The Charmer

Copyright 2013 C.J. Archer

Visit C.J. at
http://cjarcher.com

"It lies not in our power to love or hate,

For will in us is overruled by fate."

― Christopher Marlowe,
Hero and Leander

Contents

CHAPTER 1

Hampshire, November 1598

O
rlando Holt had never killed a
woman before. He'd assassinated a bear tamer, a viscount, three French noblemen
and two Spanish ones, a knight, a painter, a physician, an acrobat in Cathay, and
five apothecaries. He had nothing against apothecaries, but he'd come across a
disproportionate number during his three-year tenure in Lord Oxley's Assassins
Guild. All the apothecaries, and every other target, had been men and
thoroughly deserving of the Guild's justice.

Lady Lynden would be his first
woman.

He watched her from his hiding
place behind a yew bush, the only shrubbery in the walled garden with enough
leaves to hide him. Aside from the dozen densely foliated trees lined up
against the brick wall where Lady Lynden worked, most of the garden was bare. A
few rust-red leaves clung stubbornly to the roses and other shrubs here or
there, but they were rare. In contrast, the green leaves of the dozen trees seemed
lush and vibrant, and quite out of place amid the autumnal landscape. Unfortunately,
he was too far away to use them as cover. Thank God for the yew.

That was the problem with autumn.
It was better than winter for shadowing a potential target—less chance of
freezing his balls off—but the warmer months offered more places to hide. If he
were really lucky, village women would shed their clothing in the summer and paddle
in a nearby stream when they did the washing.

He didn't think Lady Lynden would
go in search of the nearest body of water and take a dip in her underthings.
She was a she-man, as his brother used to call women who wore masculine clothes
or liked to do a man's work. Orlando couldn't see Lady Lynden's face from where
he squatted, but he noticed the loose calf-length farmer's trousers, the woolen
jerkin, and the wide-brimmed farmer's hat, all in dark colors for mourning. She'd
rolled the sleeves of her shirt up to the elbows, revealing tanned forearms,
and by the way she dragged around a large pail filled with what looked to be soil,
he knew she was no delicate flower used to a life of embroidery.

Yet Lady Lynden was a noblewoman.
According to Hughe, she was the widow of a baron who had returned home to live
in the manor owned by her country gentleman father. She wasn't supposed to be
this she-man doing heavy garden work. He knew it was Susanna Lynden because
Hughe's client had said she'd be working in the walled garden at Stoneleigh
without the aid of a gardener or other servants.

She straightened suddenly and
looked around as if she could sense him watching. But he was too well hidden, despite
crouching no more than a few feet from her. She sighed and removed her
gardening gloves and hat.

Orlando almost overbalanced in
surprise. He took it all back. Lady Lynden was no she-man. She was a beauty. Hair
of the fairest gold, braided and pinned to her head, creamy skin, an oval face
with delicate features, and large eyes. He couldn't see their color from where
he hid, but he'd wager they were blue to go with her pale hair and skin. Where
her forearms were brown, her face was as English as the queen's.

Yet a description of her
individual parts didn't do her justice. She was extraordinary. Her face
captivated him, rooting his feet to the muddy earth, and he couldn't stop
staring. It had been a long time since he'd seen a woman as achingly beautiful
as Lady Lynden, yet here she was in a Hampshire backwater dragging pails of
earth around, dressed in men's clothes.

And he was supposed to kill her.

He passed a finger over his upper
lip just as his target wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. She
glanced around then pressed her hands to the small of her back and rubbed. So
the hard work was not to her liking after all. What about the clothes? Did she
dress like a man because she wanted to or because it was practical?

Orlando watched as she picked up
a trowel and began digging through the dirt in the pail, turning it over. A few
minutes later, while her back was turned, he crept quietly away through the
ivy-clad arch and out of the walled garden.

He had never killed a woman
before, and he wasn't about to start. Not without being absolutely certain she
was the murderer Hughe's client claimed her to be. Hughe himself had said the
job probably wouldn't be the quick in-and-out that Orlando preferred and that a
thorough investigation was needed. That meant doing something Orlando had hoped
to avoid, staying.

He raced to the nearby woods and
retrieved his pack from the inside of a hollow log where he'd left it. He
didn't need to change clothes and he wasn't hungry, having dined at the village
inn before coming to Stoneleigh, so he slung the pack over his shoulder. A few
minutes later, he was once more leaving the woods and heading for Stoneleigh.
This time he didn't creep. He whistled. Loudly.

