A Risk Worth Taking (26 page)

Griff reached for the pistol he kept in his jacket pocket and brought it out. He wasn’t sure what good it would do—perhaps none if the sniper shot at him without stepping into the open—but at least he would have it. He wouldn’t die without a fight.

He nudged his horse forward and slowly made his way toward the copse of trees. If his enemy was there, he would find him. He would put an end to this right now, before another attempt was made on Anne’s life.

His heart pounded in his chest like hammer against anvil. The blood thundered in his head, causing tiny white
spots to dance in front of his eyes. He thought of Anne, of never seeing her again. He foolishly wanted one memory to hold on to—one night of having her in his arms, of loving her, of burying himself deep inside her before his enemy’s bullet killed him. He wished he had loved her just once before it was too late to ever have her.

He neared the trees and saw a slight movement again in front of him.

The killer was still there.

A light sheen of perspiration gathered on Griff’s forehead as he rode toward the targeted spot.

Nothing happened. No shot rang out. No figure barreled through the trees. No piercing pain from a bullet seared his flesh.

Griff slid to the ground and held his pistol at his side. This is the spot where he’d seen movement. The spot where the person watching him had waited.

Griff walked among the trees, then crouched down to look for any sign someone had been there. He rubbed his hand over the thick grass behind one of the trees. A footprint. It was nothing that could help him identify who’d stood there, but it was proof that he hadn’t imagined being watched.

Griff followed the prints until they disappeared. Whoever it was knew what he was doing. Griff’s mind flashed to Jack Hawkins. If the killer was Jack, why hadn’t he fired? He’d had a clear shot, but he’d let Griff go. That meant he was still waiting, watching.

Griff searched the area but found nothing more. At last he mounted, then dug his heels into his stallion’s flanks and rode him at an easy pace. What game was the bastard playing? Why hadn’t Hawkins shown himself?

Griff’s blood ran cold. Maybe Hawkins didn’t want him. Maybe he wanted Anne. Just like Griff had taken his brother from him, maybe Jack Hawkins intended to take Anne’s life in return.

Griff pushed his mount harder. He had to keep her safe. He’d double the men who watched the grounds and post guards all around the house. Nothing would happen to her. He’d make damn sure.

When he reached the manor, he jumped to the ground. He handed his groom the reins, then raced up the walk. Carter was waiting at the front door. “Send Franklin to me right away. Then have water sent up for a bath.”

“At once, sir.”

Griff put his foot on the first step, then stopped.

Anne stood at the top of the long, spiral staircase. She wore a blue-and-white checked morning dress, the skirt so full it made her waist appear even more minimal than he remembered from when he held her. She wore her hair swept loosely up to the top of her head, tiny stray tendrils framing her face and resting against her long, graceful neck. Her lips were full and rosy, and he remembered the feel of them beneath his.

His body responded with an ache he wished the long, hard ride would have eased but hadn’t. Her skin was pure and flawless, and his fingers ached to touch her silky smoothness. Then he looked into her eyes.

Regret slammed him in the gut. Her eyes were dull and lifeless. Dark circles rimmed her ebony eyes. She looked tired, as if she hadn’t slept the night before. As if she’d lain awake waiting for him, wondering why her husband had not come to her.

She stood at the top and did not move.

He climbed the stairs until he was even with her. “Good morning.” He leaned over to kiss her gently on the cheek.

She stiffened. “Good morning, sir.” Her voice was soft, placid, resigned. “You must have risen early.”

“Yes. I went for a ride.”

“Did you find what you were searching for?”

He clenched his jaw. “Yes.” Their gazes locked. He saw the understanding in her eyes. “Have you eaten yet?” he asked, knowing she probably had not.

“No.”

“I’ll bathe, then be down to join you.”

“That isn’t necessary.”

He tried to smile. “It’s silly for us to eat separately.”

“But not for us to spend our wedding night separated?”

He took a harsh breath and waited until he had rein on his temper. “I’ll be down shortly,” he said through clenched teeth.

She shrugged her shoulders, indicating she didn’t care one way or another. “As you wish.”

He recognized her efforts to distance herself from him. Even though he realized that would keep her safest, he was loath to have it happen. “At your convenience, Martha can show you the house. Make a list of anything you need or want changed, and I’ll see that it gets done. The house has gone without a mistress for over four years. I’m sure there is much that needs attention.”

“Am I confined then to the house?”

The chill in her voice sent a shiver down his spine. “No. You are free to go outside. But I will go with you. After we’ve eaten, I’ll show you the gardens. They are quite spacious. I’m sure you will not find them confining.”

She breathed a sigh that nearly screamed her frustration. The harsh clip of her words confirmed it. “Thank you, sir. I look forward to your company.”

The look on her face said there were a hundred things she looked forward to before his company—including a trip to the gallows. He didn’t blame her for feeling this way. He’d been a disappointment so far. But he’d had no choice—not until either he or the killer was dead. Until then he could neither take her heart, nor offer her his own. He could offer her nothing more than his promise to keep her safe, and pray he didn’t fail her as he’d failed Julia.

“I won’t be long.” He stepped aside so she could pass him.

With a stiff nod, she made her way down the stairs. She didn’t look back.

The knot in his stomach tightened as he watched her. He knew his absence from her bed had hurt her last night.

He watched until she was out of sight, then turned. As he was about to walk away, the front door opened, and Franklin entered the foyer.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes, Franklin. Double the guards to watch the grounds. Post another dozen men in the garden and close to the house.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

“And Franklin,” Griff added when the agent turned to leave. “Tell the men to keep their eyes open.”

