The news of a cousin had incited all manner of questions in her son. Questions about the war, his father, and, of course, Spencer Lockhart, a kinsman who apparently cared enough to seek him out. It took so little to delight the boy. It twisted her heart. Because he deserved more. Everything. A mother and father. Siblings. A world rife with opportunity.

His deep voice rumbled across the air. “As am I.”

Turning, she strode ahead, warning him, “I’m afraid he may pelt you with questions.” He fell into step beside her. “Like most little boys, he has fanciful notions of soldiers and war.”

A dark shutter fell over his eyes, and she suspected the war was a topic he avoided.

He said nothing, merely nodded, looking at her in that intensely unnerving way of his . . . as though he could see her, the real her. A most uncomfortable sensation for someone with her fair share of secrets.

“Must you do that?” she blurted before she could think better of it.

He stopped. Squared himself in front of her. Stared even harder. “What?” he replied, his tone exasperatingly even.

Fisting a hand in her skirts, she faced him and suffered his gaze. “Stare at me so, so . . .” Her voice faded on a growl. An itchy burn crept up her neck, suffusing her face. How could she explain that his stare made her feel exposed? As shaky and brittle as a leaf inside?

“And how do I stare at you?” He angled his head; waited for her answer.

She glanced away, then back again, shifting her weight on each foot. She dare not explain that when he looked at her he reminded her of a wolf about to devour its next meal.

“Linnie,” he prompted, his gravelly voice lethal-soft. “How do I look at you?” He punctuated each word sharply.

Her gaze snapped back to him. Heat licked her cheeks. She had not granted him leave to address her thus. And she didn’t like it. Abhorred the sound of her sister’s name on his lips. “You stare,” she accused. “Ogle, sir. It’s most rude.”

His head jerked back ever so slightly. “Do I? I was not aware.” For a fraction of a second, the corner of his lips twitched, and she was convinced that he knew the manner in which he stared at her. He knew and enjoyed every moment of it.

“Pardon me. I’ve heard much of you over the years. You are a curiosity.”

She flinched. He had heard stories of her beautiful, charming and thoroughly tempting sister. Her sister. Not her. It must be difficult for him to reconcile such notions with the reality of her.

Her gaze narrowed on him. “I wish you would cease to look at me like I’m such a curiosity then.”

“I shall endeavor to do that.” From the bright glint in his eyes, she suspected he would do nothing of the sort. Indeed, she suspected he secretly laughed at her. Whatever Ian had told him of Linnie, it clearly made an impression. Why else would he look at her like a fine morsel to savor? Blast it. Not her, but Linnie. She must never forget that.

Lifting her chin, she turned away. “This way, please. Nicholas is at the pond with Amy.”

“Amy?”

“His nurse, but we don’t treat her like a servant. She’s family.”

He quirked a dark brow but said nothing. Amy had attended Penwich a couple years behind Evie’s class. Evie remembered the girl with fondness and had written to her when she’d moved in with Aunt Gertie, hoping she would be interested in the post. Even now, when they could not afford to pay her wages, Amy remained. That made her family. Not a servant.

He fell into step beside her as they followed the small path around the cottage. Hands folded behind his back, the breadth of his shoulders stretched taut against the dark greatcoat he wore, she could well imagine him in full uniform.

“When do you . . . resume your duties?”

“I won’t. I’ve sold my commission.”

She cut him a sharp glance.

“It’s time,” he elaborated. “I’m needed here. My elder brother died last spring.”

“I’m sorry.”

As they strolled past the garden, she winced at the sight of her aunt, still at work driving the blackbirds away. Even with the winter vegetables harvested, she was determined to drive them off.

He eyed her aunt’s efforts with speculation. “Is something amiss?”

“My aunt has appointed herself protector of our garden,” she lamely explained.

“She is armed, you know.”

Evie sighed. “Don’t worry. She’s a terrible shot. Harmless, really. Has never even hit a bird.”

Almost to the pond now, Amy spotted them and set down the sketch pads upon which she and Nicholas drew. Rising to her feet, she pulled the lad up with her. Nicholas was all eagerness, dancing in place as they stopped before him.

“Nicholas,” Evie murmured. “This is Spencer Lockhart. I told you about him.”

Nicholas dropped his head back to stare up at the man, lips parting in a small circle of awe. With his usual directness, he reached up to stroke one of the shiny buttons on Lockhart’s greatcoat.

“Hello, Nicholas. I’m your cousin.”

“I’ve never had a cousin before. What will we do together?”

Mr. Lockhart blinked.

Evie fought down a smile.

“What should we do?” Mr. Lockhart wisely inquired.

“I like to fish. Mr. Murdoch lets me fish with him. Do you like to fish? We have a pole you can use.”

“It’s been some years, but yes, I’ve been known to fish.” He crouched down before the boy, some of his stiffness evaporating. A dull ache began in Evie’s chest at the sight of her little boy staring up at Mr. Lockhart with something akin to hero worship glowing in his eyes. “In fact, I fished with your father.”

“Truly?”

Mr. Lockhart’s face was all seriousness. “I wouldn’t lie about that.”

“Did you hear that, Mama?” Nicholas looked to her. “My father liked to fish, too. Just like me.”

