Where were you in October five years ago, my lord? she wondered. Behind the lines of Torres Vedras, protecting Lisbon with Viscount Wellington, as Wellesley had just become, or skirmishing around as a riding officer seeking out intelligence on the advancing French? Perhaps he had been a friend of Major Andrew Norwood. No, best not to think of him, the shocking sounds that fists meeting flesh made, the lethal whisper of a knife blade through the twilight.

  The violence that is in men’s hearts...

  Gaby bent her head over her ledgers. There was work to be done, a winery did not run itself. She could not allow herself to think about Norwood or the nightmares would begin again. He was gone, dead, and she was not going to allow him to haunt her.

  * * *

  The clock in the hall struck six as she finished her notes and lists. She put down her pen, blotted the ledger, assembled the papers and allowed herself to look out of the window at last. And there her uninvited guest was, strolling bareheaded through the cherry orchard as though he was surveying his own acres. He was heading directly for the burial plot.

  She was probably overreacting, Gaby told herself as she ran down the stairs and out through the front door. There was no reason why he should not look around the grounds—they had been laid out as a pleasure garden, after all, and she was proud of them. It was perfectly natural that he should visit the burial enclosure and pay his respects, if he was so inclined. As for what he might find there... Well, that was not his business. He was a messenger passing through and would soon be gone. What he thought of her was not of the slightest importance.

  She found him standing at the foot of her parents’ graves, head slightly bowed, apparently deep in thought. She stood on just that spot almost every day, collecting her thoughts, asking questions, wrestling with difficult issues. She did not expect an answer from beyond, of course, but simply thinking about how her parents would handle any problem often gave her own ideas direction and validation. Her father had never given her firm instructions about the business, he taught by example and encouraged innovation. The only hard line either parent had laid down was, ‘Follow your conscience, always. If you are uneasy in your mind, then listen and do the right thing.’ It was a rule she attempted to live by.

  ‘December 1807,’ the earl said, looking up as she reached the headstone and faced him. ‘The month the French took Porto for the first time.’

  ‘Yes. There was an epidemic of the influenza, just to add to the general horror. I think the anxiety and stress of the invasion made my parents particularly vulnerable to the infection.’ She could say it unemotionally now. Sometimes it even seemed like a dream, or a story she had read in a book, that time when she found herself orphaned with a fourteen-year-old brother and a quinta to, somehow, protect against the armies fighting to control a country in turmoil. She missed them all every day. The pain had become easier to live with, the sense of loss never seemed to diminish.

  ‘And this is your brother.’ Leybourne had moved on to the next headstone, reminding her just what a bad job she had done of protecting Thomas. He crouched down to read the inscription. ‘September 1810. We were behind the lines of Torres Vedras, holding Lisbon by then. I remember those months.’ Not with any pleasure, from the tone of his voice.

  ‘The French killed Thomas. Not disease.’ The French and treachery.

  ‘Hell, I’m sorry.’ He had bent down to read the inscription, but he looked up sharply at her words, then back to the stone. He reached out one long finger to trace the dates of birth and death. ‘I had not realised he had been so young, only seventeen. What happened? Were they scavenging around here?’

  ‘Only just seventeen.’

  Old enough to be thinking about girls and so shy that he had no idea how to talk with them, let alone anything else. Old enough to be shaving off fluff and young enough to be proud of the fact. Young enough to still kiss his big sister without reserve when he came home and old enough to resent her worrying...

  ‘He was with the guerrilheiros. Not all the time, only when your Major Norwood thought to...use him.’ Exploit him.

  Leybourne’s head came up again at the tone of her voice. ‘Andrew Norwood, the riding officer?’

  ‘The spy, yes. He was happy to find an enthusiastic, idealistic lad who knew his way around the hills here.’ An inexperienced boy. One who might well get himself killed—and then how useful that would be for Major Norwood, she had realised far too late. Gaby kept her voice studiedly neutral. Norwood might well have been a friend of the earl when he had been an officer here. He might be the kind of man Norwood had been.

