Samantha James Read Free Page A

had come to her cheeks. “I think not, sir,” she said softly.
    “Then it seems I have no choice.”
    He returned it to her, dimly speculating that she would be small in stature, for her shoulders were narrow, her waist slim, her hands scarcely larger than a child’s. He wished she would rise,for he had a sudden urge to see her move. She would be all lithe, perfect grace as she walked—and he could almost feel her beneath him in passion’s dance, her limbs slim and curved and wildly erotic.
    As if to tempt him further, a sudden breeze arose, molding her gown to her body, revealing the thrust of firm, young breasts.
    Her color deepened as she discerned his gaze on her bosom. Her free hand fluttered upward as she sought to shield herself from his perusal.
    “Come now, Alice. There’s no need to hide such loveliness.”
    She was clearly distressed, though for the life of him, Damien could not imagine why. Surely he was not the first man to pay her such attention. “You, sir,” she said breathlessly, “are quite forward.”
    And alas, he was quite regretful, for he was not a man to shower his attentions where they were not wanted.
    He smiled slightly. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “But I shall trouble you no further, Alice, and I shall bid you good day. ’Tis my hope we’ll meet again, and perhaps you will let me make amends.”
    He rose and, with a low bow, he left her. It was but a short ride back to the Eppingstone Inn, where he’d taken lodgings. Built of brick and timber and stone a hundred years earlier, the inn was a resting place for travelers, a gathering place for villagers who sought respite from their drudgery in the idle hours of the evening. Wide, rough-hewn planks covered the floors, pitted andgouged and showing the signs of many a guest and many a year. The smell of ale lingered in the air, even in morning’s earliest hours, yet it was not unpleasant, for it mingled with the scent of meats roasting in the kitchen.
    A fire blazed in the huge stone fireplace in the common room; the trestled tables placed adjacent to its warmth were deserted as Damien strode toward his room on the second floor. He was glad, for he was suddenly in the mood to talk to no one. Still, a peculiar restlessness plagued him throughout the next few hours.
    He couldn’t put her out of his mind—Alice, the girl with the violet eyes. She possessed a sweet, bewitching beauty, a beauty that lured and enticed him in a way he’d not felt for a long, long time. He was sorely tempted to leave, to go out and search until he found her….
    “Enough!” Cursing himself roundly, he vaulted off the bed and snatched up his coat. He was here for a reason—and it was not to bed a wench named Alice, comely as she was. It was time, he reminded himself blackly, to get to the business at hand.
    The business of catching a murderer.
    Indeed, it was this very vow that had brought him to Lancashire…that hardened his mouth and stiffened his shoulders. His feet fell like blows as he descended the smooth, worn steps of the narrow staircase.
    “Goin’ out, Mr. Lewis?”
    The voice came from the corner of the common room. Damien glanced up and saw theinnkeeper, Mr. Simpson, polishing silver at one of the tables. He tipped his hat to the portly, bewhiskered gentleman, leashing his impatience.
    “Indeed, I am, Mr. Simpson. I am meeting Miss Heather Duval at Lockhaven Park this afternoon to speak with her about filling the position of estate manager.”
    “Ah, yes. Robin passed on quite suddenly, y’know.”
    A pity, that—but also a stroke of luck. It was Cameron, the investigator Damien had hired to help him find Giles’s murderer, who had learned that the Lockhaven estate manager had passed away, and that Heather Duval was anxious to find a replacement. Damien had seized on the opportunity as heaven-sent and dispatched a note to her immediately. Should he secure the position, he would have the perfect opportunity to quietly observe Miss Heather