Someone to Watch Over Me

CHAPTER 13

The small village of Forest Crest was located in the heathland of Surrey. Unspoiled and half hidden by surrounding slopes of gorse and heather, Forest Crest possessed two main streets, a church, and a green planted with acacia trees. It seemed that the dragonfly was something of a village symbol, carved into a few shop signs and the front of the village inn. Indeed, there were many dragonflies buzzing in the air around the green. Stopping his curricle on the side of the central street, Grant went into the village bakery. The air was hot and sweet, and he inhaled appreciatively as he ventured further into the shop.

A plump woman with well-muscled arms was pulling a flat of large buns from the depths of an inglenook hearth. "Will ye have some baked goods, sir?"

Grant shook his head. "Thank you, but I'm looking for White Rose Cottage...Can you tell me where to find it?"

"Aye. For years it was occupied by the village schoolmaster and his daughter, the Devanes. A lovely pair, they were, always up to their ears in books and surrounded by children. But poor Mr. Devane died two years ago of a weak heart. His daughter still abides there. Follow Cottage Street to the lane that goes past the Church of All Angels. Out in the heathland, ye'll see the cottage. Mind ye don't frighten the girl, she's a timid sort. We've not seen her in town for weeks. Just the maid." She paused and asked with a slight frown, "May I ask what yer business with her is, sir?"

He smiled. "You may ask, but I won't tell."

The baker's wife chuckled. "I would say she's a fortunate girl, to have a big handsome lad appear on her doorstep. Fare-thee-well!"

Returning to his carriage, Grant urged the horses forward with an impatient flick of the ribbons. The light curricle bounced and jostled along the uneven road, until Grant arrived at the thatched and timbered cottage. The little structure stood at the end of the lane in a profusion of rosebushes. It was so quiet that Grant could hear the dragonflies' wings beating the air, and the drone of insects browsing among the flowers. The heavy, powdery scent of roses surrounded him as he approached the arched doorway bordered with thick wooden posts. The cottage looked like an illustration for a fairy tale, with a stone garden shed nearby and a brook trickling amidst a grove of yew and willow.

Unconsciously Grant held his breath as he knocked at the door with two knuckles. He sensed movement within the house, a scrape, a whisper, a sudden awareness that a stranger had come to call. After what seemed an interminably long wait, he knocked again, this time using the side of his fist.

A young cook-maid came to the door, dark hair tucked beneath a blue cap, her face uncertain. "Good day, sir," she murmured.

"I'd like to speak with the lady who lives here."

"She's not at home, sir." The girl didn't lie well. "No one's at home."

Ironically Grant reflected that no one was ever "at home" when a Runner came to call. "Go fetch her," he advised softly. "I have little time, and even less patience."

The cook-maid flushed with obvious distress. "Please, sir, won't you go away?"

Before he could reply, a cool, velvety voice came from inside the cottage. "I'll speak to him, Jane. Perhapsthis will be suitable inducement for him to leave."

Grant shoved the door open wide. A woman was standing in the central room of the cottage. She wore a gown of sprigged muslin, the dainty fabric draped over the burgeoning swell of her stomach. Rapidly Grant's gaze moved over her pregnant form, and lingered at the pistol held in one small, steady hand.

The weapon wavered slightly as she saw his face. "My God," she gasped. "It's you. Morgan."

"Vivien?" He identified her in a tone loaded with dark irony. "Or are there more than two of you running around England?"