Love Inspired Historical March 2014 Bundle: Winning Over the Wrangler\Wolf Creek Homecoming\A Bride for the Baron\The Guardian's Promise (53 page)

The carriage door opened. She wiped her hands on her apron and straightened. Her spine protested, and she realized she had spent hours bent over as she picked through the ashes around the vicarage. With the roof falling in, she had not dared to go inside. Some of the men who had fought the flames had tossed some items out of the vicarage's small kitchen, but only a handful of items had survived.

Her brother stared at the window where his office had been. He had not moved from that spot for the past hour. Her single attempt to comfort him had been for naught. When he'd asked her to leave him to his thoughts and prayers, she had agreed.

Shouts sounded around what remained of the church. The men working there had noticed Lord Meriweather's carriage. They paused in their tasks, and she wondered if they were as eager as she was to listen to any plans the baron might have for rebuilding.

Her welcoming smile wavered when Lord Meriweather stepped out of the carriage, every inch of him bristling with the fury displayed on his face. That anger was hidden when another man emerged from the carriage.

Lord Ashland! What was the viscount doing here? He seldom came to the village, though he had attended services at the church several times in the past year.

Vera walked toward the men, curious what had caused even-tempered Lord Meriweather to wear such a grim expression. “Good day, my lords,” she called.

They paused when they reached her and greeted her politely. It was clear they had other issues on their minds.

“I'm glad you are here,” she said when silence fell between them. “The men have been working hard, as you'll be able to see.”

“They aren't the only ones.” Lord Meriweather's face transformed as he smiled.

“What do you mean?”

“It appears you have been poking around the ashes, too, Miss Fenwick. You have a line of gray streaking your cheek.” He raised his hand, then drew it back with a glance at Lord Ashland who watched without comment.

“Oh, that must have happened one of the times I pushed aside my hair.” She looked at her filthy hands.

“Allow me.” Lord Meriweather pulled out a lawn handkerchief and handed it to her. When she looked at him in confusion, because she was not sure which of her cheeks was dirty, he pointed to the left side of his face.

“Thank you,” she said as she dabbed at the soot on her face. When she looked at the handkerchief, she was shocked how dirty her cheek must have been. She wondered why nobody else had mentioned it. Maybe they had not wanted to embarrass her, telling her that she looked like a chimney sweep.

She noticed Lord Ashland walking toward her brother. Maybe the viscount could offer Gregory solace on this difficult day.

“Have you found anything that was saved?” asked Lord Meriweather, drawing her eyes back to his.

She saw concern within those dark pools, but the storm that had raged there when he had exited the carriage could not be hidden. She almost asked what was amiss. She halted herself before she could overstep her place as the vicar's sister.

“The cooking pans are blackened, but they can be cleaned and made useable again.” She looked at where her brother talked to Lord Ashland. “Not one of Gregory's books was spared. I haven't seen him this upset since...” She halted herself before she could spill the truth of what had happened before Gregory was given the living in Sanctuary Bay by a very generous Lord Meriweather. “There aren't many things he prized as much as he did his collection of books.”

Lord Meriweather sighed. “He is welcome to use any books in Meriweather Hall.”

“Thank you, and he will avail himself of them, but he had some favorite volumes he will sorely miss.”

“I am sorry to hear that. I have contacts in London who may be able to find copies to replace them.”

Vera smiled. “I will let him know.” London prices would be too dear for a vicar, but she appreciated Lord Meriweather's offer. She hoped Gregory would, as well, though knowing copies existed that he could not afford would add to his frustration.

She started to put the soiled handkerchief in her apron pocket, but Lord Meriweather said, “I can take that.”

“Are you sure? It's dirty.”

He gave her a sad smile. “I daresay by the time I leave here, I will be far dirtier.” He held out his hand.

“That is true.”

His troubled expression drew his mouth down farther at the corners. “May I ask you a question?”

“Certainly. What about?” She placed the handkerchief on his outstretched palm.

A gust of wind threatened to steal it. She clamped her hand down on the fine linen at the exact same time he closed his fingers around hers. A shock rippled up her arm, a shock that was startling and pleasing at the same time. He drew in a quick breath, and she looked up at him. She saw her conflicting reaction mirrored on his face.

“Miss Fenwick...” His voice was as breathless as if he had run down the village's steep street and back up. Twice.

“My lord...” She was unsure what to say after that, but she must say something. She could not stand with her hand in his. After what the footman had seen at Meriweather Hall, gossip would spread far and fast...exactly as it had last time.

That memory spurred her to slip her hand from his. “Thank you, my lord, for lending me your handkerchief.”

