He had to work at keeping his eyes away from her, in fact. She wasn’t beautiful, but rather striking—not just for her height, which was quite tall for a woman, but for the fire in those extraordinary eyes. There was no name for that color, he thought, because it wasn’t just one color but a changeable swirl of gold and brown, like a kaleidoscope. He had a feeling her eyes mirrored her thoughts, maybe more than she knew. She and her sister were both hiding something, of course. It could have been as mundane as a lack of money, but for all the fire in Miss Turner’s gaze, Alec didn’t think she was rash or foolish. Something had made her take a pistol into the stable and point it at him without even asking what he was about. He wondered what they weren’t telling him about their father, or themselves, or their situation.
“Is there anyone else who might know Sergeant Turner and his habits?” he asked. So far neither woman had said anything he hadn’t already known or guessed. Turner was a bit of a scoundrel, but a lovable one.
They shared a glance. “Our mother died many years ago,” said Mrs. Phillips. “Our grandmother lives with us, but she is not well.”
“I am sorry to hear it. Perhaps when she is recovered—”
“She is not physically ill,” said Miss Turner. “She is just…not herself. I don’t think she’ll be able to tell you anything useful about Papa.”
“Ah.” Perhaps the old lady’s mind was not strong. Perhaps something had occurred to unhinge her. Alec tucked the thought away for future investigation. “Then I shan’t disturb you any longer.”
“What do you plan to do?”
He smiled briefly at Miss Turner’s terse question. “Ask about. It’s been a while since Sergeant Turner was in Marston, so it may take some time.”
Mrs. Phillips shot to her feet. “Thank you, sir,” she said in a rush. “It was very kind of Lord Hastings to send you.”
“It is my pleasure,” he replied, still looking at Miss Turner even as he rose. She had pursed her lips in unveiled skepticism. “Good day, Mrs. Phillips. Miss Turner.” He bowed and left, trying to shake the image of those golden brown eyes.
“So.” Callie folded her arms and gave Cressida a stern look when he was gone. “You threatened to shoot him.”
She ignored that look and occupied herself with running the dust cloth along the already-clean table. “Obviously I was wrong. But what else was I to do? He certainly didn’t tell me all…” She waved one hand. “All that!”
There was a long pause. “You also did not mention he was so handsome.”
Cressida shrugged. “Do you really think so? He’s awfully…tall.”
“I have never seen eyes so blue. And yes, he looks very well indeed for a man who was, as you said, dead and buried five years ago.”
“I thought he had come to take our horses.” Guilt pinched her again; had she really threatened a man on such a quick assumption? That man?
“If he did take a horse, at least it would save us the expense of keeping it. And now someone will be out looking for Papa. Perhaps we shall pull through after all.”
Cressida heard the fearful hope in her sister’s voice and closed her eyes. “It seems very odd for Lord Hastings to send him.”
“Well, perhaps,” Callie slowly agreed. “But surely Lord Hastings wouldn’t send someone unsuitable…”
Cressida snorted. “No, he sent a man thought dead these last few years—dead, and a traitor as well. What would be odd about that?”
“Do you not want his help?” Her sister sounded frightened. “What choice do we have?”
She didn’t answer, just shrugged again. Perhaps there was no choice, but something about the major set her on edge. Cressida didn’t like feeling flustered or slow-witted, and he made her feel both.
After a moment, Callie tilted her head and looked thoughtfully into space. “Too tall? I should think you liked being able to look a man in the eye for once.”
“If you fancy him so much,” she retorted, “by all means, try to attach his interest.”
“I am done with men,” Callie said with quiet dignity. “But you—”
“Oh, stop! I would rather have Tom any day!”
The humor, and the light, vanished from her sister’s face. “I’m sorry, Cressida. I should not have teased you so. Forgive me.”
Cressida felt utterly wretched as Callie walked from the room, as composed as ever but avoiding her pleading gaze. Stop, she wanted to cry to her sister, I didn’t mean it! But Callie was gone, and Cressida listened as her footsteps crossed the hall, echoing now that the rugs were gone, then climbed the stairs before fading away altogether. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, praying for patience and more moderation in her speech. How hard would it have been to go along with Callie’s mild teasing, to admit that Major Hayes was almost sinfully handsome in addition to being the possible answer to their prayers? And even worse, to taunt her sister about her interest in him after Callie had already been married to a son of Lucifer and barely survived it?
With a curse that belied the earnestness of her prayer, Cressida flung the dust cloth across the room. She strode into the hall and seized the broom, sweeping vigorously for several minutes in an attempt to work off her frustration with physical activity. When she threw open the front door to sweep out the dirt, though, an unpleasant sight met her eyes.
The visitor, Major Hayes, was talking to Tom down the lane by the end of the fence, where the sheep had gotten through the broken gate. Tom leaned against the gate, nodding now and then but saying little. His posture was stiff and uncomfortable. Cressida put down the broom and started forward, worry and outrage quickening her step until she was almost running down the lane.
He saw
