THE FOREST LORD By Susan Krinard

Hartley almost laughed. She would grant him land? The Fane had been here a thousand years before her first primitive ancestors. But it was no mean offer, when landlords clung so dearly to the income they received from their tenants.

“A generous proposal, my lady,” he said with an ironic bow.

“And if I succeed, which I will…” She tapped her lower lip with a forefinger. “You, Mr. Shaw, will admit that you have been wrong in all your harsh judgments of me—do not deny them—and will most humbly beg my pardon without the least trace of impertinence.”

So bright was her mood that he found it impossible not to respond in kind. “Do you care so much for the opinion of a servant?” he asked lightly.

She maintained her smile. “But you are not really a servant, are you, Shaw?”

He grew alert. “And what am I, your ladyship?”

“Perhaps one day you will tell me.”

“I am not sure you will believe me.”

“Are you the lost heir to some exotic kingdom, then, or a prince in disguise?”

She was treating him as an equal, not a servant. Her disposition was as changeable as spring weather, and he did not trust it any more than he trusted her. But it meant she was, indeed, beginning to trust him.

“Alas,” he said. “You have found me out.”

“You do have a sense of humor after all, Mr. Shaw,” she said.

“I often find mankind most amusing—in its many variations.”

Her brow arched high. “Mr. Shaw, there are times when I am quite certain that you are no common dalesman. Are you not a part of mankind?”

“Has membership in a society ever prevented astute observation of it?”

She chuckled. “God help anyone who falls under your satirical eye.”

“Some sights are more pleasurable than others.”

They gazed at each other. Hartley recognized another emotion in his heart that he had almost forgotten could exist.

Happiness. He was… happy, here, with the mother of his son, and Donal close enough to touch. His happiness expanded outward, warming the ground under his feet, reaching up to pierce the sky. A shaft of sunlight struck through the clouds to gild the stray locks of Eden’s hair.

Eden turned her face into the light. “How beautiful. The sun is coming out.”

A simple statement, yet she filled it with gratitude and real joy, as if someone had given her a priceless jewel. Hartley closed his eyes and set the winds to blowing. Clouds scudded and raced across the sky, clearing a field of blue above the dale. A robin whistled tentatively from a nearby oak.

Donal walked to Hartley’s side and took his hand. “You made it better,” he said.

Eden’s brilliant smile faded. “Donal has a formidable imagination. It should be encouraged in the right ways, by the proper teachers.” She reached for Donal. “It’s time to go home, Donal. You must be hungry.”

Donal glanced back at Hartley but went to his mother willingly enough. His solemn face showed so little of what he was thinking, yet Hartley knew he was torn. Torn between two worlds, one of which he did not even know existed.

If Eden so much as suspected Donal’s true nature—if her mind would let her believe—would she run from Hartsmere and never return?

Go with her, my son. The time will come when you no longer need her. No more than do I.

They drove back to Hartsmere in silence, Donal crowded onto Eden’s lap. Despite the somber mood, the sun remained bright and warm enough to begin melting the snow on roof and pasture. Almost at the gate to Hartsmere’s park, Donal sat up very straight and pointed to a coppice of hazel.

“The fox, mother,” he said. “He’s my friend.”

Tod, of course. Hartley wondered when boy and hob had met.

“I see it, Donal,” Eden said. “There must be many foxes about.” She glanced at Hartley. “My father—Lord Bradwell—used to hunt a great deal, but never on this land.”

Hartley did not return her look. “Never?”

“Not that I can remember. He hunted on all his other estates—” She broke off.

“Once men hunted out of necessity,” he said grimly, “like any other beast, to survive. Now they do it for pleasure. Is that not so?”

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