Free The Passionate One by Connie Brockway Page A

them?
    Disconcerted by her
thoughts, Rhiannon fondled Stella’s other ear. The truth was she was drawn to
Ash Merrick. She should be ashamed. It smacked of disloyalty. Yet... well, what
if she was?
    What harm could it
do? She was not so stupid as to confuse fascination for some more permanent
emotion. She was simply intrigued by the discrepancies she saw in him: the glib
tongue and watchful eyes; the shabby raiment and aristocratic manner; the
fine-boned hands with the battered wrists and callused palms. What woman
wouldn’t be interested? That didn’t mean she would be anything less than a
faithful and attentive wife. When the time came.
    As Phillip would be
a husband. When the time came.
    She knew Phillip
had occasional assignations with some of the village women. That they might not
have ended wasn’t surprising. Phillip was gloriously handsome and genial and
generous and—
    “Rhiannon! Ah,
there you are. Good.” Edith Fraiser came bustling around the corner of the
house, her cap fluttering in the breeze. She stopped by Rhiannon and glanced
around.
    “He’s not here,”
Rhiannon said.
    “Good,” Edith
replied, nodding. And then, eyeing Rhiannon suspiciously,
“ Who’s
not here?”
    Rhiannon blinked in
feigned innocence. “Who do you
think
is not here?”
    Edith blustered.
“Phillip Watt, of course. Who did you think I meant?”
    “Phillip, of
course,” Rhiannon replied and then ruined the virtuous response by laughing at
Edith’s doubtful expression. “Dear, dear, Mrs. Fraiser, your concerns are
groundless—whatever they may be.”
    “You know me too
well, Rhiannon Russell,” Edith declared, spreading her skirts and dropping down
beside Rhiannon like a roosting hen. She looked at Stella still snoozing
contentedly. “Spoil that hound, you do. ’Tisn’t natural. It’s a beast, not a
baby.” A sly smile overtook the disgruntled expression on her face. “Soon
enough you’ll have your own babes and yon hound will be back in the kennels
where she belongs.”
    “Never,” declared
Rhiannon. “I’m faithful, I am. Something you might recall,” she added gently,
“when misgivings send you flying from the house without your shawl.”
    “Humph,” Edith
said. “I see the way you circle Mr. Merrick. Like a shy colt spying an offered
apple, wary but sure that the extended hand holds something sweet. Take a
lesson from that colt, Rhiannon. More often than not the hand that holds out
the apple is hiding the one what holds the noose.”
    Rhiannon laughed.
“You are wise and knowing, but your imagination is running wild. I assure you
Mr. Merrick has no desire to trap me with a noose or anything else.”
    Edith shook her
head. “Can a girl raised in my house be so green? Must be so, for from the look
in your eye I see you believe your own words. It’s not that I don’t understand
the temptation of him. He’s a fair way with him and he’s rare pretty, too—when
he’s dusted off.” She smoothed her skirts and released a gusty sigh. “I know
you think I’m only a simple country woman and so I am—”
    “No!” Rhiannon
burst out. “I trust your judgment above all others. I look to you for
guidance.”
    Edith straightened,
smiling smugly. “Then be guided here, Rhiannon. Stay away from Mr. Merrick.
He’s dangerous.”
    “Dangerous? Isn’t
that perhaps a bit strong? He’s affable and gentle and courteous and perhaps a
bit more polished than we are accustomed—”
    “Are you
arguing
with me?” Edith stared at Rhiannon openmouthed. She could not have been more
surprised if the dog had spoken. Rhiannon never contradicted her. It was not
like her to dig in her heels—except in matters of hunting and Stella.
    Rhiannon’s smooth
brow puckered and her gaze fell in equal parts abashment and militancy.
“Mayhap,” she murmured, fiercely concentrating on plucking a burr from Stella’s
coat. “Forgive me.”
    Edith scowled. She
knew what she saw and she saw a man whose gaze went dark and hot