When You Wish Page 25

  “Perhaps it would be best if we did not speak of your father. It seems he is a sore subject for us both.” He glanced down at her, then motioned toward the stables. “Our mounts are saddled and ready. The ride to the abbey takes almost an hour, so we had best be on our way.”

  HALF AN hour later, Faro still cursed her stubborn pride. She shouldn’t have said a word about her father, but she always became defensive when someone tried to blame her for his mistakes, or tried to compare them in any way. Wyatt didn’t know that, and it wasn’t the only thing he found objectionable about her. Admitting that she disliked her own father had surely sunk his low opinion of her to new depths. He hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words to her since.

  Not that it mattered. She shouldn’t care what he thought of her. She didn’t care.

  The road they followed wound through a thick forest and she gazed up at the canopy of leaves overhead. At the same time, her horse stumbled over a fallen branch in the road and she saw Wyatt glance at her. He probably thought her equestrian skills were as lacking as her manners. She paid closer attention to the road for a time, but she soon rolled her eyes sideways to glance at Wyatt without being obvious about it. He seemed to grow more handsome each time she looked at him. She supposed there was little harm in appreciating a man’s looks as long as he didn’t notice her attention.

  How odd that simply staring at a man could bring such guilty pleasure. It was the vision of them together that made her feel guilty, she decided, the way the images came instantly to mind whenever she glanced at him. The vision had seemed so real.

  It wasn’t, of course. She and Lord Wyatt would never share the sort of intimacies she had envisioned, or anything that would remotely approach affection. He didn’t like her. Indeed, he seemed determined that she dislike him as well. Why wasn’t it working?

  “The abbey is around the next bend,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. Their gazes met and she couldn’t make herself look away. He really did have the most fascinating eyes, the same gleaming color as old, burnished gold. He cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with her scrutiny. “We will soon have a nice view of the sea.”

  The only response she could muster up was a smile and a nod. He must think her a simpleton. No matter how hard she searched for some topic of conversation that would not strain the fragile truce between them, all she could concentrate on was the steady clop, clop, clop of the horses’ hooves that marked the lengthening silence.

  “Mother tells me your home is near Bath. Do you prefer the bustle of city life in London?”

  She silently thanked him for solving the topic problem. “I enjoy the sights of London, but I quickly tire of the crowds. No event is judged a success unless there is such a crush of people in attendance that one can barely breathe. I did not realize how much I missed the quiet of the country until I arrived here at Blackburn.”

  “You don’t return to your country house very often, then?”

  “We leased the house to a local merchant and his family soon after my father died.” She bit her lower lip and pretended to adjust her reins. Telling him they had leased the family home hinted far too closely at the woeful state of their finances. Her prayer that he didn’t make the connection went unanswered.

  “I take it your father left a few debts in his wake.”

  She pressed her lips together, mortified that he had guessed the truth. Not that it was any great secret. “My brother and I manage quite nicely on our own.”

  “Ah, yes. The fortune-telling. You must have quite a collection of jewels and family heirlooms.”

  “I would never accept a valuable gift if its owner would suffer from its loss, or even regret it. That is something my father would do, not I.” She took a deep breath to calm her nerves. “The baubles and trinkets I receive are rarely worth more than a few pounds, but they do help pay off our family’s debts. In return I provide people with an entertainment, a novelty to distract them from the more mundane events of their lives for a time. My collection, as you call it, consists mostly of fans, hair combs, cravat pins, and walking sticks. There is a shop in the Burlington arcade that offers a very fair price for such objects.”

  “You are paying your family debts by pawning fans and combs?” He sounded horrified.

  She couldn’t see a graceful retreat from the conversation, so she gave him a curt nod. “Indirectly. My brother, Hazard, invests the earnings and we live off the income. I suppose a man in your position would think that appalling, but I find my situation much preferable to that of a governess, or an unwelcome relative who must live off the charity of distant relations.”

  His expression changed, as though she had said something that struck him as a revelation. She watched the corners of his mouth turn downward, then straighten again. His hands shifted restlessly on his reins, tightening in reflexive movements. She wondered what sort of internal struggle was taking place.

  “Now that I understand your reasons, I find no fault with your methods,” he said at last. “You might be surprised at what a man in my position would do to ensure his own survival. After my father lost our fortune, we lived for a time by selling my mother’s jewels. Then we mortgaged all the properties. I recently repaid the last of the debts, but I am not always proud of the means I employed to achieve that end. To be perfectly honest, your fortune-telling scheme sounds almost respectable in comparison.”

  Wyatt glanced over and gauged her curiosity easily enough. His mouth curved into a grim smile. “I captained a privateer during the war, and eventually gained the letters of marque to several others. There is little honor in piracy, even when the government deems it legal and patriotic.”

  She tried to picture him in pirate garb and succeeded with little effort. There was a dangerous edge to him that lurked just beneath the surface, the dark, brooding countenance of a man who has seen more than he wanted of life. “I am sorry you were forced to take that course.”

