For Your Arms Only

polite as the question. Sure enough, his eyes fell first on the pistol in her raised hand, pointed right at his chest. He had faced pistols before, though, and more than one of them had fired—not usually at such close quarters, but he had learned to ignore the urge to flinch and dive for cover. It was much more prudent to be ready to strike back, should the opportunity arise…as well it might, he realized, finally looking the woman in the face.
She was tall and slim, and not half as old as he had expected. Her heart-shaped face was framed by long tendrils of brown hair, pulled loose from the knot on top of her head. The heavy pistol trembled almost imperceptibly in her grip, but her eyes—luscious eyes the color of cinnamon and gold and amber—were utterly calm and level. Alec’s interest rose a notch; he’d never been shot by a woman.
“Perhaps,” he said. “I’ve come looking for Sergeant George Turner.”
Her chin went up. “He doesn’t live in the stables. Perhaps you noticed the house on your ride in?”
His lips twitched. “Indeed. But I saw a man about the stables, and thought it might be he.”
“He would still prefer to receive you in the house, I am sure.”
She wasn’t giving anything away without being forced to it. Alec had been deliberately vague and she had not corrected him. “No doubt. Forgive me. I will go to him there, then.”
She hesitated. “He is not at home, at present.”
Alec was well-aware of that, but wanted to see what she would tell him. “When might he be at home?”
This time she bristled. “When he returns. I’m not his keeper.”
Alec’s eyes slid down her figure in quick appraisal. Sergeant Turner was a man in his fifties, with two daughters and his elderly mother in his household. This must be one of the daughters. She was, however, still pointing a pistol at him. “You are his wife?”
“His daughter.” With a click she pulled back the hammer of the pistol. “Who the bloody hell are you?”
“Alexander Hayes, at your service.” He gave a slight bow; he hadn’t even noticed the pistol wasn’t cocked. Damn this assignment. Damn her eyes. “We are neighbors.”
Again she hesitated. She glanced past him to his horse, tied at the stable door, and then she slowly lowered her arm. “You have odd manners for a neighbor, sir.”
“Forgive me,” Alec said again. “I merely thought to avoid troubling the whole household.” He noticed she hadn’t suggested he had seen a groom or other servant. There was no sign of one, though, and the man he’d seen did not look like a stable boy. He looked like a thief, to be honest. “I apologize, Miss Turner. I shall call at a more convenient time.”
She clearly didn’t like him. Her mouth pressed into a hard, thin line, and she merely jerked her head in a grudging nod and stepped back, inviting him to leave. Alec hid his mild amusement and bowed. There was nearly as much information in her pose and actions as if she’d actually told him. Either she was of a highly suspicious or secretive nature, or other people had come around the farm before, looking for her father. And how interesting it was that she pulled a pistol on him before bothering to discover his name or purpose.
He could feel her eyes on his back the whole time he walked to his horse, mounted, and rode away.

Chapter 3
Cressida Turner watched until the stranger rode away, down the road this time. Then she turned back toward the house, only to meet Tom coming at a dead run.
“What’s happened?” he demanded, his hair standing up every which way and his face flushed. “Your sister said you’d gone out in a hurry.”
She smiled, hiding her clenched teeth. “Nothing happened. There was a man out at the stables, looking around.”
Tom stiffened. “And?”
“And that’s all, or all I caught him doing. He says he’s a neighbor.” She snorted. “Such fine neighbors we’ve got here, all coming around to spy on how terrible things are.” It made her fume; did ordinary neighbors sneak into each others’ stables and examine the horses? Of course not, as he knew full well. He hadn’t been surprised at all when he looked down the barrel of her pistol. She almost wished she’d had the nerve to fire the gun, just to rattle that calm, piercing gaze of his.
Tom’s face creased in a worried frown. “You can’t go running off everyone who comes about.”
Cressida looked at the heavy pistol in her hand and sighed. Her fingers felt stiff and cramped from gripping it so hard. “Someone’s got to. You were fixing the sheep fence. Next time I’ll let you run them off, if you prefer.”
He didn’t look mollified, but nodded and fell in step beside her. Tom Webb had been in the army with her father and was now their general man of work, and he was as protective of Cressida and her sister as a fussy old hen would be of her chicks. “Did he give a name?”
“Alexander Hayes.”
Tom gave her a sharp look, and she couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder just to be sure the man she spoke of was gone. “The dead one?”
Cressida shuddered. News of the resurrection of Marston’s most infamous resident had swept through the town in the last few days. Major Alexander Hayes, the younger son of a very old and prominent local family, had been thought dead on the fields of Waterloo some five years ago, which everyone agreed was a good thing, since the man had turned out to be a traitor. His family had suffered terribly, according to local gossip. The elder Mr. Hayes died of despair soon after his son’s treachery came to light, and just this spring the new master of Penford had also died of a lingering illness. The family had