  ‘Could you not stop him?’ Leybourne stood up. ‘I’m sorry, no, of course you could not if he was bent on fighting the French, not without chaining him up. We had boys younger than that lying about their age to enlist.’

  ‘If I had thought chaining him would work I would have tried it, believe me,’ she said, heartsick all over again at the remembered struggle, the arguments, the rows.

  We are English and Portugal is our home, Thomas had thrown at her. The French are our enemy and the enemy of Portugal. It is our duty to fight them.

  ‘I told him that we had a duty to try and keep the quinta going, to give work and shelter to our people, to have something to offer the economy when the fighting was over so the country could be rebuilt,’ she said now. ‘The French would go soon enough, I argued.’

  While we skulk here, nothing but farmers and merchants. We are descended from earls, her brother had retorted, impassioned and idealistic. We Frosts fight.

  Gaby came back to herself, furious to find her vision blurred. She blinked hard. ‘I was so proud of him and so frightened for him. He was a boy who had the heart of a man and he was betrayed in the end.’

  ‘By whom? Someone within the guerrilheiros? It was the same with the Spanish guerrillas, a few had been turned by the French for money or because their families were threatened.’ The earl had his hand on the headstone, the strong fingers curled around the top as though he would protect it.

  ‘No. But it doesn’t matter now. The person responsible is dead.’ Her voice was steady again and she had her voice and her emotions under control. She resisted the impulse to glance at the riverbank where two men had gone over, fighting to the death, into the rushing water. There was a wood stack there now, although no traces had been left to hide.

  How had this man manged to lure her into revealing so much? So much emotion? Gaby found a smile and turned to lead him out of the plot, past the graves of her grandparents Thomas and Elizabeth and her great-grandparents Rufus and Maria Frost, who had first owned the quinta. Weathered now, that first stone bore the family crest the quinta was named for, a falcon grasping a vine branch, faint but defiant on the old stone.

  ‘Lord Leybourne, if you come this way I will show you the rose garden.’ The roses were virtually over, but it would serve to move him on to ground that held less power over her.

  Or not, it seemed. ‘Call me Gray, everyone does,’ he said. The infuriating man was walking away from her towards the southern corner of the plot, not the gate. ‘What is this?’ He had stopped at the simple white slab that was tilted to face the rising sun.

  L.M., he read. He glanced up, frowning at her as she came closer, then went back to the inscription. March 25, 1811. Remember. ‘That is the date of the battle of Campo Maior. Who is this stone for?’

  She smiled at him, amused, despite her feelings, by the way he frowned at her. It was clear that he resented not being in total command of the facts of any situation. The impulse to shock him was too strong to resist.

  ‘My lover.’

  Chapter Two

  Gray straightened up, not at all certain he could believe what Gabrielle Frost had just said.

  ‘Your lover? Your betrothed, you mean? Which regiment was he in?’

  ‘No, you did hear me correctly, my lord. My lover. And, no, I am not discussing him with you.’ She bent to brush a fallen leaf from the stone, then walked away from him, seemingly unconcerned that she had just dropped a shell into his hands, its fuse still hissing.

  Lover? She was ruined. His godmother would have hysterics because no one, surely, except some bankrupt younger son, bribed to do it, would take Gabrielle Frost now. What the hell was she doing, admitting to it so brazenly?

  Gray pulled himself together and strode after her out of the grave plot, letting the little wrought iron gate clang shut behind him. The garnet skirts swished through the grass ahead. Her legs must be long for her to have gained so much ground. He lengthened his stride for the dozen steps it took to bring him to her side.

  ‘Miss Frost, stop, please.’ It was more an order than a request and all the effect it had on her was to bring up her chin. As though he had not spoken she continued until she passed through an arch cut in a high evergreen hedge.

  ‘Here is the rose garden. If you are going to rant at me, my lord, at least we are out of sight of the house here.’ She made her way to a curving stone bench and sat down. It was a charming spot that overlooked a pool and fountain set in the middle of the curving rose beds, but Gray was in no mood to appreciate it.

