What the Hart Wants - Fiona Davenport Page 0,37

won’t be inconveniencing your mother?” Lilah asked.

“Of course not.” He grinned. “Ma always said I’d grow too big to be handled. She’ll be delighted to meet the woman who’s proven her wrong.”

“In my opinion, mothers of dukes don’t take kindly to being contradicted in matters regarding their sons.”

“But I was not raised to be a duke,” he said. “I was raised to be a man.”

He took her hand. “There,” he said. “Look!”

The trees thinned, and she caught a glimpse of a tall, square building. Without adornments, the building looked purely functional, a marked contrast to the ostentation of the castles she had seen in picture books as a child.

“It’s rather plain,” she said, then immediately gasped in shame. “Oh! Forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he said. “Your honesty is what I value most about you.”

She turned her face away, unwilling to let him see the expression in her eyes. Mr. Stock had been demanding her next essay, and Lilah had spent some of the evenings during the journey penning the final details in the safety of her chamber.

But she could not reveal her activities to the man who sat opposite her, the man who intrigued her more than any other she’d met. She had determined to hate him for being a Molineux but, just as she refused to be defined by her sex, he refused to be defined by his lineage and title.

And she found herself struggling not to fall in love with him.

At all costs, he must never discover the identity of Jeremiah Smith.

“My home may be plain,” he said, “but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I cannot abide decoration purely for the sake of appearance. And I believe, Miss Hart, that’s something you and I have in common.”

“I believe it is.”

He smiled. “A man incapable of accepting criticism is no man at all.”

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I meant no disrespect to your home, sir. I like its regularity of form. It has been built with practicality and security in mind.”

“True,” he said. “My ancestors were diligent in their determination to protect themselves from marauding English invaders. I trust I can rely on you, Miss Hart, to enter my estate with no intention to subjugate its people.”

“I am unarmed, sir.”

“Not all weapons strike a blow to the body,” he said. “Hearts and minds can also be breached. An army might lay siege to a fortress for days, surveying the cracks in the walls, and the hinges on the doors. But a clever general will assess the softer target. The people within.”

“And you think me a clever general?” she asked.

“You could conquer the strongest fortress, Miss Hart, if you set your mind to it,” he said. “And this particular fortress would relish being conquered.”

He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, and her skin tightened with need. Before she could react, the carriage drew to a halt. Voices spoke outside, and he withdrew his hand.

The carriage door opened to reveal a liveried servant.

“Welcome home, sir.”

He stepped out of the carriage, then took Lilah’s hand in a firm grip, and helped her out.

“Come,” he said. “Let me introduce you to Ma.”

At close range, the castle looked more imposing than it had from a distance. The stone was dark gray, mottled with deeper flecks of black and red. The entrance, a large, deep archway, housed two solid, wooden doors, built to withstand the centuries. Thick, iron hinges were embedded in the wood at either side of the doors, and wide, heavy-looking rings formed the handles.

A woman stood in the forefront. There was no doubting her identity. Tall and graceful, her hair was silver with flecks of red. Though simply clothed in a black gown trimmed with lace, she bore the demeanor of a queen. Clear blue eyes regarded Lilah thoughtfully, and her mouth was set into a firm line.

A ripple of apprehension shuddered through Lilah. As a child, she’d read history books about the wars of independence between the Scots and the English. One book had depicted the Scottish women as even fiercer warriors than the men. Without a doubt, one such warrior stood before her now.

Lilah’s companion placed a hand in the small of her back. His touch bore a note of protection and possession as he gently propelled her forward.

The woman exchanged a brief look with her son, then her lips lifted into a smile.

“Ma,” he said. “May I introduce Miss Delilah Hart. Miss Hart, my mother, Mrs. Finola MacGregor.”

Lilah dipped into a curtsey.