Page 47 of To Seduce a Stranger

“Yes, sir.” Markham dipped to snatch the reins from the muck at their feet.

Edward had jerked around and started to walk away before he thought to ask what perhaps ought to have been his first question. “Why do you ask?”

“I—well, she strikes me as a respectable woman—smart, a fine manager, a good cook. I thought I might—”

“Might what?”

“Well . . .”

“Are you suggesting you’d like to court Mari?” When had this happened? How? The two had less than a fortnight’s acquaintance.

But had not his own experience shown him that a week or two was more than enough time to make one long for things that only a short while ago had been out of reach?

Where—in his case, at least—they ought to have stayed.

“I thought you said you could only afford to marry a woman of fortune,” Edward recalled, fixing Markham with a stern look.

The younger man shifted awkwardly. “There’s all kinds of fortunes, sir. Besides, I—” He broke off, obviously embarrassed. “Well, sir. I should think you’d know how a fellow feels, what might change his mind. Seeing as you’re a married man yourself.”

The very last thing Edward needed was to be reminded of his feelings where Charlotte was concerned . . . certainly not how she had felt in his arms. At first sight, she had roused his protective instincts; now, however, she roused something else in him entirely.

Reluctantly, Edward nodded.

He could hardly remember a time when he had not been aware of how others looked at Mari. With expressions ranging from indifference to curiosity. Sometimes with hunger, as if she were merely an exotic delicacy to be consumed—a well-spiced dish, in Jack’s phrase. And sometimes with fear, as if she might devour them.

Anger, frustration, and yes, defensiveness, had blinded him to what was in Markham’s eyes now, however. They held none of those familiar expressions. Just the look of a man who fancied a woman and hoped the feeling was returned.

“Mari is an extraordinary woman, sir. I only want to do what’s proper by her, but . . . well, she hasn’t—that is, I know it’s not likely she has any notion of what’s become of her family.”

“No.” She had arrived in the West Indies alone, and if he had to guess, her family was dead.

“Then is there anyone to whom I should speak—?”

“Mari’s a free woman. You needn’t ask anyone’s permission but hers. But,” he added, when a smile cracked Markham’s rain-streaked face, “even if she agrees, you will still face opposition.” Though there were no laws here against them marrying if they chose, Markham must know the resistance they would nonetheless meet.

Markham’s chin jutted forward defiantly and he set his feet apart, the posture of a man spoiling for a fight. “Some, I suppose. But as long as she’s for it, I don’t much care who’s against it.”

It was difficult to imagine Mari tumbling headfirst into love with Matthew Markham over a few eggs and some seeds for her kitchen garden. He hated to see Mari do something rash, merely for—what? A sense of security? Of home?

Then he remembered Mari and Markham sitting together at the side of the pond, laughing. Recalled Charlotte telling him about Mari’s late-night strolls.

Perhaps she had not been walking alone.

Who was he to presume to tell her which way happiness lay?

“I wish you luck,” he said at last, extending his hand. Markham hesitated at first, then shook it vigorously. When Edward turned and walked away, he could guess that Markham would soon set off in search of Mari. He hoped the man was not destined to be disappointed.

In some ways, Charlotte reminded him of Mari. Slow to trust. Something of an enigma. As if whatever had happened in her past had given her reason to be chary and aloof and sometimes even afraid. Had some man—her husband—harmed her?

If so, and if she had placed herself under Edward’s protection because of it, then the universe had a wicked sense of humor. He had brought her here with a promise of help and safety; now, he doubted his ability to provide such things to anyone. Whom had he ever really managed to protect?

Last night, she had given no sign that she wanted his touch, his kiss. And he certainly had not stopped to ask. Afterward, he had told himself that if she had not, she could have—almost certainly should have—slapped him across the face. But what if she felt she dared not?

She feared something that lay beyond Ravenswood’s borders, that much he knew. What might she be willing to endure, what price would she be willing to pay, if it meant she did not have to leave?

Guilt oozed and bubbled in his gut like boiling sugarcane mash: thick and slow and dangerously hot.

He had set out for the field to work off his anger toward a man who called himself the Earl of Beckley. But what if the real danger came from the late earl’s true son? Perhaps they would all be better off if Ravenswood were left in a stranger’s hands.