Emily Greenwood by A Little Night Mischief Page A

his arrogance and his wicked ways. Clearly, if he was trying to push her to contact the ghost, he was desperate. She had to admit that it was brave of him to seek a solution for his problem.
    “Well,” she said, “I will see what I can do.”
    He leaned fractionally closer to her. “See that you do, Felicity Wilcox,” he whispered.
    She had to put some distance between them before she crumpled under the force of those dark eyes. In a quick move, she scooted away along the wall then strode over to the door.
    “Hadn’t we best be going, then?” she called over her shoulder.
    She caught a glimpse of his satisfied grin out of the corner of her eyes. He thought she was going to solve his problem. She allowed herself a secret grin. Au contraire .
    “Yes, of course,” he agreed, striding over toward the door. She had opened it and was out of the room before he could come any nearer, but still she was fairly certain that she heard him give a low chuckle.
    A gray horse stood tethered outside the house, along with his own handsome white mount.
    “Do you ride, Miss Wilcox?” he asked.
    “Of course,” she replied, hoping she would not disgrace herself—Tethering hadn’t had horses for years. He helped her up into the saddle, and they set off on a path that led around the side of the manor to the orchard.

Nine
    They kept their horses to a slow pace as they moved among the rows of apple trees that ran in a wide swath away from the house. On either side were hedgerows that allowed occasional views of the estate’s few tenant farms. The warm, fresh air held the scents of honeysuckle and roses, and the morning light filtered softly through the leaves all around them. The only sound was that of the horses’ hooves brushing the tall grass and the occasional buzz of a pollinating bee.
    James cast a glance at his companion, who was staring intently at the trees, her eyes roving over them in an assessing manner. Her thick golden hair was gathered at her nape and tied in a knot with a tattered, colorless ribbon. She was evidently not aware of the telltale smudges of black soot along her hairline in back.
    “The grass is high,” he observed as their horses picked their way along a section where weeds brushed the riders’ feet in the stirrups.
    “Mmm-hmm,” she replied, not looking at him.
    “But the trees look well-maintained,” he continued. “I don’t see much dead wood, and the dense blossoms bode well for a good harvest.”
    Still focusing on the trees, she said nothing as they rode along. They came eventually to the far southeast edge of the orchard, an area that apparently had been neglected. Several of the trees were leafless and weather-beaten enough to have been dead for some time, and others had broken and dangling branches. Although the grass in most of the orchard was high, in this area it was thicker and overgrown with weedy bushes. It would take laborers days to clear the area.
    “What happened here?” he asked.
    She sat silently staring at the dead trees, though not, he would guess, in surprise.
    “This isn’t going to work,” he said finally, “you being the orchard overseer, if you refuse to talk to me about it.”
    She turned to him. “What do you know about orchards anyway? I could tell you that all the trees need to be cut down to the ground every year to give a good harvest, and what would you know differently?”
    He guffawed. “It is true that I don’t know a lot about fruit trees, which is why I have engaged your services. But I do know about growing things. I have just spent three years cultivating grapes for my sherry vineyard.”
    “You?” She rolled her eyes. “Gentlemen don’t do farm work.”
    “Not all gentlemen are alike, just as most gentlewomen would not be having a conversation with me about how to maintain an orchard.”
    She pressed her lips in reluctant admission of the truth of what he said.
    “So, what’s going on in this corner? Why is it so neglected?”
    She looked