Free Forbidden by Jo Beverley Page A

of her, you know."
    Francis rested his head on a hand. "Perhaps I don't."
    A log shifted in the grate with an audible crack. "Apart from her frightening beauty," said Nicholas, "—and I can understand that, by the way—and the fact that you are contemplating marriage, is there any other problem?"
    "Do I need more?" asked Francis, looking up.
    "Probably not, but it's the weight they carry in the balance that matters. What weighs heaviest against her?"
    Francis thought about it. "Her frightening beauty," he said at last. "She's a siren. A Lorelei. She could lure men to their deaths." Then, made uneasy by his own words, he broke the intensity of the moment by serving them both from the steak and kidney pie.
    "To twist Milton's meaning," advised Nicholas, "'Live well, how long or short permit to Heaven.' You almost make me envy you." He reached for the dish of potatoes.
    "With Eleanor as your wife, I doubt that."
    Nicholas paused in the act of lifting a potato onto his plate. "Ah. Can we discuss it, then?" He completed the movement and then looked up. "I would like you to be ensnared by this siren if it will bring you comfortably back into friendship."
    Francis didn't try to evade the issue. "I have never ceased being your friend."
    "But a remarkably absent one."
    "I'm sorry. I had a foolish fear that something would grow that I did not want."
    "Had?"
    Francis raised a questioning brow.
    "You used the past tense. Has this fear disappeared?"
    Francis evaded the question. "I have a number of things on my mind just now...." He cut into his pie, adding, "I hope you know that I would never..."
    "Goes without saying. And to be blunt, Eleanor feels nothing for you but fondness."
    Francis assembled food on his fork with care. "I know that. I would hate to embarrass her, though, or you."
    "You won't. And I promise, at the first hint of plaintive sighs or longing looks, one or the other of us will throw a jug of cold water over you."
    They both laughed, at ease at last.
    "Will we see you soon, then?" Nicholas asked. "You would be welcome to spend Christmas with us, but I suppose you must be at home then."
    "Yes. My mother sets great store by it. But I will visit...."
    The conversation was interrupted by the innkeeper popping in to say that Mr. Ferncliff had returned not long since and had ordered his dinner.
    Francis immediately rose and took out a gold-mounted pistol, checking its readiness.
    Nicholas eyed the weapon with interest. "Need any help?"
    "None at all," said Francis, and left to deal with a scoundrel.
    The innkeeper had indicated the room but when Francis knocked, there was no reply. He turned the knob and entered, but found the parlor quite empty. Frowning, he opened the door to the adjoining bedchamber. This room, too, was empty, even of the items one would expect of a guest. A certain disorder suggested that it had been emptied in a hurry.
    He ran down the stairs to confront the innkeeper. "Did you tell me the wrong room?"
    "No, milord," said the man in some distress. "I've been told just this minute that Mr. Ferncliff gathered his things, paid his shot, and took off like a fox before hounds. I'm terrible sorry, sir, but he'd been here a while, me being busy elsewhere. Seems he read a note waiting for him and that had him away. None of my people told him you were here, milord."
    The man pretended to be apologetic, but he sounded mighty relieved. When Francis saw his eyes flicker to the pistol in his hand, he knew why. "Where did he go?" he snapped. "Did he take ship?"
    "Nay, sir. There'll be no more sailings today. He has a horse and has ridden off on it."
    Francis cursed under his breath and ran back up to his room. "The damned bird's flown," he said as he grabbed his greatcoat. "I'll have to race him down."
    "Am I invited?" asked Nicholas, bright-eyed.
    "Why not?" said Francis, and headed down to the stables.
    There he and Nicholas hired new horses, then set off in the direction taken by Charles Ferncliff, riding faster