Julia London (60 page)

“Then I shall do it! I cannot make a match for you with that little hummingbird constantly underfoot,” Ethan grumbled, and slurped from his bowl of soup. Lauren shook her head and began to walk toward the door. “Good God, what are you wearing?” he suddenly barked.

She paused and glanced down at the pair of trousers and heavy linen shirt Paul had outgrown many years ago. “Trousers.” She continued to the door.

“Mind me, lass! There will be no man wanting to marry you in that!” he called after her. Mind him, indeed, she thought, and shut the door loudly. His constant talk of marrying her off—and it was
constant
—was beginning to wear on her. She marched to the foyer and removed a woolen coat from a peg. Everything was beginning to wear on her, she realized, as she plunged her arms into the coat.

“Where are you off to this morning?”

Lauren glanced over her shoulder at Paul as she pulled a woolen cap over her head. He limped into the foyer and leaned against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. “I should salvage what is left of the pumpkins,” she muttered.

“Have Rupert do that. There is no need for you to toil.”

“Thanks to Uncle Ethan’s superior choice of a drinking partner, Rupert is behind in his chores. And I am in great need of a solitary task,” she said sharply, reaching for gloves.

“Is anything wrong?” Paul asked.

Immediately regretting the unleashing of her foul disposition, Lauren smiled weakly. “Nothing that a little time alone will not cure, I assure you.” She walked out the door before he could question her further.

She had no hope time alone would cure her. It wasn’t that Ethan had allowed Rupert to get so incredibly intoxicated, although she was still quite angry about that. It was just—
everything.
Everything had turned upside down since Mr. Christian had come to Rosewood two days ago.

Damn it, she could not stop
thinking
about Mr. Christian.

She dreamed about him at night, thought about him all day, and yesterday, at a distance, had even mistaken the vicar for him. That was laughable, since the vicar was nearly seventy years old. Never had anyone had such an impact on her. She had never been so much as smitten that she could recall—unless she counted Donovan Williams, who had sparked her great admiration by pulling her hair when she was eight.

But even Donovan Williams could not possibly hold a candle to Mr. Christian. She had never met such a handsome, masculine,
kind
man. He liked poetry, he liked the children, and he did not even seem to object overmuch to Lucy. And beyond those admirable traits, he made her skin tingle in a strange sort of way, made her giggle for no apparent reason, and when he looked at her, dear
God
, her knees turned to water. Lauren sighed miserably as she tromped the
path to the pumpkin field, pulling a battered wooden cart behind her.

All right, so she was smitten. What exactly was she to do about it? Mope about like some lovesick schoolgirl? Mr. Christian was not coming back. He was probably at home right now, probably with a
wife
for Chrissakes, and probably had already forgotten the whole thing.

If only
she
could forget.

“Miss Lauren!”

Lauren closed her eyes and moaned softly before turning to face Leonard as he came bounding down the path. “Paul said I should help you.”

It took every ounce of energy Lauren had to muster a smile. Damn Paul! Now that he was twenty, he had decided it was his duty to look after her. Sometimes he treated her as if she might break with the slightest breeze! She loved Leonard with all her heart, and at any other time, would have welcomed his company. But not today.

“All right You may watch for pirates while I pick what is left of the pumpkins.” She took his hand in hers, and pulling the cart with the other, continued her march to the pumpkin field.

Leonard did a fine job of guarding her after finding a stick that made a suitable sword. For nearly an hour, he climbed again and again onto the fence and leapt to the ground, shouting
en garde
before he tackled a swarm of imaginary pirates. Despite her miserable mood, Lauren could not help smiling at his exuberance. Tossing the last pumpkin in the cart, she quickly counted. There were fourteen in all, which would pay for only one month’s supply of tallow. It was not enough; she needed at least two months supply, if not three, to last the winter.

As she stood in the middle of the field pondering that little problem, Leonard ran up behind and punched her in the back with his stick. Startled, Lauren shrieked and whirled around.

“Arm yourself!” he cried.

Lauren’s hands found her hips; her brows snapped into a foreboding vee. “All right, you brigand,” she said, squatting to retrieve a stick.
“En garde!”
Much to Leonard’s delight, she lifted her stick, assumed a fencing position, and stabbed at the air. She pushed Leonard backward, then allowed him to advance on her. Back and forth they went, laughing gaily at their play.

