You Only Love Twice Read Online Free PDF Page B

to work.
    She was reaching for her apron when she heard the clatter of a horse’s hooves on the approach to the house. Her heart gave a leap. It might be that nice Mr. Wilde, coming to call, or a friend who had heard from him that she was back in Hawkshill. Nerves fluttered in the pit of her stomach. Breathing deeply, she opened the door and stepped onto the porch.
    When she saw the horse and rider, she felt a shiver of alarm. The man on the horse looked as though he might have stolen it. The horse was a magnificent beast—black glossy coat, streaming mane, muscles that moved and rippled as it climbed the slope. Its rider was the opposite. He slouched in the saddle. His clothes were disheveled; his hair uncombed; his face unshaven. But it was his expression that alarmed her more than anything. His brows were down and his jaw was tensed. This was definitely not a friendly visit.
    Her mind made a lightning connection. He must be one of those Gypsies or tinkers—“those thieving rogues” as Sister Dolores called them—who had encamped in Hawkshill while it had lain empty. It was their mess she and the sisters were now forced to clean up. Joseph had warned her they might return and had advised her on how to handle it. This called for a show of strength.
    Swinging around, she darted into the hall and snatched up the old blunderbuss that lay, primed and ready, behind the door. Then she walked out of the house to face the intruder. A show of strength, that’s all the blunderbuss was. She wasn’t supposed to aim it at anyone. If worse came to worst, she was to fire it into the air and that would bring Joseph to her.
    The stranger reined in a few yards away. He didn’t dismount, but sat at his ease, eyes narrowed on her speculatively, as a panther might eye a rabbit that had suddenly strayed into its path.
    He spoke first. “I swore I wouldn’t come here. Curiosity got the better of me, that and an irresistible urge to welcome my new tenants.”
    His meaning hardly registered. She was puzzling over the sneer behind the words and the insolent twist to his mouth. He was angry about something, and she couldn’t think what. She hadn’t done anything. He was the one who was trespassing.
    He leaned forward in the saddle and gave her the same insolent smile. “Didn’t my attorney tell you? I own Hawkshill now.”
    “ You own Hawkshill?” She could hardly credit it. This was their landlord, this unkempt, disreputable-looking wild man? She shook her head.
    “Oh, it’s perfectly true. Ask my attorney if you don’t believe me. I, Lucas Wilde, am the owner of Hawkshill.”
    Wilde? That was the name of the young man she’d met in Sheep Street. They must be related. “You are Lord Dundas?” she asked incredulously.
    “Aye, a lord now, Miss Hayward, and rich enough to buy and sell my neighbors ten times over.” He edged his horse forward. “But life is full of these little ironies, don’t you think?”
    He might look like a Gypsy but he spoke like a gentleman. Lord Dundas. It must be true. Now she understood the condition of the house. It was just like its owner.
    The conviction that he was telling the truth hardly reassured her. From the look of him, she would have said that he’d been drinking.
    She’d dealt with drunkards before, when she and the sisters had combed the stews of London for abandoned children. But on those occasions, she’d been dressed in her nun’s habit. Even the most ramshackle dock worker showed respect for the Sisters of Charity. She wasn’t wearing her habit now.
    She eyed him warily. He was their landlord and she didn’t want to get his back up. At the same time, she knew that drink made a man unpredictable. As a subtle reminder that she wasn’t as defenseless as he might think, she inched the gun into the crook of one arm.
    His response was a low rumble of laughter. “Careful,” he said, “you might hurt someone with that thing,” and without taking his eyes off her, he slowly