The Heiress of Winterwood - By Sarah Ladd Page 0,50
wingback chair across the room.
Graham was like that too—able to sleep anywhere. Hammock or wooden deck, inside his cabin or under the stars, it didn’t matter. His old captain, Stephen Sulter, always said that easy sleep was a sign of a clear conscience. Graham wasn’t so sure.
He yanked off his boot and flung it in William’s direction. It bounced off his brother’s knee and thudded to the oriental rug. William didn’t budge.
Graham removed his other boot and stood, grimacing as he stretched the kinks in his back and shoulders. He walked over to the open window, where heavy emerald drapes billowed in the wind, and closed it. Then he stepped over one of William’s sleeping hunting dogs to stoke the pitiful fire. His muscles protested the movements, and he rubbed a protective hand over his ribs. Judging by the sensitivity, he must have taken more blows than he remembered.
It had been awhile since he’d engaged in a fight like that—many years, in fact. In his youth, however, a fiery temper and love of drink had plopped him right in the middle of brawl after brawl. Then Stephen Sulter led him to the Lord and helped Graham put an end to his dissolute ways. But now, after years of loss and disappointment, he found himself wondering about the God who rescued him from a life of rebellion. He did not actually doubt the Father’s presence, but he hadn’t felt it in a long time.
He rubbed his hands together and blew warm air against his cold palms. He needed a hot drink to dull the effects of the chill in the room. Graham turned from the fireplace and looked for the bell to call the servants.
He shuffled through the strewn papers and letters on his brother’s desk in search of the elusive bell. How could William ever find a thing with this mess? He had begun to pile the papers when words scrawled across the top of a parchment caught his eye. Receipt of sale. He picked up the paper and read further. He glanced over at William, who still snored in the corner chair, then returned his attention to the document. At the bottom were two signatures: William Sterling and Edward Littleton.
The sight of Littleton’s name hit with the power of another fist to the jaw. Hungry for the meaning, he skimmed the document, unable to read it fast enough. He forced himself to read it again. Could this be true? Had William sold part of Eastmore to that scoundrel?
The room’s chill vanished. His arms and chest burned with exasperating intensity, and a million thoughts bombarded him. Did Miss Barrett know about this purchase? When had it happened? Was there a way to revoke it?
He stepped over to William and nudged his foot. “Wake up.”
At the gesture, William drew a deep breath and opened his eyes, squinting in the sun’s light. He covered his eyes with his hand and frowned. “Go away.”
“What’s this?”
William’s face scrunched. “What’s what?”
Graham held the document in the air. “It says ‘receipt of sale.’ It’s signed by Edward Littleton.”
William groaned and scratched his scalp as he pulled himself up to a seated position. “I sold the west fields to Littleton about a week ago. Leave my personal affairs alone.” He lay his head back and closed his eyes. “Now go away and let me sleep.”
Graham kicked his brother’s foot again. “Were you going to mention this? Or just let me wake one day to find Edward Littleton practically in my lap?”
William opened his eyes again. With a sudden burst of energy he jumped up from his chair and grabbed the document from Graham’s grip. “Yes, I was going to tell you,” he spat. “Call me inconsiderate, but I didn’t think last night would be the most opportune time to enlighten you, what with all of the yelling and punching.”
“You told me you had no intention of dividing Eastmore.”
“Of course I didn’t want to. What fool would? But I did what I had to do. I needed the money, and Littleton wanted to buy the land. So I sold it to him.”
The snippet of conversation from a few days ago about William selling his horse flickered in his mind. “Why do you need money, anyway? What happened to all of it?”
“Do you mean Father’s money,” William huffed, “or mine?” He stuffed the document in a desk drawer. “Either way, it is none of your business. I did what I needed to do.”