“Miss Hill?”

Her head snapped around at the sound of that voice. She had just a glimpse of his handsome face before Leonard drove his stick into her unguarded belly. Startled, she toppled onto her rump with a bounce, knocking the breath from her lungs.

“Dear God, are you quite all right?” Mr. Christian asked, suddenly on his knee beside her. He put a steadying arm around her shoulders as she gasped for air.

“Mr. Christian,” she rasped, “I have concluded you are quite determined to see me slain in a pumpkin field.”

He laughed. “And I believe you are quite determined to give me every opportunity!” His arm slid around her and she was suddenly lifted to her feet. Her breath still would not come, but it had nothing to do with her tumble. Mr. Christian bent over her, peering into her face, a slight frown creasing his forehead. God, but his hand covered the whole of her ribcage. She smiled sheepishly as his strong arm slid away from her. His green eyes flicked to a point past her shoulder, and she suddenly remembered Leonard and turned.

The boy was gaping at her, clearly mortified by having toppled her. “I am sorry!” he cried. “I thought you were looking!”

She laughed, tousling his hair. “You will be the finest pirate yet, Leonard. My goodness, but you are
very
quick. That is very important in sword play, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Christian?”

“I would consider it more important than footwork or strength,” he agreed solemnly.

“There, you see?” She smiled, cupped his face in her hands, and kissed him lightly on the forehead. “Do you think you could pull the cart to the barn?” she asked sweetly.

“Are you truly all right?” he asked, his eyes revealing his worry.

Lauren laughed. “I am perfectly fine, darling. It will take much more than a tumble to harm me.”

Leonard looked skeptical, but accepted it. He turned to Mr. Christian and mumbled, “Good day, sir,” and ran off to wrestle with the old cart. Lauren and Mr. Christian stood side by side, watching Leonard pull the cart up the path. Well, Mr. Christian was watching. She was trying very hard to hide the fact that his physical presence was making her shiver. That, coupled with her sheer mortification at having been found playing pirates in a pair of boy’s trousers, caused her to unconsciously wrap her arms around her middle.

“You are chilled,” he remarked suddenly, and shrugged out of his coat, draping it across her shoulders before she could answer. The smell of spicy cologne, so faint as to almost be imagined, wafted across her senses.

“You … you must be wondering…” Lauren stammered as they watched Leonard disappear into the next field.

“Only if Lucy is as hungry as all that,” he quipped.

A giggle escaped her. “No doubt she is, but she is forbidden to eat the pumpkins. I have already promised the crop in trade for tallow.”

“Pardon?”

Lauren grinned at him. “For candles. I had enough pumpkins to trade for two months worth of tallow, but as best I can figure, Lucy has left me with enough for one month. And if she eats
that
, I am half-tempted to render her hide in exchange.”

Mr. Christian said nothing for a long moment; his gaze
slipped to her mouth. Lauren’s pulse began to race. “I should be happy to provide you with enough tallow, Miss Hill. You need not trade your pumpkins.”

She thought her giggle was absurdly shrill. “Thank you, Mr. Christian, but that is why I grew them in the first place.”

“For tallow?” he asked, incredulity evident in his voice.

“For trading. I did not think of tallow at the time, but Mrs. Pennypeck said she could use them in her bakery, and as her husband had more tallow than he needed, it seemed a very good trade. Leonard thought of it.”

“So”—he grinned, his gaze dipping to her shirt and trousers—“you trade pumpkins.”

“And … and apples and tomatoes when they are in season,” she muttered, conscious of a heat creeping up her spine. “And then, of course, if there is extra milk … not that there is any surplus of that, really, but one day we’ll fill buckets.”

He lifted his eyes and smiled. A perfectly gorgeous smile, full of what seemed hundreds of white teeth. Her knees were turning to water. Dear God in heaven, she was going to swoon. She took an unconscious step backward. “I … I did not know you lived near here.”

“I am temporarily at a hunting lodge.”

He
hunted.
Oh, but he
looked
like a hunter, all tall and lean and muscular, and … God, he was looking at her mouth again. “Is he all right, then?” she asked weakly.

