A Vow For An Heiress. Helen Dickson
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her words. ‘Someone else pushed him? You saw who it was?’
‘No, I did not. My whole attention was on the child. I do not know you, sir, but someone must have a very deep grievance against you to want to hurt the child.’
‘That may be so, but I will decide that. You are a stranger. Do not take it upon yourself to assume. Is that understood?’
Rosa stared at him. How dare this man speak to her in this condescending manner? She was so taken aback by his rudeness she could hardly speak, but when she did so it was with a fine, cultured accent like frosted glass. ‘You, sir, are the most insufferable, rudest man I have ever had the misfortune to meet. Is it your habit to attack those who have done you a kindness?’
William’s face paled significantly beneath his dark countenance, although he was furious with himself more than with her for he seldom betrayed his feelings in this manner. He had misjudged her, he could see that now, but before he could reply to her cutting remark she had turned on her heel. He caught her arm, halting her, his eyes doing a quick search of those around him.
‘Not usually. I urge you to think back. It is most important that you do. Did you by any chance manage to see who it was?’
‘No, I did not. I cannot help you.’ Her chin lifted haughtily. ‘Now please let go of my arm.’
Immediately he dropped his hand. ‘In that case there is nothing more to be said.’
Realising that she was being dismissed, Rosa stepped back. ‘You are right. There isn’t. I expect it is beneath you to offer an apology.’
William gave her an uneasy glance, well aware that she, too, might have been hurt had she not stepped in to pull the child out of the way of the horses and that she was probably scared out of her wits by her show of bravado. ‘If I have offended you, then I beg your pardon. Are you harmed at all?’
‘I am perfectly all right—not that it is any of your affair,’ she remarked, still too angry to be mollified by his apology. ‘Good day, sir.’
Turning on her heel, she hurried towards the waiting coach, relieved to see Dilys already inside. She had no idea who the man was and handsome though he was, that was the only thing to his credit. He was exceedingly rude. She did not suppose she would see him again and she thanked God for it. But, rude though he might be, one thing was certain—she was hardly likely to forget him in a hurry.
Before climbing inside Rosa looked back at the foreign woman, feeling that her show of ill temper might be a refuge from fear. But fear of what? she wondered curiously. Turning away, she saw a man backing away into the crowd. He, too, was foreign, of Indian origin, she thought as she noted his brown face and long tunic-like coat and European trousers, both in black. She felt his stare. There was a stillness about him, a silence, that was entirely menacing. She felt the hairs stand up at the back of her neck. She was taken aback by the ugliness of his expression—a scowl of such concentrated venom that made her draw back.
William’s unease about what had just happened failed to lose its grip. His face betrayed very little of the emotions swirling through his body and his eyes remained impassive as he made a silent observation of the scene around him. But rage flooded through his veins as he thought of the danger that had presented itself to the child. His jaw hardened. The complexity of his emotions exasperated him. At a time when he should be focusing on his new role in life and trying to keep the Ashurst estate from being sold off, he was finding his time taken up protecting Dhanu. He was seeing danger in every shadow. That he had been followed from India he was certain, but he had thought he’d thrown them off the trail in London. However, if what the young lady had told him was true, then it would appear he was mistaken.
Suddenly he felt as if everything was spinning out of control. He had promised he would keep Dhanu safe, yet he felt as if he had just stepped into his worst nightmare. Slowly, carefully, he took a deep breath. He must not allow this to prevent him from thinking straight. His intelligence, his clever mind, which he had developed during all his years as a soldier, was his greatest asset. If he was to outwit this threat and keep Dhanu safe, then he must use his mind to do it. But, he thought, glancing around at the jostling crowd, how did one arm oneself against a foe that had no face?
Guilt overwhelmed him when he considered his ill-mannered treatment of the young woman. Her skin was golden. That surprised him, for most of the female population in England prided themselves on their milky-white complexion and took precautions to protect it from the sun. He had failed to do the decent thing and apologise properly to her. Beginning to feel a sense of shame for his unforgivable conduct and wanting to right the wrong he had done her, he turned to walk to her carriage, only to find it disappearing out of the inn yard.
Tense and irritable, Rosa suffered what remained of the journey in silence. The encounter with the stranger and the intended harm to the child had affected her more than she realised. Who was he, she wondered, and what was his association to the Indian woman? He spoke her language, which suggested that he had spent some time in India. She told herself that it did not concern her and tried putting it from her mind, instead concentrating on her arrival at Fountains Lodge. She managed to put it to the back of her mind, but she could not disassociate her personal feelings altogether.
Her thoughts turned to Clarissa and her distress at being forced to wed the Earl of Ashurst. Rosa knew what she was going through. She could empathise with her, for had she not lost her own love, Simon Garfield? His death had been final. It need not be like that for Clarissa. Andrew was not dead. Rosa closed her eyes, close to tears. Angry and emotional, everything inside her wanted to reach out to her dear sister, knowing how traumatised she would be if she was forced to go through with this marriage. Rosa felt she needed to help her defenceless sister, but to do that she would have to stand up to their grandmother. Amelia Ingram was a formidable lady, but she also suffered ill health and Rosa had been deeply concerned about her when she had seen her in London. She was worried that her grandmother wouldn’t be strong enough to take on the task of arranging marriages for Clarissa and herself.
On a sigh she leaned her head against the cushioned upholstery and closed her eyes, letting her mind drift back to Antigua and Simon. What they’d had had been sweet and gentle, their relationship happy and fun loving. His sunny smile and dark brown eyes were imprinted on her soul. His death on a fishing trip had been a blow she had believed she would never recover from. She had successfully repressed her feelings for him, but at times like this, they rose to the surface. It was impossible to stop loving someone just because they had died. The pain of her lost love was still there and she knew it would be a long time before she was truly able to say it didn’t hurt so much.
The coach made good speed, the horses moving briskly through winding, narrow roads overhung with branches as they neared Fountains Lodge. With Clarissa, she had been to England only once in her life, when she had come to Berkshire for an extended visit. The surprising thing when they neared the house was how familiar everything seemed, from the unfolding landscape and the villages they passed through, to the impressive Ashurst Park in the dip of a valley, the sprawling ancestral home of the Earl of Ashurst. They passed the gilded, tall wrought-iron gates which carried the Earl’s crest. The house could not be seen from the road, but on her rides she had looked down on it from the surrounding wooded hills.
Soon Fountains Lodge, a fine seventeenth-century manor house, came into view. Set back from the village of Ashurst, it was a spacious house, east of which were outbuildings and stables arranged around a sizeable courtyard. The Ingram family had built it and remained in possession since. Apart from Amelia Ingram’s maid and housekeeper, who had their own rooms, the staff needed to run the house lived in the village.
On reaching Fountains Lodge, Rosa strode into the hall with a winning smile for the hovering servants while removing her bonnet and shaking out her bright chestnut mop of curls, which rioted in a wild explosion about her head.
‘Hello, Grandmother,’ she said when the elderly lady entered the hall, her cane tapping the tiles as she walked stiffly forward to welcome her granddaughter. Elegant with a regal bearing, at seventy-five she was a small fragile woman. Arthritis and the years had worn away the muscles of her youth, leaving behind a shell