“Yes, sir.”

Franklin left and Griff walked to his room. He had to get this over with soon. He couldn’t take a chance with her. He couldn’t risk her getting hurt.

W
hen they had finished their meal, Griff offered her his arm to give her a quick tour of some of the rooms in the house before they visited the gardens. She lifted her hand as soon as she could. It was hard enough being this near him. Touching him was an unbearable torture. They walked in silence, just as they’d eaten.

He escorted her to a wide set of stairs that led to a separate wing of Covington Manor. They climbed the five steps, then through a spacious entryway that opened to a magnificent ballroom large enough to entertain more than a hundred guests. Anne stood in awe at the top of the stairs. The room was elegantly ornate and furnished in the most stylish décor.

She wondered how often he and Julia had entertained here, how often their home had been filled with gay laughter and soft music. She pushed the thought away and tried to concentrate on anything other than the wife Griff wished hadn’t died.

She walked down the five steps, then across the ballroom floor. On the far side of the room, four wide double doors stood open as if in invitation for her to walk through. Once outside, she got her first glimpse of the mammoth gardens he’d mentioned.

She stood on the wide stone terrace and took in the scene before her. It was breathtaking. Everywhere she looked flowers and bushes flourished in riotous color while trees and shrubbery stood out in healthy perfection.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

“Do you like it?”

“How could one not like it?”

She walked to the edge of the terrace and leaned against the cement railing. She suddenly felt like a child let loose in a fairyland. She wanted to run this way and that so she could see everything that was there.

“Was this your wife’s creation?” she asked, the question out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

“Julia?” He laughed. “Heavens no. She wasn’t fond of anything without a roof on it. She used to stand before the window to look out and say that was as close to the outdoors as she wanted to get. The gardens were my mother’s. She was the one who envisioned it all and badgered the gardeners until they planted every tree and bush and flower she wanted.”

“And you have kept it up?”

“Yes.”

There were three paths that wound through the trees and bushes. Anne rushed down the three center steps that led off the terrace. She walked past beds of azaleas, rhododendrons, and roses and lilies of every color imaginable, past stone benches scattered along the path and tucked beneath trees.

When they reached the fork where the path split, she stopped to take in the magnificent sight that surrounded her. She sat for a second on a bench beneath a huge,
spreading beechnut tree and looked at the daisies at her feet.

“Are you fond of the outdoors?” Griff asked.

“Yes. We had a lovely garden at Brentwood Manor, but it was nothing as beautiful as this. Freddie used to tease me that one of the reasons he could not take me to London was because it would take me too long to get the dirt from beneath my fingernails.”

Griff leaned down and snapped off three daisies and held them out to her. When she reached for them, their fingers touched. He turned his palm in to her palm and held her hand. He did not let go.

A thousand pinpricks raced through her body along with a heat so intense she thought she might suffocate. She would not let him do this. It would only hurt worse when his disposition changed again from warm to cold. She took the flowers and pulled away.

“Come here, Anne.” Griff held out his hand.

She hesitated, then took his hand. Together they walked down the path to her right.

Griff stopped and Anne took in the sight before her. Her breath caught.

A huge fountain bubbled in the center of a large circle of neatly trimmed grass. A number of stone statues stood as sentinels around the water’s edge. Anne’s mouth dropped when she saw them.

“Father is responsible for the statues.”

Griff put his arm around her waist and led her down one path, then crossed over to another. More statues lined the path.

“Mother fell in love with the statues when she and Father visited abroad. She wanted to bring one or two of
them back but was too embarrassed to have “naked people” where visitors and guests might see them, so she refused to let Father purchase them. Father bought them without her knowing and had them shipped over. He placed them in various spots throughout the garden.

“Quite often Mother would have them moved so they were more hidden, but Father always had them moved back. He finally told her that moving them was going to cause the gardeners to injure their backs, so she finally stopped having them moved. He told her if anyone objected to them, she was to tell them the statues were his and he refused to get rid of them. Do they embarrass you?”

“Not at all. They’re beautiful.”

She thought she noticed a smile on his face but couldn’t be sure. When he turned to speak to her, the serious set to his features was back.

“Let me show you one more part of the garden.”

Anne placed her hand atop his arm and walked with him down another path, this one to the left. The paths twisted and turned, going off in every direction imaginable. They were walking through a maze. Every foot was lined with bushes that were taller than Griff by at least half a head. The mystical effect of this secluded area of the garden was remarkable.

“This is remarkable,” she exclaimed. She rushed ahead of him to see which direction their path would take next.

“Adam and I used to spend hours in here hiding from each other when we were young. Turn to your left.” He let her go a few feet before he was at her side. “Look ahead.”

“Oh,” she said on a whisper. “It’s beautiful.” Ahead of them was a large wooden gazebo.

Anne walked to it, then climbed the steps that led to the covered interior of the summerhouse. She slowly walked the circumference, studying the landscape from every angle.

“Once you make it this far,” he said from behind her, “it’s easy to get back. Just follow this path. When you have to turn, always take the path to your right. In time you will reach the house.”

“What happens if I take the paths to the left?”

There was a slight hesitation before he answered. “It will take you to the chapel and the cemetery where all the Blackmoor ancestors are buried.”

Something drew her there. Anne went down the three steps and took the first turn to the left. Then the next. She walked until she saw the small, brown stone building ahead of her. She knew without asking that this was the chapel. She stood outside the door until he opened it, then went inside.