What You Propose (Anything for Love 2)

Tristan nodded. "There's nothing of any interest here. Lenard has spent the afternoon serving ale. With so many people coming into the village, it's hard to pick out strangers from abroad."

Strangers from abroad!

Anna's heart lurched, and she grabbed Mr. Danbury's arm as her frantic gaze met his. "I knew it. You really do think Victor's accomplice has

come looking for me. You think he's here. Watching. Waiting. That's who you're searching for at night."

Mr. Danbury leaned forward until his soft breath breezed across her cheek. "When I go out each night, I am not looking for Victor's accomplice," he whispered against her ear. "I am looking for criminals. I'm looking for smugglers."

Chapter 7

"Smugglers?" Miss Sinclair gasped as Marcus took her by the arm and escorted her towards the stables. It was not wise to discuss their assignment anywhere other than in the privacy of the chapter house. "You mean there really is no one lurking outside the monastery ready to exact their revenge for Victor's death?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Marcus replied. "And I scour the area nightly searching for anything suspicious."

"Forgive me for sounding obtuse," Tristan said, striding along with them. "But who in blazes is Victor? And I thought you said it was better for Anna if she knew nothing of our assignment."

He had said that.

But the look of fear in her eyes when she thought Victor's man had come looking for her, stabbed at his heart. It also occurred to him that wallowing in blissful ignorance was far more dangerous and posed a greater risk to her safety.

"If Lenard knows we suspect he's involved in nefarious activities, he may use any means necessary to guarantee our silence," Marcus countered. Indeed, some men would think nothing of taking another's life to save their own scrawny neck. "It is safer for Miss Sinclair if she knows who to trust should such an occasion arise."

Miss Sinclair gave a weary sigh. "Heavens, Lord Danesfield believes he has sent me to a place of sanctuary." She glanced over her shoulder before whispering, "I assume he knows nothing of your plan to spy on smugglers?"

"No," Marcus replied. "Had Dane known, I'm sure he would have thought twice about sending you here. But we'll discuss it further when we return to the monastery."

The groom met them upon their approach and led them to their horses. Tristan stepped forward to assist Miss Sinclair into the saddle, and she gave him one of her sweet smiles, one she rarely expressed in Marcus' company.

Marcus watched every movement, searching for the subtle touch that conveyed Tristan's innermost feelings. Had his friend's heart finally healed after five torturous years? Did it swell with affection for another — for Anna Sinclair — for the woman who caused Marcus' heart to beat a little faster, too?

"Are you comfortable?" Tristan asked gazing up into her dazzling blue eyes.

"I am now. Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Wells."

She gave another one of her precious smiles, and Marcus groaned inwardly.

Feeling something he could only define as irritation, Marcus edged his horse forward. "I'll meet you back at the monastery." He dug his heels in, didn't bother to wait for a reply and cantered away without a nod or a word.

It was rude of him.

He should have waited.

But damn it all, he didn't like the sense of vulnerability he felt in her presence.

Tristan would watch over their guest. He would keep Miss Sinclair company with his witty quips, pristine clothes and fine noble features. Marcus had more important things to attend to. He needed to alert Coombes as soon as the smugglers prepared to set sail. Either the revenue ship would capture them off the coast and seize the contraband or his man from the Custom House would be ready as soon as they landed on English soil.

Upon his return to the monastery, Marcus stabled his horse and marched towards the chapter house. When the time was right, Lenard's men would move quickly. Marcus needed to be ready, and so he sat behind his desk with the intention of writing a letter to Coombes.

As he scrawled his missive, his attention was drawn to the eerie silence pervading the room. Ironically, he found it far too distracting.

He glanced at the clock on the mantle. Tristan and Miss Sinclair should have been back by now. Perhaps they had decided to stop and admire the scenery or wander down to the coastline to paddle their toes in the ice-cold water. He imagined her screaming and laughing as the waves chased her heels. Resentment roused its ugly head again, goading his mind to conjure a whole host of illicit images.

Jumping out of the chair as though the thing had caught fire, he brushed his hand through his hair.

Bloody hell.

He would punch Dane firmly in his gut when he saw him next. Never in his life had he experienced such inner turmoil.