“A trouble shared is a trouble lessened.”
She started at the sound of the soft male voice and turned. Beside her sat a man… a man she hadn’t seen or heard arrive, but who seemed very comfortably situated at her side. Instantly she assessed him, as she’d learned to do with countless clients.
To say he was oddly dressed would be an understatement of epic proportions. He wore a doublet of archaic cut, padded and quilted, shaped almost like a breastplate. The sleeves of his shirt were full and slashed to show a contrasting color underneath. His trousers were tucked into knee-length boots, and he wore leather gauntlets on his hands. Strangest of all was the peaked helmet that covered his long, iron gray hair.
“Forgive me, milady,” the man said, executing a bow from his seated position. “I trust I’ve not disturbed ye, but ’tis not a night best spent alone.”
She stiffened, instantly distrusting his meaning. But his face was serene in spite of the weathering and lines of age and sun, and she felt at once that she had no reason to be afraid.
Perhaps it was not an entirely foolish reaction. She’d met men nearly as odd in her career; such eccentrics were usually harmless. Greyburn was just down the hill; she was within shouting distance.
And she was sick to death of being afraid. “Are you warning me of some danger, sir?” she asked, in the playful tone she often used with her clients.
“Ye’ll be a stranger to the Marches, and not ken the customs of the country. ‘Tis the moss-troopers I watch for, lady, and I’d not see ye harmed.”
His words rolled off his tongue with the guttural Northumberland burr, curiously antiquated, and yet it was apparent to Isabelle that he was no common laborer or shepherd. His face seemed familiar under the silly helmet; she guessed him to be near fifty, firm-bodied under his clothes, relaxed and yet with a distinct air of readiness in his pose.
“Surely I need fear nothing,” she said, “in the presence of so gallant a champion.”
He looked at her and smiled. His smile was charming, open, devoid of deception… like Cassidy’s, she thought. But his eyes were green, and his strong face was handsome and utterly masculine.
“Aye. And ’tisn’t likely the Reivers will come so nigh Greyburn. Not when the laird’s to hame.”
“You mean the earl?” she asked.
“Aye.” He studied her as she’d studied him. ” ‘Tis known all about the parish that he’s browt two bonny ladies from London town.” He dipped his head. “The talk of their beauty was no bairn’s prattle, it seems.”
She’d chosen to play along with his little game, but he spoke with such sincerity that she blushed. When had a man’s compliments last touched her?
Who was he?
“My name is Isabelle Smith,” she said. “I am staying at Greyburn with my young charge, Cassidy Holt, cousin to the earl of Greyburn.”
“Holt?” He frowned under the narrow brim of his helmet. ” ‘Tis no Border surname.”
“We are both from America,” she said, wondering why she felt so eager to talk to a stranger. Perhaps it was because he treated her as what she was not… a person worthy of respect. And he was human, for all his oddity.
“The colonies?” he said. “A lang journey ye’ve had, then, lady.”
His reference to the United States as “colonies” seemed all of a piece with his speech and appearance. If he was mad, it was a pleasant madness.
“Indeed,” she said. “Do you live here, Mr…”
“Matthias,” he said.
Matthias. Isabelle’s thoughts raced back to the carriage ride from Ulfington, to Quentin’s talk of Greyburn and its legendary past. “This house and these lands are filled with legends… They say a ghost of one of those warriors still haunts the estate—”
That ghost warrior was called Matthias. But this man was no spirit. He was flesh and blood.
“I tend the earl’s sheep and keep watch ‘gainst the Reivers,” Matthias continued. “I’ve lived here all my life.”
No ghost, then, but simply an eccentric playing the part of a legend for reasons unknown. And he was a shepherd, after all. As a girl she might have been on her dignity, knowing herself his social superior. Now such a pose was laughable.