He did not reply as he gazed at her, as if he had never taken note of her before, and he was intrigued by what he saw.

Vera turned away as someone shouted, glad for the excuse to sever the invisible link between them. She closed her eyes and prayed,
Dear Father,
I must not forget what happened before. Lead me on the path I should walk, the path that makes sure I never risk Gregory's work for You.

When she opened her eyes, Lord Meriweather was loping toward a man by the cellar. The man was waving excitedly to him.

Curiosity sent Vera after him at a slower pace among the gravestones that seemed lonely without the church standing guard over them. Both Lord Ashland and her brother passed her; by the time she reached the hole, the men were grouped around something on the ground. Lord Ashland was looking over the side but stepped back hastily before someone bumped into him and sent him down to the bottom of the cellar.

“Just brought it up, my lord,” someone said from the center of the group. “Can you believe it?”

Squeezing among the men, Vera gasped when somebody took her arm and popped her out of the crowd like a grain of sand between her fingers. She smiled at Gregory when he drew her to stand beside him. He gestured toward the ground in front of them.

“Oh, my!” She stared at the baptismal font that rested in three pieces by the cellar hole. The pedestal had broken twice, but the bowl was intact. Smoke and water stains brought the carved figures on the stone into higher relief. “I thought it was shattered.”

“So did I.” Lord Meriweather bent to examine the ancient font. One side was badly chipped. “Astounding! When I saw it in the cellar, I was sure it was destroyed.”

The men grinned.

A tall man she recognized as Luther Hinchliff, the village cooper, said, “We thought so, too, then realized the broken pieces were from the ceiling. The pedestal will have to be put back together, but otherwise it's useable.”

“We can put it in the new church,” Gregory said, and Vera patted his arm. “God has shown His love by allowing this vital part of our church to come through the flames. Let us thank Him.” He took her left hand and reached out to the man on his left.

When a hand grasped her right one, the warmth coursing through her at the simple touch could have come only from Lord Meriweather.

She bowed her head as Gregory led them in prayer and added her silent thanks that her brother seemed revitalized by the discovery. A good night's sleep had helped, too, but she had been worried about his state of mind when he had stood by the vicarage so long.

Everyone chorused heartfelt amens when Gregory finished. He reached past her to shake the hands of the men who had brought the font up from the cellar without damaging it further.

Beside her, Lord Meriweather said, “It's a beginning.”

“Yes,” she said, unable to stop smiling. “We may not have a roof over our heads when we worship, but we can catch heaven's rain to baptize our newest members.”

“A lovely thought, Miss Fenwick.” He squeezed her hand, and she pulled in a sharp breath. She had not realized he still held it, for it seemed natural to have her fingers enfolded within his. “With this beginning to inspire us, who knows what other blessings lie ahead of us?”

“Blessings? Finally some good news.” The voice came from behind her. She drew her hand out of Lord Meriweather's and turned as the others did to see a pudgy man. His greatcoat was worn at the elbows, and the collar was frayed. His dark hair needed to be cut. Any hint of a shine had vanished from his boots.

Lord Ashland stepped forward. “Ah, Brooks, I should have known you would be here posthaste.” He motioned toward the rest of them. “You know the vicar and Miss Fenwick, of course. Have you met the new baron?”

The chubby man nodded his head toward Vera and her brother, then dipped his head more deeply toward Lord Meriweather. “Haven't had the pleasure until now, though I did see you at Sir Nigel's fall assembly. Too crowded to get to you so we might speak, my lord, that night. So many art lovers eager to admire Sir Nigel's latest masterpieces. I assumed eventually our paths would cross again.” Mr. Brooks looked from the ruins of the church to the burned-out vicarage. “Vicar, I would guess you are the best one to bring me up-to-date on this tragedy. If you have the time, that is...”

“Of course, Mr. Brooks,” her brother said.

Mr. Brooks motioned for Gregory to walk with him away from the others. When Lord Ashland made to follow, Mr. Brooks gave him a stern look that stopped him in midstep.

The viscount scowled, then stamped toward the carriage. “Coming, Meriweather?” he called over his shoulder.

“In a few minutes.”

Vera was grateful that she stood far enough away from the viscount so she could not discern the words he growled under his breath.

Lord Meriweather watched Lord Ashland for a moment, then shook his head and sighed. He clasped his hands behind his back. “Miss Fenwick, who is Brooks?”

“Cuthbert Brooks is the local justice of the peace.”

“That man is the justice of the peace?”