  He stopped beside her, his shoulder dislodging the petals of a late, deep red bloom the same colour as her skirts. The petals fell like bloodstained confetti on to her hair and he repressed a shudder at his own gruesome imagery. Thinking about that battle must have released memories he had buried for four years or more.

  ‘Is this widely known?’ he demanded. ‘I heard no gossip, no whispers in Porto.’

  ‘Of course it is not known. Do you think me a loose woman to brag of my...adventures?’

  ‘Then why tell me, a total stranger?’

  ‘Because you are the total stranger who has been sent to lure me back to England, I suspect, and now you know a very good reason why I should not go. You are also an English gentleman and you will not, I think, gossip, whatever you think of me.’ She looked up at him, her head tipped slightly to one side like an inquisitive cat as she waited for his reaction.

  ‘You shock me, Miss Frost.’ Had the woman no shame?

  ‘Then I am sorry you have had such an affront to your delicate sensibilities, my lord.’

  ‘I do not have sensibilities, Miss Frost. Your aunt, however, does.’ And they wouldn’t have to be delicate to be outraged by this.

  She shrugged, provoking a strong desire in him to give her a brisk shake. ‘Yes, of course, I am sure she is all fine feelings. However, my aunt is a long way away and I do not care about her opinion.’

  In the face of that brazen indifference there seemed little point in attempting to remonstrate with her. Besides, the horse was well and truly bolted and attempting to close the stable door was pointless.

  Gray watched her face. Miss Frost was thinking, it seemed. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Did you fight at Campo Maior, my lord?’

  ‘I did. Why? And call me Gray.’ There was no point in being at odds with her and he hated being my lorded.

  ‘Why do I ask? You might have been close by when he was killed.’ She said it without overt hostility, more, he thought, as though she was calculating carefully which of his ribs to slide a knife between for the tidiest extermination.

  ‘Which regiment?’ he asked.

  ‘Infantry,’ she unbent enough to admit.

  ‘I was cavalry, probably on the opposite flank.’

  ‘Then we have nothing to discuss, have we?’ Gabrielle shifted her gaze from his face and looked out over the garden. Something, a frog perhaps, plopped into the pond, and a pair of magpies flew over, cackling wickedly. ‘Gray,’ she added, as though there had been no pause.

  ‘We must talk,’ Gray said after another silence that, peculiarly, seemed almost amiable. He found himself reluctant to break the tranquillity of the garden with speech.

  ‘You must, I suppose,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Then you will consider your duty done to my aunt and can return to England. I do hope you have some other business in Portugal, because this is a long way to come just for a talk.’

  ‘It is, however, the sole purpose of my journey.’ A talk and a return with one young lady who was already proving ten times more tricky than he had imagined she would be. ‘I could stock my cellars with port while I am here, I suppose.’

  ‘Of course.’ Gabrielle turned to him, something coming alight behind those mocking brown eyes. He had her serious attention at last and it felt like something alive, something vibrant. ‘What do you hold at the moment? Is there a weakness in young growths to lay down, or perhaps you are running low on wines to drink at the moment? Or are you interested in investing in some fine old vintages? I can let you have good prices, although naturally you will want to do some tastings and see what is available elsewhere.’

  She broke off, apparently lost in calculation. ‘How long are you staying? I could take you to the Factory House, of course, make introductions and then go with you to the best lodges—not necessarily the biggest or best known.’

  ‘The Factory House? That is some kind of club, isn’t it? I had dinner there a few times when we retook Porto for the second time.’

  ‘It is where all the growers from the English and Scottish houses come together, along with owners of the lodges and the shippers. It is a cross between a club and a trading house and a mutual support society, I suppose.’

  ‘But you are not a member, surely? You are a woman.’