Mr. Christian’s brows sank in confusion. “Who would ‘he’ be?”

“Your horse.”

He tossed his head back with a shout of laughter. “Yes, Jupiter is quite all right. Seems he was not as lame as he would have had me believe. Would you like to have a look at him?” he asked, and gestured to where Jupiter was tethered.

Yes, she would like to have a look. She would like to look
at anything but him, lest she topple onto her rump again. “Very much,” she said, smiling.

Jupiter was an enormous black stallion, and had the effect of making Rosewood’s two old grays look like fat ponies in comparison. Mr. Christian gave her some carrots from his saddlebag, and Lauren stood on a large stone so she was eye-level with the beast, laughing delightedly as she fed him. She asked him what he hunted, and he talked of stalking a buck that had eluded him for three days running. She gathered from his conversation that he was at the lodge alone, and imagined him sitting at night, quietly reading from a book of poetry. She stroked the stallion’s nose, a faint smile on her lips.

“Would you like to ride him?” Mr. Christian asked when the carrots were gone and the horse grew restless.

Lauren blinked. Ride that enormous thing? She had never ridden a horse any more daunting than one of the old grays. “I do not know…” she hedged, staring into one of the horse’s big round eyes.

Mr. Christian chuckled. “Allow me to return the favor of your rescue and escort you to Rosewood. The air is decidedly cooler; I shouldn’t be surprised if it rains soon.” Lauren looked askance at him. He quirked a brow. “Are you afraid?” he asked, his amusement apparent.

Lord,
yes
! Nevertheless, she flashed him a lopsided grin. “Unfortunately, sir,
‘I fear dishonor more than death.’
”

He laughed at the Homeric quip. “Come then,” he said, smiling broadly, “I cannot allow you to be dishonored.” He stepped aside and bowed gallantly. “Madam, your carriage awaits.” Lauren stepped off the stone and walked slowly to the horse’s side. “Put your foot in the stirrup,” he said from behind her. She could hardly reach it, but the moment her foot made contact, he caught her by the waist and vaulted her onto Jupiter’s back. She landed astride the huge horse and quickly grabbed the pommel to keep from sliding right off the other side. In one fluid movement, he swept up be
hind her, and reached around her to gather the reins. “Well then, are you on?” He chuckled, his breath fanning her cheek.

She was
on
all right, practically
painted
onto his lap, pressed against his brick wall of a chest. His muscular arms surrounded her. His powerful thighs enveloped her own, and she was struck by how tiny her legs looked next to his. She was having difficulty breathing; her pulse was racing at a clip. “I … I think so,” she breathed.

“Do not be afraid,” he said gently. “With that death grip you have on the pommel, tere is little chance you will fall.”

He nudged Jupiter into a trot, and the force of movement propelled her, impossibly, even further into his body. She nervously yanked the musty wool cap from her head when it came into contact with him; he lifted a hand to smooth her curls from his face. She was acutely conscious of every muscle in his body, every movement of his limbs in guiding the horse. His essence seemed to penetrate her, filling her senses, burning her skin everyplace they touched.

She thought she had died and gone to heaven.

When they reached the barn, she asked him to stop, coming up with the lame excuse of needing to check on the calf. Her uncle would strangle her if he saw her riding astride in front of a stranger, in
trousers
, no less! Mr. Christian obliged, alighting with the grace of a bird before reaching up for her. He lifted her effortlessly, allowing her body to brush the full length of his until her feet touched the ground. Her legs would not hold her; she stumbled to one side before righting herself. He flashed a lopsided, lazy grin that suggested he knew what she was feeling.

It embarrassed her to no end to be so terribly transparent, and she nervously swung his coat from her shoulders and thrust it toward him. “Thank you, Mr. Christian. That was most kind,” she said as confidently as she could.

“It was my pleasure, Miss Hill.” He smiled, donning his
coat. He shoved his hands in his pockets, regarding her with a faint smile. Lauren stood self-consciously, not knowing what to say or do next. Nervous, she twisted the wool cap in her hands.

“You seem to grow a lot of vegetables,” he said, nodding toward a fence where the vines of a squash plant were fastened.