But surely, I told myself, that was wrong. I ought to be digging to uncover the past, not heaping earth upon it to cover it up. Frowning, I thrust my hands deeper into the pockets of my jeans and stared hard at the plain little stone. All my life's buried here....

A chill breeze lifted the hair from my forehead and I turned away, lowering my head in silent contemplation as I trudged with heavy footsteps toward the church. As before, the huge wooden door opened easily to my touch. Standing in the hushed, cool interior, I marveled once again at the exquisite stillness of the place, and the romantic, abandoned aura that permeated it. Like the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey, with the grass growing atop the high roofless walls, this little church gave one the impression that all the people had left a very long time ago.

Which was silly, I thought, since come Sunday the pews would probably all be filled with the faithful of modern-day Exbury. But the impression lingered, nonetheless. I would have sat awhile myself in one of the scarred and burnished pews, enjoying the peaceful, undemanding atmosphere, but a sound from outside the church caught my attention. It was, at first, a faint sound, filtering through the thick stone walls like the insistent tap, tap of a tree branch against a windowpane, but it drew closer and grew steadily in volume, until I could clearly hear the sound of a horse's hooves pounding the tightly packed earth of the path that wound behind the church—the path that led to the manor house.

Curious, I stepped outside again and rounded the west wall of the church, walking the short distance across the grass to the low gate that led on to the manor-house path. Although I could hear the horse quite plainly, I could see nothing, and I stepped out onto the path for a better view.

The dizziness came upon me rather suddenly. I barely had time to lift my fingers to my throbbing temples, closing my eyes against a blinding explosion of light, when I heard a loud explosive oath behind me and turned to see a massive pair of hooves neatly slicing the air just inches from my face. Stunned, I fell back, bruising my hip against a stone as I did so. Pinned by the tangled weight of my gown against my legs, I could only stay there, half sitting and half lying in the dirt, staring up at the man whose expert horsemanship had no doubt just saved my life.

I couldn't see his face—the sun was to his back, and F had only the barest glimpse of a hard profile as he worked to steady the dancing gray horse. But while I couldn't see his expression, I was certain that he wasn't smiling.

'Christ's blood, woman!' he swore again, confirming my suspicions. 'Can you not watch where you are going? D'you wish for death?'

Wide-eyed and silent, I shook my head, unsure as to which of the two questions I was answering. The outline of his jaw tightened, as if he were preparing to give a lecture, but he only exhaled a tight, exasperated sigh and looked away for a moment, letting me see that hard, finely drawn profile in greater detail. When he looked at me again and spoke, his voice was quieter, and almost kind.

'Are you hurt?'

Again, I shook my head, and sensed his smile.

'Can you not speak, Mariana Farr?' he asked. 'I'd heard that girls from London were uncommonly good at it.'

My blood chilled nervously. 'I am not from London, sir. I come from Southampton.'

'Tis odd,' he said, lightly. 'I stood a drink to a man not a week ago who claimed he was a coachman come from London. He told me he had brought hence but one passenger, and that a girl with hair as fair as ripened barley. He waxed poetic in his cups, this coachman did, but he did not impress me as a liar.' I said nothing, and he went on speaking, still in that light and careless tone. 'You need not look so frightened—I'll not tell. I am no peasant, mistress, to cross myself and mutter prayers when someone whispers "plague," and I would not see you driven from the town by those who have no wit to see you carry not the sickness.'

I pushed myself to my feet, brushing the dust from my gown with fingers that shook only slightly. 'You have me at a disadvantage, sir,' I told him, in as dignified a voice as I could muster, squinting up at him against the sun. 'You know my name.'

'Ay, well, we've precious few strangers in Exbury in these times,' he explained, 'and fewer still that ... warrant my interest.' His shadowed gaze burned me where I stood, and the smile in his voice was even more in evidence. Perhaps taking pity on my eyesight, he drew the horse around so that the sun was no longer directly behind him, and lifting his hat with a flourish he bent his head in a mocking bow.

'Richard de Mornay, at your service,' he introduced himself.

'Sir.' I inclined my own head in response, partly because I could not entirely abandon my own good manners, and partly because I could not bear to look at his face any longer. It was a beautiful face, lean and darkly handsome, framed by a neatly trimmed dark beard and loose waves of natural dark hair, not one of the elaborate wigs I'd grown so used to seeing in the City.

Nor was his dress fashionably effeminate. He wore a simple black waistcoat and narrow breeches, with a long black jacket and high leather boots. The material of his clothing was very fine, and heavily embroidered, but it was not gaudy, and thus looked all the more expensive. I found myself wondering about Richard de Mornay. He seemed quite different from the plain-speaking farmers and merchants I had met since my arrival.

'You are certain you are not injured?' he asked again.

'I am certain. Thank you.' I kept my head lowered, waiting for him to move on. When he did not, I chanced another look up at him, and found him watching me.