Vera kept her voice low. “Do not let his self-effacing image fool you. He is a brilliant man when it comes to keeping the peace in the Sanctuary Bay parish.”

“He has been of little use with stopping the smugglers.”

“But there has been less violence than in other places along the shore.”

“Possibly because the smugglers know better than to upset their well-placed leader.”

“That is something I cannot forget,” she whispered.

“Nor I.”

Vera was astonished when Lord Meriweather glanced at where Lord Ashland was climbing into the carriage. Did the baron have suspicions about the viscount's involvement with the smugglers?

She had heard enough whispers to know that the smugglers took their orders from someone of wealth and prestige. The viscount fit that description, as did Sir Nigel. Mr. Brooks was not as plump in the pockets as the other two, but he held much sway in the parish as the justice of the peace.

“As a good host,” Lord Meriweather said with a sigh, “I should escort Ashland back to Meriweather Hall. I have no idea why he wanted to come here.” He glanced at the baptismal font.

“With the recovery of the font,” she said, “the parishioners are going to be even more eager to have the church rebuilt.”

“I agree.”

“We need to start making plans for the interior. I can meet with you tomorrow whenever you wish. Or the next day if that is better.”

“If you think that is the best time...”

Vera kept her face serene, so he could not discern how sympathy welled up within her. The poor man could not make a single decision. Facing each one seemed to scourge him.

“Let's not set a definite time now. I will make a list of what I think we need to do,” she said, “and, when I'm done, I will bring it to you for review. Your expertise will be invaluable.”

He nodded and turned to leave; then he paused. Facing her, he said, “One question, Miss Fenwick, if I may.”

“Of course. Any time.”

Again his smile came and went like lightning on a hot summer night. “It is a difficult question to ask. It has come to my attention that it is being said that you and your brother have offered assistance to the smugglers. Is there any truth in that rumor?”

“None!” Both anger and pain riveted her. Anger that he would give that rumor any credence. Pain that such a lie could lead to her brother losing the living in Sanctuary Bay.

“I'm glad to hear that.” He tipped his hat toward her. “I will see you at Meriweather Hall, Miss Fenwick. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask.”

She nodded, but she knew she would never be able to ask for what she needed most now: answers. She wanted to know who was spreading spurious tales about her and Gregory. She ached to discover if, upon first hearing them, Lord Meriweather had contemplated sending them away from Sanctuary Bay. And, as much, she longed to find out how she could halt herself from feeling the warmth of his touch, a warmth that could lead her into ruining everything...again.

Chapter Four

V
era stifled a yawn as she walked into her brother's room the next morning. The room Gregory was using was as masculine in style as hers was feminine. Dark furniture and rugs contrasted with the green velvet draperies. Friezes along the ceiling served as a frame for a mural of a hunting scene. Foxhounds bounded past hedges while riders on horseback jumped over them, suspended forever in midflight. The bright red coats matched the silk on the upper half of the walls above richly stained moldings.

She called his name, and he poked his head past the door that led to the room where his valet would sleep if he had one.

“Good,” he said. “I had hoped you would get here before I left.”

“Left?” She noticed he carried a stack of clothing. “Where are you going? We need you here now while we make plans for the new church.”

He opened a bag on the bed that already held a few items, including several books that must have come from Lord Meriweather's book room. “I must seek the bishop's counsel on dealing with the smugglers. As well, I want to share our plans for rebuilding the church.”

“The plans to move the church closer to the village?” She walked to the other side of the bed and watched as he deftly packed the bag. If she did not know better, she would have guessed he had done that many times before.

“Yes, but it is not only the building. There is the churchyard to consider. If we move to another location, do we build a wall around it to protect the graves? The parishioners will not want to be separated in death from their loved ones by starting a new churchyard with the new building.”

She sat on a chair near the foot of the tester bed. “Perhaps we could move the new church a bit closer to the old foundation, so we can still incorporate the graves within the churchyard.”

“A good idea, Vera. I shall share it with the bishop.” He put the last of the clothing in the bag. “Thank goodness that Lord Meriweather and I are close enough in size so I don't have to call on the bishop wearing dirty and torn clothing.” He closed the top of the worn leather bag and stepped away from the bed.

“I cannot imagine the bishop would judge your ability to lead our parish through this crisis with the smugglers because of what you are wearing.” She smoothed her hands over her lap and the fine gown that was Cat's. It was even more elegant than the one she had worn to her friend's wedding, but for the daughter of a baron, it would be considered an everyday morning gown.

“True. Mr. Hamilton has agreed to lead the services on Sunday. I trust you will help him as you do me.”