As expected, Lady Lynden came to
the arch of the walled garden to investigate. "Lo?" she called out.
"Who is it?"

"Madam, my humble apologies."
He removed his hat and bowed low, sweeping the brim across the gravel path.
"I didn't mean to startle you."

"You didn't startle me. I
simply came to see who whistles out of tune near my garden." Her voice was
like honeyed wine, sweet and thick, but with a hard, flat edge.

"Out of tune? Dear lady, you
wound me."

She rolled her eyes, and he was
pleased to see he'd been right. They were as blue as a bright summer sky.

"Why are you smiling at me
like that?" she snapped, stamping one hand on her hip. The other was
tucked behind her back.

"I can't help it. You're a
vision of beauty, a balm for my travel-weary eyes."

She didn't blush or smile coyly
or do any of the things ladies did when paid a compliment. She merely scowled,
scrunching her pretty little nose up as if she found his words, or his
presence, distasteful. "You do not put balm on eyes, young man, unless you
wish to go blind."

"Young man? I suspect I am
older than you." Lady Lynden was four and twenty and already a widow twice
over. Orlando was four years her senior, yet he knew when he smiled his dimples
gave him the appearance of youth. Those bloody dents in his cheeks were the
object of much teasing ever since he'd reached manhood. The only consolation
was that women of all ages seemed to take joy in them.

Lady Lynden revealed the hand previously
hidden behind her back. It clutched a rather vicious-looking short-handled gardening
fork. "I asked who you are," she said. "Answer me."

He held up his hands. His pack slipped
down his arm and hung in the crook of his elbow. He wasn't in any danger from
the shrew. She might be stronger than the average woman thanks to her gardening,
but he was larger and had been trained by Hughe. Women were no match for him.

"Orlando Holt at your
service." He bowed again. When he straightened, she was still scowling. It
didn't make her any less beautiful. "I was hoping you could give me work,
madam."

She lowered her weapon and her
stance relaxed. "No, I'm sorry, Mr. Holt. There's no work available here.
Try up at Sutton Hall over the fields." There was no flutter of her lashes
or wistfulness in her voice when she spoke of her previous home. She had given
it up and moved back to her father's neighboring house of Stoneleigh when her
second husband died and Sutton Hall had passed to his heir, a cousin. That had
been a year ago and she was still at Stoneleigh and still unwed. Orlando
wondered when her father would find her husband number three.

"I was at Sutton Hall
earlier," he said. "There's no work for me there either." He
held his breath. Waited. But his lie seemed to slip by unnoticed. She merely
shrugged and turned to go. "Wait!" He caught her arm but dropped it
when she tried to jerk herself free with such force that he probably bruised
her. He cursed under his breath. He hadn't let go when he should have. Instinct
had made him hang on. Instinct and training.

Lady Lynden's eyes narrowed, and
if it wasn't for the slight tremble of her hands, he would have thought her
unafraid. "I told you. There's no work here."

He nodded at her garden fork.
"Then why is the lady of the house doing men's work and dressed in men's
clothes?"

"Who says I'm the lady of
the house?"

He liked the way she tilted her
pointy little chin and the way anger made her eyes grow darker, like the
Mediterranean Sea in the late afternoon. He smiled again because he couldn't
help himself. She was a shrew, and he enjoyed a challenge.

Pity she was a potential
murderess and not a candidate for keeping him warm at night. Although there
were no Guild rules stipulating the former precluded the latter, Orlando liked
to think even he had enough moral conviction to stay out of her bed.

"You speak like a
lady," Orlando said, hefting his pack up onto his shoulder, "walk
like a lady and have the bearing of a lady. In my book, if a rose looks and
smells like a rose, it probably is a rose."

One side of her mouth lifted in a
sardonic smile. "In that case..." She pointed the fork at his face
and scanned it down his length to his muddy boots. "You look like a vagrant..."
She sniffed the air and pulled a face. "...and smell like a vagrant."

He sniffed his armpit. The stink
wasn't
that
bad considering he'd been traveling for three days. "I
am not a vagrant. I am, however, in need of good, honest work. Garden
work," he added. "I'm a gardener."

She raised both brows.
"Really?"

He nodded. "I was most
recently employed at Collier Dean, a grand house in Sussex. You've probably
heard of it."

"I haven't. Do you have a
letter of recommendation?"

"No, alas. I didn't think to
get one before I left."

"That was foolish."

"What can I say? I'm a
fool." He grinned and received a frown in return.