As he assessed her, she assessed him. She suspected his hair was black and his eyes blue. He was very tall, six feet at least, his shoulders broad, his waist narrow, his legs very, very long. Masculine vigor practically oozed out of him.
She couldn’t wait to bump into him in the light of day, and she was curious if he’d turn out to be as handsome as his father had been. In her very vivid memories of Captain Miles Ralston, he’d been dashing and marvelous. She was certain his son would be very much the same.
He realized he was being very forward, and he dropped the strand of hair, but didn’t step away. He remained where he was, enjoying their proximity. She was enjoying it too.
A burst of energy had ignited between them, as if their physical positioning was generating sparks, and the sensation was exhilarating. Their bodies were potently attuned, their anatomies recognizing each other on a subconscious level that was strange and electrifying.
“Are you one of my tenants?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“What are you then? Are you wandering across my park for no reason?”
“I live in a cottage in your woods, but I’m not a tenant.”
“Are you a vagabond? Are you a squatter? Should I gather some men and have them run you off?”
She tsked with exasperation. “No, it’s nothing like that.”
“What cottage is it? I hope it’s not far. I like to assume the estate is very safe, but I’m not anxious to have you walking much of a distance by yourself.”
“Mutt will be with me, and it’s not far,” she said.
It was a small fib. Her house was located at the end of the forest, at the end of his property. She figured he wasn’t even aware it existed. He’d never exactly been a dedicated landlord.
“You insist you’re not a squatter or a tenant,” he said, “so how have you earned yourself lodging?”
“I care for your people.”
He cocked his head as if it was the most bizarre reply ever. “How do you care for them?”
“I nurse them when they’re sick. I deliver their babies. I stitch their wounds and ease their suffering.”
“You manage all of that? How can you? You can’t be much more than a dozen years old.”
“These dark woods are shielding my age.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“Twenty-four. Almost twenty-five.”
He scowled as if he didn’t believe her, and it was a common mistake. She looked very young, and her adult torso had never filled out as it should have.
“How long have you been at Ralston?” he asked.
“It’s been a whole decade.”
“Why haven’t I ever heard of you?”
“I can’t imagine. Perhaps you weren’t paying attention as you ought.”
“You must have moved in when you were fourteen. Were you healing my tenants and servants back then?”
“I was helping my Aunt Pru. She tended them before me, and she taught me her skills. Did you ever meet her?”
“No, but then, I’ve never spent much time here. My career has kept me away.”
That was a false excuse. It was his mother who’d kept him away, but Joanna swallowed down the remark.
“What’s in your basket?” he asked.
“A few concoctions for your sister.”
His scowl deepened. “Margaret is ailing?”
“Her melancholia has flared again.”
“She’s not melancholy,” he said. “We’re Ralstons. We don’t ever despair. We’re much too sturdy for a bit of anguish to weaken us.”
He talked about his sister as if he knew more about her than Joanna. Since he’d just arrived after a very lengthy period away, it was quite a vanity for him to suppose he had much information about any topic.
“Her fever is bothering her too,” Joanna told him.
“What fever?”
It was bewildering that he hadn’t been apprised of the problem. He was thirty and his sister, Margaret Howell, was twenty-eight. She’d been in Egypt for ten years with her husband, but he’d died, and she’d come home. She didn’t have much to show for her adventure in the foreign land except a tropical fever that occasionally plagued her.
Her malady could be fierce, but more often than not, it was simply a nuisance that drained her energy. It was her lingering sadness that was more of an issue, and Joanna had had no success in making it go away. She hated for anyone to grieve and be unhappy.
“If you’d like to learn what troubles her,” Joanna said, “you should inquire of her rather than me. She can provide the details she feels like sharing.”
“I will pester her, but can’t you give me a hint? Why would you claim she’s sad? Is she mourning her husband? She didn’t like him enough to be upset that he’s passed away.”
“Captain Ralston!” she scolded. “What a horrid comment, and you shouldn’t suggest such a notion to me.”
“Why not? Will you rush out and tell the world?”
“No. Your secrets are safe with me, but you shouldn’t risk it. Not when I’m a stranger. Who can predict how I might behave? Not you certainly.”
“I’m a good judge of character, and I deem you to be eminently reliable.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not,” he pompously stated, “and I won’t apologize for being blunt about Margaret’s marriage. If you’ve been in the area for a decade, then I’m sure the facts are not a mystery to you. Her husband, Mr. Howell, was a somber, depressing cretin, but my mother insisted she wed him. She thought Margaret was too vibrant and silly and that she required the stern hand of an older, awful husband. Mostly, my mother didn’t want her to enjoy her life too much. Mother was exhausting that way.”
He’d just repeated much of the gossip that swirled, and from Margaret’s miserable condition, Joanna wondered what sort of dire experiences she’d endured in her marriage. She’d been back for a few months, but she wasn’t anymore content than when she’d first returned, and Joanna couldn’t figure out how to improve her mood.
The herbs and teas she