“Of course.” She would write a simple sermon for Mr. Hamilton to read. He was a fisherman like many in the village, but he helped often at the church and tended the churchyard.

“And if you are away longer than that?”

“I will worry about that if I must.”

Vera bit back frustrated words. Her brother allowed her to assist in his work, but nothing more. How could he not see that she longed to do more to serve God? Many times, she had dreamed of being the one standing at the pulpit preaching the words she had written. Her brother could not imagine a woman having such an ambition.

Gregory glanced toward her. “Something is bothering you, Vera. What is it?”

“Lord Meriweather asked me an unsettling question yesterday.” That it was rumored she and Gregory had abetted the smugglers had kept her awake most of the night.

“About what?” He reached into the cupboard for a coat that, like the rest of his clothing, must belong to the baron.

“The silliest thing.” She should have said nothing. Gregory had been pleased to have the old Lord Meriweather's complete confidence in him. That the new one might not would upset him more.

“What did he ask?” He folded the coat over his arm and looked at her.

“He asked if we had ever helped the smugglers, and I told him that we hadn't.”

Gregory placed the coat on top of the bag. “That is not completely true.”

“What?” She jumped to her feet. “Gregory, you cannot be serious!”

“I am.” He motioned toward the door. “Let's find Lord Meriweather. I might as well explain to both of you at the same time.”

She fought the sickness clawing at her stomach. Her brother had helped the smugglers?
Lord, how can I face Lord Meriweather knowing that my brother assisted the men who threatened the baron's cousins?
Both Sophia and Cat had escaped alive, but the situation could easily have gone the other way. And Gregory had helped them....

Somehow her feet carried her alongside her brother. She gripped the banister as they descended the stairs. She heard Gregory ask someone where the baron was but could not focus on whom he spoke with nor the answer. She realized where they were going only when she saw four suits of armor that held swords and lances at the ready lining either side of the corridor.

Gregory knocked on the door of the book room and called, “Lord Meriweather, may we speak with you for a moment?”

“Come in,” the baron called.

Vera walked with her brother into the room that was lined with overflowing bookshelves. More books were stacked in front of them. A rosewood desk was set in front of a large double window. Chairs faced the white marble fireplace.

“Good morning,” Lord Meriweather said with a smile as he stood from one of the chairs.

That smile wavered when Gregory said, “I understand you have asked Vera about our connections with the smugglers, and you need to know that the answer she gave you was not the truth.”

She tried to keep from lowering her eyes when Lord Meriweather looked from her brother to her. Accusation burned in his eyes.

“Are you saying, vicar, that Miss Fenwick lied?”

“No.” Gregory shook his head calmly. “She told you the truth as she knows it. However, it is not the true as I know it.”

“I see. Perhaps,” Lord Meriweather said, “we should sit and discuss this. Miss Fenwick, if you please...”

Both men waited while Vera selected a chair farthest from where the baron had been sitting. She stared down at her clasped hands. It might be futile, but she wanted to prevent him from having a good view of her face. If Gregory had been honest with her, they would not be in this uncomfortable situation.

No,
a small voice whispered from her heart,
you would have had to spill the truth when Lord Meriweather asked you yesterday. You could have been the cause of Gregory being dismissed again.

At that thought, her throat threatened to close and halt her breathing. The vicarage was gone, and they could be soon, too. Lord Meriweather might believe, upon hearing what Gregory had to say, that a vicar who consorted with criminals did not deserve to preach at the Sanctuary Bay church.

“Very well, Mr. Fenwick,” Lord Meriweather said coolly. “I am waiting for you to explain that extraordinary comment which leads me to believe you have assisted the smugglers.”

She closed her eyes, praying that Gregory knew what he was doing. She did not open them as her brother spoke.

“It was not as you think, my lord,” Gregory said in a quiet, calm voice. “The incident happened several years ago. It was one evening after I had visited a member of the congregation in the village. A man appeared out of the shadows. He wore cloth over his mouth and nose, and his hat hid his eyes. He did not say much, but it was enough to know that there had been a terrible accident and I was needed. A man was dying. I am not a judge. I leave that to God. What I could do was pray with him and offer his family comfort when he died.”

She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling as tears pressed against her eyelids. How could she have doubted her brother's integrity? One of the smugglers' greatest crimes might be making them suspicious of each other.

Lord Meriweather did not reply right away. When he did, his voice was strained. “I cannot fault you for doing your duty, vicar. I would never speak badly of any man who did that. But I do have a question.”

“Certainly.”