  “I don’t want your sympathy, Miss Burke.” His curt response was at odds with the strange way he stared at her. It was as if he saw her as some great puzzle he had to figure out. “However, I am curious about the course you feel compelled to follow. The responsibility for your family’s debts should lie with your brother, not you. What kind of man is he to let his sister earn his keep?”

  “He is a young man now, but only a child when my father died,” she said. “Hazard wanted to find work when we realized all our father left us was debt. I convinced him to complete his studies at Oxford. Both our lives will be better for the knowledge he will gain there, and the types of positions he can gain when he finishes.”

  “If you were my sister, I would not allow you to barter your way through the world, no matter what argument you presented.”

  He sounded so much like Hazard that she couldn’t help but smile. Both men possessed an excess of male pride. “You have not heard any of my arguments, my lord. I can be most persuasive when I set my mind to something.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.” The hint of a smile played about his lips. “What does surprise me is that you are not yet married. You move in the best of circles, and I am sure a number of suitable gentlemen have offered for your hand. Do you not wish for the home and security that a husband can provide?” She wasn’t about to admit that she had never received an offer of marriage, and he wouldn’t believe the reasons she would never accept one. She evaded the question with a half answer. “I do not intend to marry. A husband would only complicate my life.”

  “How so?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “You have my curiosity ablaze, Miss Burke.” He pulled his horse to a stop and she was forced to follow suit rather than ride on without him. “You never know. I might prove very understanding.”

  “You believe I am a fraud, that my abilities are some sort of hoax. How can you understand me if you do not believe anything I say?”

  “I am trying harder than you know to understand you, Miss Burke.”

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sp; His solemn tone made her hesitate. She supposed there wouldn’t be any harm in telling him the truth. “Very well. If you must hear it, I can read people as easily as I read objects. When I touch someone I often learn more about them than I ever wanted to know. That is the reason I will not marry. I do not like to touch anyone.”

  She expected him to laugh out loud. Instead he seemed to mull over her answer. “You held my hand last night during the reading.”

  “I did?”

  “Just for a moment,” he clarified, “but your grip was very tight for that moment. What did you read about me? Aside from the scar on my shoulder, of course. Tell me something no one else could know.”

  He sounded as if he wanted to believe her. He would think her mad if she told him about the vision. A warm blush crept over her cheeks and she lowered her gaze. “Last night was … different from my usual readings. I cannot even remember holding your hand.”

  “I see.”

  The disappointment in his voice startled her. Perhaps he was not such a confirmed skeptic after all. Not that she had presented any real proof to change his beliefs. “It’s rather strange that I spend most of my life trying to convince people that I am not some sort of witch, or possessed by demons. Now I find myself wishing I could fly or breathe fire just to prove myself to you.” She met his gaze and forced a lighthearted smile. “Circumstances seem to conspire against me where you are concerned, but never fear, my lord. The time will come when you realize the truth of what I say.”

  “I almost hope you are right.” He spoke so softly that the words seemed more for himself than for her. He cleared his throat and nodded toward the road. “The abbey is just ahead. We should be on our way.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE RUINS OF Halbert Abbey sat on a windswept cliff that overlooked the sea. The breeze blew stronger here than in the forest and carried the distant scents of fish and seaweed. The noisy cries of a gull distracted Faro from the ruins. She watched the bird swoop and careen overhead, then disappear behind a square stone tower and over the edge of the cliff toward the sea far below. The tower was all that remained intact of the abbey, six stories tall and made of pale white stone from the nearby cliffs. The stone looked the color of bleached bones in the bright sunlight, a startling contrast to the deep blue sky behind it. The abbey’s chapel and outbuildings stood roofless and crumbling, with scattered traces of structures that were now no more than vague rectangular outlines beneath the lichen and sparse grass.

  Faro let her horse amble to a halt as she studied the ruins, too fascinated by the desolate beauty of the place to realize that Wyatt studied her just as intently. The gaping windows of the chapel rose upward in graceful arches that vanished into thin air, as if some great disaster had consumed the roof and eaves but left the base in curiously good repair. Time was the disaster, along with some of the local quarrymen, she would wager. She pictured the place in its prime with neatly tended gardens and courtyards, the bustle of people that had lived there as they went about their daily chores. That was the picture she would sketch.

  “Most people think this place is haunted,” Wyatt said, interrupting her thoughts. “The smugglers do what they can to perpetuate the rumor. They use the caves along the beach to hide their wares, and the tower as a beacon to guide their ships. It can be seen from miles at sea, even at night when the moon is out.”

  “It must be a beautiful sight.” She pointed toward a small hill to their left. A rocky shelf jutted out near the top of it. “That looks like a perfect seat to view the grounds. Is there someplace I could tether my horse?”

  “I will take care of the horses,” he said, “but don’t you want to explore first?”

  “Perhaps later. Right now I would rather sketch while the light is still at the best angle.” She unhooked her leg from the saddle and slid to the ground, then handed Wyatt her reins and walked toward the hill. He was staring at her. She didn’t have to turn around to confirm the feeling, since he had stared at her almost constantly since they left the forest. It was a little unnerving.

