“You name him if you must.” Edward shrugged again and rested the fingertips of his right hand on the desk.
The assessing stare she leveled at him stirred a memory. His eyes narrowed. “You’re the woman who made my horse shy on the high road the other day.”
“Yes.” She gave him a look of suspicious sweetness. “I am so sorry you fell off your horse.”
Impertinent. “I did not fall off. I was unseated.”
“Indeed?”
He almost contested that one word, but she held out a sheaf of papers to him. “Would you care to see what I’ve transcribed today?”
“Hmm,” he rumbled noncommittally.
He withdrew his spectacles from a pocket and settled them on his nose. It took a moment to concentrate on the page in his hand, but when he did, Edward recognized the handwriting of his new secretary. He’d read over the transcribed pages the night before, and while he’d approved of the neatness of the script, he’d wondered about the effeminacy of it.
He looked at little Anna Wren over his spectacles and snorted. Not effeminate. Feminine. Which explained Hopple’s evasiveness.
He read a few sentences more before another thought struck him. Edward darted a sharp glance at the woman’s hand and saw she wore no rings. Ha. All the men hereabouts were probably afraid to court her.
“You are unwed?”
She appeared startled. “I am a widow, my lord.”
“Ah.” Then she had been courted and wed, but not anymore. No male guarded her now.
Hard on the heels of that thought was a feeling of ridiculousness for having predatory thoughts about such a drab female. Except for that mouth… He shifted uncomfortably and brought his wandering thoughts back to the page he held. There were no blots or misspellings that he could see. Exactly what he would expect from a small, brown widow. He grimaced mentally.
Ha. A mistake. He glared at the widow over his spectacles. “This word should be compost, not compose. Can’t you read my handwriting?”
Mrs. Wren took a deep breath as if fortifying her patience, which made her lavish bosom expand. “Actually, my lord, no, I can’t always.”
“Humph,” he grunted, a little disappointed she hadn’t argued. She’d probably have to take a lot of deep breaths if she were enraged.
He finished reading through the papers and threw them down on her desk, where they slid sideways. She frowned at the lopsided heap of papers and bent to retrieve one that had fluttered to the floor.
“They look well enough.” He walked behind her. “I will be working here later this afternoon whilst you finish transcribing the manuscript thus far.”
He reached around her to flick a piece of lint off the desk. For a moment, he could feel her body heat and smell the faint scent of roses wafting up from her warmth. He sensed her stiffen.
He straightened. “Tomorrow I’ll need you to work with me on matters pertaining to the estate. I hope that is amenable to you?”
“Yes, of course, my lord.”
He felt her twist around to see him, but he was already walking toward the door. “Fine. I have business to attend to before I begin my work here.”
He paused by the door. “Oh, and Mrs. Wren?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Yes, my lord?”
“Do not leave the Abbey before I return.” Edward strode into the hallway determined to hunt down and interrogate his steward.
IN THE LIBRARY, Anna narrowed her eyes at the earl’s retreating back. What an overbearing man. He even looked arrogant from the rear, his broad shoulders straight, his head at an imperious tilt.
She considered his last words and turned a puzzled frown on the dog sprawled before the fire. “Why does he think I’d leave?”
The mastiff opened one eye but seemed to know that the question was rhetorical and closed it again. She sighed and shook her head, then drew a fresh sheet of paper from the pile. She was his secretary, after all; she’d just have to learn to put up with the high-handed earl. And, of course, keep her thoughts to herself at all times.
Three hours later, Anna had nearly finished transcribing the pages and had a crick in her shoulder for her efforts. The earl hadn’t yet returned, despite his threat. She sighed and flexed her right hand, then stood. Perhaps a stroll about the room was in order. The dog looked up and rose to follow her. Idly, she trailed her fingers along a shelf of books. They were outsized tomes, geography volumes, judging by the titles on their spines. The books were certainly bigger than the red-bound one she’d looked at last week. Anna paused. She hadn’t had the courage to inspect that little volume since she’d been interrupted by the maid, but now curiosity drove her to the shelf by the bellpull.
There it was, nestled beside its taller mates, just as she’d left it. The slim red book seemed to beckon her. Anna drew it out and opened it to the title page. The print was ornate and barely readable: The Raven Prince. There was no author given. She raised her eyebrows and flipped several pages until she came to an illustration of a giant black raven, far larger than the ordinary bird. It stood on a stone wall beside a man with a long white beard and a weary expression on his face. Anna frowned. The raven’s head was tilted as if it knew something the old man didn’t, and its beak was open as though it might—
“What do you have there?”
The earl’s deep tones startled her so badly that Anna did drop the book this time. How had such a large man moved so silently? He crossed the carpet now, with no regard to the muddy tracks he left, and picked up the book at her feet. His expression went flat when he saw the cover. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
Then he looked up. “I thought I’d order tea,” he said prosaically. He tugged at the bellpull.
The big dog thrust his muzzle in his master’s free hand. Lord Swartingham scrubbed the dog’s head and turned to place the book in the drawer of his desk.