As his coach rolled along the narrow road overlooking the sea, Thomas looked out in increasing disbelief at the barren landscape, broken only here and there by low stone walls and sparse trees that had somehow managed to survive the salt air and winter storms. His disbelief increased as the coach turned up a steep driveway to a small, two-story cottage that sat half-way up the barren, wind-swept hill. A few sheep grazed on the hillside behind the cottage. Two moth-eaten donkeys grazed directly alongside. At least there was a small, low-walled garden in front, but still, the sprinkling of daisies, delphiniums, and lupines hardly began to relieve the bleakness. Thomas leaned his head out the window to have a word with the coachman he’d hired, as well as the coach, in Galway.
“O’Grady, are you sure this is the place?”
“Positive, sir,” the coachman called back in his thick Irish brogue. “‘Tis the land owned by the Englishman, Lord Trevlyn.” Almost under his breath he muttered, “Another blasted Englishman who’s never seen the place.” He raised his voice again. “A widow and ‘er flock ‘av been livin’ there a good nine or ten years now. Two girls, grown, two in their teens, and a boy of ten or so. Never been ta school, they say. She’s an educated lady and teaches ‘em at home.”
With a thanks, Thomas sat back as the coach, harness jangling, horses snorting in the midst of rising dust, came to a halt in front of the single doorway of the cottage. I’ve gone far out of my way for this? What was Trevlyn thinking of, sending him to check on this worthless piece of land?
Two women were standing in front of the doorway. One was somewhere in her middle fifties, he would guess, tall, white haired, with the strained look of poverty on her tired face. She wore a plain cotton gown that had seen better days, covered with a white apron. She’d been leaning against the doorjamb in a tired sort of way, but now she’d pulled herself straight and was regarding him with wary eyes.
Thomas was about to speak when his gaze fell upon the younger woman. Something about her immediately gripped his attention. She was deucedly attractive, he thought, as he gazed at her slender white neck, milk-and-apricot skin, delicate-featured face with its firm chin, and pert, up-tilted little nose. As Thomas watched, a brisk breeze from the sea lifted her raven black hair so that it streamed back from her face, long, wavy, and shining. The breeze caught hold of her skirt, too, and pressed it tight against her tall, slender body, molding to nearly every enticing curve she possessed. He wondered if she had any idea what a fetching picture she presented with that tiny waist, those full, high-perched breasts, slender hips, and shapely thighs.
But this was not the time to be distracted, Thomas thought as he sprung lightly from the coach. If these were indeed tenants who had not paid a pittance toward their rent for the last nine years, his mission was indeed a delicate one and he must be the soul of tactfulness and diplomacy. Thomas addressed the older woman, who stood seemingly composed, yet he detected increasing wariness in her eyes. “Good afternoon,” he said, smiled, removed his beaver hat with a flourish and bowed.
“You’re English,” she replied, not returning his smile.
What was that supposed to mean? “Indeed I am English, madam. My name is Thomas Linberry”–no need to throw in the title–”from Hertfordshire County, England, a town near–”
“Hatfield,” she replied in an unfriendly tone.
“Er... yes.” Her frosty reception had thrown him off-stride, but he gathered his wits and continued, “And might I ask to whom I am speaking?”
“First, why don’t you tell us why you’ve come, sir?” asked the younger, just barely polite. He could have been offended, but instead found himself captivated by the soft silkiness of her voice, coupled with the potent appeal of her melodious Irish brogue. He turned to answer her and was immediately struck by the beauty of her deep, wide-set eyes that were a stunning sapphire blue, fringed with an abundance of thick, dark lashes. His breath caught. He was hard-put not to let his feelings show but managed a slight, grave bow. “I have come on the behalf of Charles, Lord Trevlyn, the fifth Earl of Alberdsley, who owns this land.”