Free The Rake by Mary Jo Putney Page B

heart.”
    She was absurdly pleased at the compliment. Perhaps her job was safe after all.
    They circled the manor house and rode toward the village of Strickland, but before they reached their destination, Davenport reined in his horse. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the tall brick chimney that loomed above the next hilltop. “What on earth is an industrial chimney doing out here?”
    Face set, he cantered forward to investigate. Alys trailed unhappily behind him. The new owner was about to discover one of the odder features of Strickland.
    He stopped again on the top of the hill, where he could see the whole manufactory. The round bottle oven with its high, circular chimney was the unmistakable mark of a pottery. In a voice devoid of inflection, he asked, “What the devil is a potbank doing on Strickland land? Didn’t this used to be one of the tenant farms?”
    â€œThe site is leased from Strickland, and at quite a profitable rate,” she replied, praying that he wouldn’t ask more, and knowing that he would.
    He gave her an icy glance. “That isn’t what I asked. What is a manufactory doing here, and who owns it?”
    Choosing her words carefully, Alys said, “It’s held in trust for three minors.”
    â€œOh?” His cold syllable ordered her to continue.
    â€œThis was the smallest of the tenant farms, with the least desirable tenants,” she explained. “It was a relief when they sold off their equipment and stock and skipped off without paying the Lady Day rent three years ago. I combined the land with Hill Farm, and Robbie Herald works it with his own property. I leased the buildings to the pottery.”
    His sardonic snort made it clear that he knew she was telling less than the whole story.
    â€œThe pottery has been an excellent venture,” Alys said defensively. “It provides jobs, pays a fair rent to Strickland, and is a good long-term investment for the owners. I know most landowners loathe any kind of industry on their land, but you can’t shut it down even if you want to—the lease runs for twenty-two more years.”
    Before she could offer more arguments, Davenport’s hand shot out to catch her mare’s bridle. The horse tried to throw its head upward, but his powerful grip held it steady. He turned in his saddle to face her, anger evident in his clipped words. “Yesterday I said I would give you a chance to prove yourself. Will you extend me the same courtesy?”
    A fierce wave of embarrassment burned Alys’s face and spread down her neck. He was being entirely reasonable, and she was acting like a rabid hedgehog. For the first time she really looked at him, not as Reginald Davenport, notorious rake and disastrous employer, but as an individual. Their gazes held for an endless moment.
    With jarring insight, she recognized that her employer was a good deal more—or less—than his reputation. Under the world-weary air were tolerance and intelligence that would be a credit to anyone. And he had the tiredest eyes she had ever seen.
    â€œI’m sorry.” It wasn’t enough, so she continued doggedly, “I have often been unfairly judged and condemned. It is unpardonable that I commit the same injustice toward you.”
    He released the mare’s bridle. “Considering how many years I’ve spent cultivating an evil reputation, I would be disappointed if you didn’t assume the worst about me.”
    She smiled. “I am beginning to believe that you are a fraud, Mr. Davenport.”
    â€œOh?” His dark brows rose in the sardonic expression she was coming to recognize. “In what way?”
    â€œI am beginning to believe that you are not at all the wicked care-for-nobody that your reputation claims.”
    â€œYou had best withhold judgment on that point, Miss Weston,” he said dryly. Gathering up his reins, he said, “I think it’s time we ate. As I