  The ground was rocky and uneven, and she kept a close eye on her steps as she made her way to the ledge. A dusting of gravel covered the ledge, but after she brushed it away there was a fine seat. She opened her linen sack and pulled out a wooden pencil box, then a worn leather folder. Her drawing supplies were one of the few luxuries she afforded herself and the folder contained stiff sheets of paper separated by smooth parchment to prevent smudges. She leafed through several completed sketches and pulled out a blank sheet of paper. She chose a thin pencil from the wooden box, then started to draw the outline of the tower. Later, at the house, she would complete the picture with watercolors.

  Wyatt tied the horses to a low-hanging branch of a tree and started up the hill after her. Her makeshift bench was large enough for two, and he gestured toward the spot next to her. “Will it make you uncomfortable if I watch you sketch?” “No,” she said, without glancing up from her work.

  That was a lie. She positioned the sack and pencil box beside her so they took up as much room as possible. He placed the sack on the ground and picked up the pencil box, then sat down next to her. She edged away from him. He moved closer. Her sigh of defeat nearly ruffled her paper. She started to draw again and pointedly ignored him.

  He watched her pretend to concentrate on her sketch, his own concentration shattered by her nearness. Her hair held the faint scent of orange blossoms. He placed one hand on the ledge behind her and leaned closer to take a deeper breath of her. The citrus scent made his mouth water, but the hunger it created had nothing to do with fruit. He wanted a taste of something far sweeter.

  Faro had made it clear that she didn’t want any man in her life, and didn’t seem to care what his opinion of her might be. She’d argued against the arbitrary conclusions he had drawn about her, and spoken honestly about details of her life that few would share with a best friend. She was the most unique woman he had ever known. His attraction to her was so complete that he couldn’t believe she didn’t feel something for him. Sometimes she looked at him with a trace of the same hunger that gnawed at him. Was it enough to make her want to touch him?

  It was a challenge, and he always found a challenge hard to resist. What harm could there be in an innocent flirtation?

  Disturbed by the direction of his thoughts, he made himself focus on the drawing. The outline of the tower began to take shape, then its depth as she added the side walls and shadows. She had almost finished the chapel when he noticed something unusual in the picture. “How did you know the windows were stone mullioned?”

  “Just a lucky guess.” She glanced up from her work. “How did you know they were mullioned?”

  “My great-grandfather had several removed to Blackburn and installed in the south-wing apartments. Fortunate timing, as it turned out. Fire consumed the chapel roof soon after. If you would like to see the originals, I can show them to you when we return to the house.” His thoughts skipped ahead to the hours they might spend in the south-wing gardens. He couldn’t explain his need to be near her, other than to acknowledge that the stories of her past affected him more than he should allow. They stirred his admiration more than his sympathy, but mostly they showed a side of her that he never would have guessed existed. She had managed to work her way deeper under his skin with no more than a few words.

  “I would like to see the originals.” She hesitated a moment, then rifled through her folder and withdrew two completed paintings. “Perhaps you could help me make a decision. I did these drawings of Blackburn House yesterday afternoon, and thought I would present one to your mother as a gift. This is the house as it looked yesterday. The other is my interpretation of what the original house probably looked like before any additions, or remodeling. Do you think she will have a preference between the two?”

  He held the paintings at arm’s length and studied them in silence. Most women he met made a conscious effort to impress him with their accomplishments, or charms. Faro
didn’t need to make an effort. The quality of her work amazed him. She had captured the essence of the scenes so well that he could almost feel the breeze that rustled the leaves of her painted trees. The image of the original house sent a shiver of recognition down his spine.

  Enlarged and expanded through the centuries, he knew that Blackburn House looked nothing like the initial structure. As far as he knew, there weren’t any paintings of the oldest parts of the house still in existence. So why did Faro’s interpretation look so familiar?

  At last he turned the drawing of the original house toward her. “This one, I think. Both are excellent renditions, but this one is unique. It looks as if it were drawn hundreds of years ago rather than just yesterday. The flying buttresses are an especially nice touch. Very Gothic.”

  “That one is my favorite, too,” she admitted. He handed her the drawings and she returned them to the folder. “I saw some very nice frames at a shop in the village. Even framed it isn’t much of a hostess gift, but I hope your mother will like it.”

  “I’m sure she will. I was very set on disliking anything you did, and I like it immensely.” It was a thoughtless remark. He admired many of her traits, and admitted there were several they shared, but she also possessed an unexpected vulnerability. He could hurt her feelings without even trying. Her chin rose a good two inches.

  “I suppose it’s something that you can limit your dislike to my person, and not extend it to my paintings.”

  That he cared at all about her feelings was a direct measure of his own. He deserved her sarcasm, but she deserved the truth. “I am finding it almost impossible to dislike anything about you, Miss Burke.”

  He searched for some sign that she might echo his sentiments, but she simply blinked once very slowly. A retreat to safer waters seemed in order. “You should try to sell your paintings, rather than your services as a medium. I know many people who would commission you, especially if I could show them a few samples of your work. Drawing seems to be something you enjoy. I do not think you much enjoy the readings you do for others.”