“Did you tell my predecessor of these events?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Vera raised her head at the sudden sharpness in Lord Meriweather's voice. She was surprised to see that the baron sat on the chair beside hers and Gregory stood next to the hearth.

Her brother's face appeared as serene as if he stood at the pulpit to read his sermon until she noticed a tic near his left eye. “Because he would have asked me the question that you want to ask, too. He would have asked me the dead man's name.”

“Yes,” the baron said, “that is what I want to ask.”

“I cannot tell you his name. His widow and children no longer live in the village, but other relatives do. Other relatives who have never been involved with the smugglers.”

“But if his name directed us to the man leading them, more people could be kept from harm.”

Gregory's eyes grew almost as sad as they had been the day they had left his last living. “If I believed that, I would have told the old Lord Meriweather straightaway. I hope you believe that, my lord.”

The baron stood and offered his hand to her brother. When Gregory grasped it, neither man spoke, but she could not miss the mutual respect in their stances.

Vera released a breath she had not guessed she was holding. For how long? As the fresh air swirled into her lungs, she wondered if she had last drawn a breath when they walked into the book room. She rose as her brother explained that he was traveling to meet with the bishop.

“Have a safe trip,” Lord Meriweather said, “and I hope that Miss Fenwick and I will have made some progress by the time you return.”

A smile tugged at her brother's mouth as he said, “I know my sister well, and I have no doubts that you will have made significant progress. Vera can make amazing things happen when she sets her mind on it.”

His compliment shocked her into silence, for Gregory was not a gushing man. He gave her a kiss on the cheek, wished her well then walked out of the room.

Leaving her alone with Lord Meriweather, she realized with a pulse of something that was not dismay and was not excited anticipation but a bit of both. All words fled from her mind.

She needed not to worry because Lord Meriweather said, “I am sorry that my question caused such upheaval.”

“Once you heard the rumor, you owed everyone in Sanctuary Bay an obligation to find the truth.” She stared down at her feet. “I hope you don't believe that I misled you on purpose.”

“That thought never entered my head.” He put a single finger under her chin and tipped her head back so she looked up into his eyes, which revealed much and hid even more. “I have seen your fervor in halting the smugglers. I have seen your pain when they made threats against this house or its residents or against anyone in Sanctuary Bay.”

“I wish they could be stopped.” She should move away, but his hand shifted until he cupped her chin, his fingers splaying along her cheek. She drew in a slow breath that was flavored by a hint of sunshine and the lemon used to whiten his shirt and cravat. “They have destroyed so much.”

“Especially for you and the vicar.”

She stepped back and shook her head. “Those were
things.
We will miss them, but they can be replaced. What if someone had been in the church when they lit the brandy? And the man who died that Gregory went to... What about his family? How do his children fare without him?”

“As any child does who has lost a parent.” He locked his hands together behind his back and turned toward the fire crackling on the hearth. “With sadness and regret.”

“I know. My parents died when Gregory was still studying at Cambridge, and he took responsibility for me.”

“As you now take responsibility for him?” He looked back over his shoulder at her when she gasped. “Don't look so surprised, Miss Fenwick. It doesn't take any great insight to be aware of how solicitous you are for his well-being. You want him to be happy, even when you wish you could gainsay him from his plans. Like now.”

“What?”

“You think he should remain here to begin work on rebuilding the church rather than go to meet with the bishop.”

“You are mistaken.”

“Am I?”

Vera was about to assert that of course he was wrong, but she could not. She
did
think a call on the bishop now was premature. It would have been better to wait until after they had more information to share with him.

“No, you are right,” she said.

He smiled, and she did, too, for the first time since he had asked her about the smugglers. “Not many people would own to that.” He walked back to where she stood. His expression was lighter than it had been yesterday at the church with Lord Ashland or even when she and Gregory had come into the book room.

Lines vanished from his face as he smiled easily again. The darkness had disappeared from his eyes, which twinkled. His shoulders no longer seemed bowed beneath an invisible weight. He had the responsibilities of the estate, but she never guessed what a burden it must be. He bore it with good humor and dedication, even though he had not been raised to expect such a life.

He's a hero,
she remembered her dear friend Cat saying about her cousin.
All three of these men who served together are heroes who don't flinch from doing the hard tasks. They not only rush in “where angels fear to tread,” but stay to clean up the damage left behind afterward.

“You were worried there was something behind the rumor, weren't you?” she asked, surprising herself with her audacity. A vicar's sister should not question a baron.

“I was not worried exactly. I know how worthless most gossip is, but the fact the rumor exists could make the situation more difficult for you and the vicar. Now that I know the truth, I can divert some of the talk with the facts.”