Free Gail Eastwood by A Perilous Journey Page A

questions bore an undertone of resentment.
    The earl parried deftly. “Let us not divert from the topic at hand, despite the interruption, Miss Kentwell. You have run away from your home in South Devon, a very drastic thing to do, and have run into nothing but trouble since.” His eloquent, dark eyebrows rose in expectation. “Come now, Cranford, before your bathwater gets cold.”
    “Our mother died in childbirth when we were eight,” Gilbey said, taking up the tale. “There were no other children. Then a year ago our father died. His younger half brother is our guardian, Baron Pembermore.” Gilbey paused to look at Gillian, who nodded to him to continue.
    She was watching Brinton’s face as he listened, trying to interpret what she saw there. For the most part what she saw was an annoyingly handsome man, whose classically sculptured features hid what was passing through his mind. She thought she could detect a tightness to his jaw, however, and a slight narrowing of his eyes, as if he didn’t like, or didn’t believe, what he was hearing. Her heart sank.
    “Our uncle has all but ignored us during this year that we’ve been in mourning,” Gilbey continued. “We had settled back into fairly normal patterns at home, with the servants to attend our needs. We are almost nineteen, and in just over two more years will be of legal age.” He cast a significant look at his sister. “Uncle William will interfere with us no more then,” he declared staunchly.
    “But you said that he’d ignored you?” Brinton questioned.
    “We live quietly and keep to ourselves. Gillie does her music. I like to fish and fancy myself an artist. We favor long rides along the coast. Our headlands are rather spectacular—have you ever been to South Devon?”
    “Yes,” said Brinton. Gillian could see the comers of his mouth had tightened, and the tenseness in his voice was unmistakable. Was his patience wearing thin?
    “Five days ago our uncle announced that I am to be married,” Gillian interjected. She could not mask the bitterness in her voice. “He had the arrangements well in hand.”
    “I imagine you took that rather amiss,” the earl said with mock seriousness. He looked more amused now than tense. It was well his shins were not in striking range of Gillian’s feet, for she had a stong urge to kick him.
    “Truly,” he continued more soberly, “I can understand how shocked you must have been, but there are still many arranged marriages these days. You are apparently of marriageable age, although I have to say, you do not look it. Was the match he desired for you so unacceptable? He did not propose to marry you off to a wife-beater, or some sort of rakehell, did he?”
    “No.”
    They were interrupted once again by a knock at the door.
    “What now?” Brinton exclaimed in frustration. He opened the door quickly, and there, of course, was the woman with their tea. “Very well,” he said ungraciously, “put it on the table there.”
    She entered the room and deposited the tray. “Forgive me, my lord,” she said, seeing Gilbey seated by the fire still fully dressed. “Sir, Mr. Kendall’s bathwater will be getting cold!” She was no doubt dismayed by the prospect of sending up more.
    “He likes it that way,” growled Brinton, all but pushing her toward the door. He gave her a half crown. “Thank you.”
    Gillian was already at the table pouring out tea when he turned around. He assisted her in setting out the enticing collection of breads, Scotch eggs, and potatoes, served with a few sausage links placed on the side. The aroma drew Gilbey away from the hearth without a word. They pulled up chairs and fell to ravenously, as if their earlier breakfast had never been.
    After a pause of several moments, Brinton began again. “Surely you were not surprised to discover you must marry?” He sipped his hot tea and set the dish carefully back in its saucer.
    “Of course not,” Gillian retorted. She reached for another