more salacious details? ‘I never knew my parents.’
The small breath of wind lifted a strand of dark hair at his crown in the most appealing way. ‘An orphan, then. I’m sorry,’ he said softly.
‘You forgot your Somerset accent again, Mr Deveril.’
He pushed to his feet, unfolding his long lean body and stretched his back. ‘So I did, Miss Bracewell. So I did.’
‘Why pretend?’
‘Weatherby wouldn’t have hired a man educated above his station.’
The words rang true, but she sensed they hid more than they told. Clearly he was not about to reveal any secrets to her. With a feeling of disappointment, of an opportunity missed, she packed up her drawing materials. It really was time to go or she would be late for breakfast.
She held up her portfolio. ‘Th-thank you for this. I presume it was my last opportunity to see him at all?’
His gaze followed hers to the tools of his trade, the fierce metal traps and the gun. He inclined his head. ‘I expect so.’
She nodded. ‘Good day, Mr Deveril.’ Great way to convince him to let him sit for her as a model: accuse him of murder.
She’d have to do better than that if she wanted to escape her fate with Simon. And she’d have to have a little more courage.
The gamekeeper’s office beside the stables smelled of old fur, manure and oil. A small lantern on a rickety table provided enough light for the task of cleaning his lordship’s shotguns before daylight would send Weath-erby and Robert out into the fields.
‘Did ye catch the fox on Gallows Hill yesterday, young Rob?’ the gamekeeper asked in his creaking voice.
Until yesterday, Robert had never balked at culling Reynard’s population. Cunning and sly, their raiding of henhouses and other fowl made them unpopular vermin. Caught in its natural setting by an artist who seemed almost as wild as the creatures she brought alive on paper, the dog fox had looked magnificent.
The far-seeing hazel eyes on the other side of the table required an honest answer.
‘No, sir. I don’t think that’un’s raiding Lord Wynch-wood’s chickens, after all. The only bones I saw were voles and rabbits.’
‘Hmmph.’ Weatherby stared down the barrel of the shotgun, then picked up his ramrod. ‘Still, it’s a fox.’
‘The most likely culprit lives by the river,’ Robert continued. ‘I’ve set traps.’
‘Make no mistake, Lord Wynchwood wants to see a brush, lad. It’s results what counts with our master.’
And it was the creatures who counted with the young lady of the house. The thought of her knowing he’d killed the creature she’d drawn so lovingly made him feel sick. He was a soft-hearted fool. She’d got her drawing, made a damned fine job of it, too. She didn’t need the animal as well. Yet the sadness in her eyes had caused him to forget his duty to his employer. He’d risked his position for gratitude in a pair of ocean-coloured eyes. He must have lost his mind.
‘He’ll have his brush,’ Robert muttered. ‘I’ll check the traps later.’ Robert placed the gleaming weapon in the rack on the wall. ‘Do you have any instructions for today?’
‘Hares, if you can get’em, and trout, for his lordship’s table.’
Robert nodded. ‘By the way, I noticed a break in the hedge down by the river—might be the way our poacher is getting in. Shall I have it fixed?’
‘I don’t know how I managed before you came along,’ Weatherby said.
Robert nodded his thanks and picked up his far-inferior shotgun to the one he’d cleaned for his lordship. ‘Is there anything you’d like for your pot, Mr Weatherby?’
‘Not today, lad. The missus exchanged a brace of pheasant for a nice bit of pork. I reckon it will do us for a couple of days.’
Roasted pork. Robert could almost taste it.
‘What you need, lad, is a wife.’ Weatherby groaned to his feet and shouldered his own gun. ‘You’d get a proper dinner.’
Robert couldn’t imagine anything worse. What woman would want to share this hard life of his? Not the kind of woman he’d want. But celibacy didn’t appeal much either. Perhaps he’d snuggle up to the barmaid at the Bull and Mouth this evening. She seemed like a cheerful sort, and willing,