  Gabrielle stood up, forcing Gray to rise, too. Despite being shorter than he, she contrived to look down her nose in disdain. ‘This—’ She waved a hand to encompass the garden, the house, the terraces rising above. ‘This is Quinta do Falcão. This is Frost’s, one of the great estates, and I am its owner. I would have to commit a far greater sin than failing to possess a penis, or being suspected of somewhat loose morals, to be barred from the Factory House.’

  Gray took two long, slow breaths. He had faced charging French cavalry and been bellowed at by Wellington and had stood up to both. He was not going to be reduced to fuming incoherence by one young woman who said penis without blushing and who admitted to taking a lover.

  ‘Besides, there is the question of money,’ she added with what was suspiciously like a fleeting smile. ‘Ports are blended. This is not winemaking as in Burgundy or Bordeaux. We cooperate, work with the others to create our wines. It would be in the interests of no one to antagonise Gabrielle Frost of Quinta do Falcão.’

  ‘I see. It is a matter of trade and profits.’ He sounded like a stuffed shirt to his own ears. A pompous, disapproving outsider. Lord knew why he could not seem to get a secure footing in dealing with this woman. She was three years younger than his own twenty-eight, he knew that. He was an earl, he had been a colonel and yet there was nothing in his experience to give him the slightest clue as to how to handle her.

  His own marriage had hardly been one of perfect tranquillity, but Portia, when unhappy, had sulked and brooded in a ladylike manner, not fought back with sharp words and a complete unconcern for propriety. But then, he reminded himself bitterly, he had made a poor business of marriage and he clearly understood nothing about the female mind.

  ‘Yes, trade,’ Gabrielle agreed now, far too sweetly. ‘The sordid business of working to create something wonderful which you aristocrats can enjoy and for which you may despise us, even as you pay your inherited money to secure it. I am in trade, my lord, just as surely as the tailor who makes your very fine coats to fit your torso to perfection or the bootmaker who moulds that leather to your calves or the gunsmith who creates the perfect balance for your hand.’

  ‘Are there any other parts of the male body you are going to enumerate this afternoon, Miss Frost?’ Gray enquired, hoping for a tone of reproof and probably, he thought irritably, merely managing to sound pompous again.

  ‘I will spare your blushes and refrain from mentioning breeches, my lord,’ she said, with a comprehensive downward glance at his thighs.

  Gray sent up a silent prayer that he was not blushing—and when was the last time he had feared that he was? Ten years ago?—and returned to the attack. ‘You are from an aristocratic family yourself, Miss Frost, hardly in a position to sneer at my title.’

  ‘I do not sneer at your title, Gray. I sneer at the nonsense of looking down on trade and industry and the creation of wealth.’ She smiled suddenly and his breath hitched in his chest. ‘You will join me for dinner, I hope, and sample our port.’

  She was gone, her skirts whisking behind her with the rapidity of her steps, before he could reply. That was probably a very good thing because, he realised, he had been within a hair’s breadth of lowering his head and kissing those full red mocking lips.

  ‘Hell’s teeth.’ Gray sat down again, the better to swear in comfort. What the blazes had come over him? Barring lust, insanity and some sort of brain fever, that was. Gabrielle Frost was infuriatingly unlike any woman he had ever encountered and that included some very fast and dashing widows. She was independent, outspoken, immodest and outrageous. She was a damned nuisance to a man who had intended a rapid return to his own affairs, because he could not think of any way to extract her from her precious quinta short of kidnapping.

  He had expected to find a lonely, struggling young woman bowed down by the burden of her inheritance and only too grateful to be whisked back to luxury and the glamour of the London Season. Gabrielle Frost appeared to be healthy, lively, prosperous and decidedly unbowed. She was no timorous innocent, but a woman of the world with an intense pride in what she did.

  But he could not leave her here, not without making some effort to persuade her to do the right thing. He had promised his godmother to try to bring Gabrielle back with him and he could not break his word, not without a good reason. And he could see no reason other than her own stubborn inclinations—she was a young, single Englishwoman of good family and she should be back in England under her aunt’s protection until a suitable husband could be found for her. He was beginning to get an inkling of why no local gentleman had offered, he thought grimly.