Tears burned her eyes. She lifted her face higher against the breeze to cool the sting. “Yes, Nicholas. Just like you.”

Such a small thing to bring him pleasure, to connect him to a father he would never know. Mr. Lockhart turned, leveled her with his cool green gaze. She pulled back her shoulders, determined to present him with a show of indifference. Apathy. That she was unaffected by him, unmoved by his ease and charm with Nicholas. That they did not need him here.

“Amy,” Evie broke in, “I believe it’s time for Nicholas’s nap.”

“Mama,” the child pouted with a small stomp of feet at her sudden announcement.

“Nicholas,” she quietly reprimanded, “I’m certain Mr. Lockhart needs to be on his way if he wants to cover any ground today.”

Nicholas’s lip quivered, and although her heart ached to disappoint him, Evie knew it was for the best. They could not let this man into their lives. The risk was too great.

Lockhart reeked of disapproval, his green eyes cold.

She blinked and looked away, trying to rid the infernal burn from her eyes. He had only asked to meet Nicholas, not spend the day with him. The sooner Mr. Lockhart left, the better for all.

Gathering their sketch pads and supplies, Amy bundled Nicholas close and led him to the house.

“Good-bye, Nicholas,” Mr. Lockhart called out, the deep sound of his voice stroking her somewhere hidden and deep. Shivering, she pulled her shawl close.

Without facing him, she held her ground and watched Amy and Nicholas tramp toward the house, letting the pair outdistance them even if it meant suffering his company alone for a few moments longer.

“You appear in a rush to get rid of me, Mrs. Cross.” His words flew with well-aimed accuracy, striking at the truth, at her undeniable need to chase him from her life with all haste. She did not even possess the tact to disguise her eagerness. “Any reason why?”

Heat crept up her neck, spreading through her face. “That’s absurd.” Shooting him the barest glance, she lifted her skirts and followed in her son’s wake, stopping only when a hand fell on her arm, hard as a vise, forcing her back around. Lungs tights with an indrawn breath, she stared down at that hand, large and tanned on her sleeve, before meeting his gaze.

“I’ll have the truth.” A muscle rippled across the flesh of his jaw and her stomach clenched. “What is it about my presence that you find so offensive, Mrs. Cross?”

His hand burned her through her wool sleeve as she groped for the appropriate denial, only managing an evasive stammer. “N-nothing.”

“Come, don’t be vague. It hardly suits you.”

She bristled. “And you know me so well, do you?”

A hint of smile curved his lips at her waspish retort. “That’s more like it.”

Wretch! He didn’t know her. And she best be certain he never did.

“I merely thought to free you. You’ve already stayed the night. I would not keep you from the countless tasks waiting—”

“I have a duty to you and Ian’s son.”

Alarm tightened her chest. It was that sense of duty that worried her. Just how far did it extend? Did he intend to be a permanent fixture in their lives? Dear God. It couldn’t happen. She couldn’t risk him learning the truth. Her life was a charade. She was a fraud. He must never know.

She tugged on her arm. “Unhand me.”

“Mrs. Cross,” he ground out, his warm fingers flexing around her, sending sparks up her arm. “I had hoped that we might better acquaint ourselves. Become friends of a sort.”

She strained away from him in horror. Friends?

His eyes darkened to a mossy green. “You needn’t look so appalled.”

“I—I--” When had she started stuttering? “You wish to be my . . . friend?”

His intense gaze roamed her face, dipped and traveled her person. Heavens help her if she didn’t respond to that look, if her pulse didn’t race just a small bit faster against her throat.

“Is that so wrong? I fear we’ve begun badly—”

Whatever he meant to say died abruptly, the words cut short on the air. His gaze flew wide, focused at some point beyond her shoulder.

Everything happened quickly then.

His hand on her arm tightened to a painful grip. A whimper rose in her throat. Before she could gain her voice and demand he unhand her a second time, he plucked her off her feet.

Her neck jerked with pain as he swung her around.

Colors blurred. Wind whistled.

She clutched his arms, hanging on for dear life, trying not to notice how strong and warm he felt against her.

What was he doing?

Air rushed from her lungs, blocking her scream, killing it in her throat. He pulled her to him, hugged her tightly against the hard length of his body. So tightly she feared he would crush her ribs. She had suffered broken ribs once before. She did not care to repeat the experience. She beat at his shoulder with tightly wound fists.

His body spasmed against her, his fierce clutch on her arms tightening, doubtlessly leaving bruises.

Buried in his arms, a violent shudder rippled through his body into her.

Then he stilled.

Chapter 7

Quite certain she was in the clutches of a madman, she loosened her lips and found her voice. The result was only a weak-muffled moan against his chest. “Mr. Lockhart! What are you doing?”

The arms around her dropped away. With a strange, ragged breath, he staggered back.

Gasping for breath, she glared at him, brushing a hand against her hair, thankfully still in place.

At the look on his oddly pale face, her hands froze. “Mr. Lockhart. Are you unwell?”

His lips looked gray as he spoke. “Not quite, Mrs. Cross.” As if speech pained him, he paused and grimaced. “Appears your aunt finally hit something. Me, I’m afraid.”

Her heart stopped. No!

Her gaze shot to Aunt Gertie. Her sticklike figure hunkered over her bow, as if attempting to hide the evidence of her misdeed.