Love With the Perfect Scoundrel (6 page)

Her patience deserted her in a rush. “That speaks volumes about the women you are acquainted with, Mr. Ranier.” She stopped with horror. Had she really just insulted him in such an outrageous fashion? And after everything he had done to save her.

He tipped back his head and laughed. “You’re entirely correct, Mrs. Sheffey. Now, come along. I see I’ve not a chance of herding you upstairs. I think we can postpone the examination for now, but I insist you rest. It’ll take a day or two before you feel more the thing.” He rose and collected his hat. “Well, I’ve much to do. There’s a barn full of sheep to see to, not to mention the other animals, and I’ve but a wide-eyed lad of five and ten to assist me.”

“Please allow me to help in some way,” she pleaded softly, not rising.

He straightened and looked down to examine her appearance. “Such determination. Well then. Shall I count on you to start dinner after you rest a bit? But only if you are truly feeling up to it, Countess.”

Her throat tightened in panic.

“I’ll just retrieve the bit of mutton from the cold storage before I take my leave. The vegetables and flour are in the larder’s bins—all good for a stew. I even spied a round of butter and apples if you favor a pie. I’ll return with Timmy, say, ’round about two o’clock?”

“Of course,” she managed to reply with what she hoped was a facsimile of a smile glued to her face.

He grinned, smoothed his wild dark mane of hair before donning his hat, and crossed the small room, only to turn back toward her. “Are you certain you’re feeling well enough? You don’t have to do this, you know. I could get it started in a trice.”

“No, no. I’m perfectly fine.”

He nodded once and was gone, with only the sound of presumably an entire mutton carcass being dropped inside the side entrance a few moments later.

Perfectly fine
. Right. Perhaps it was time to strike those two words from her vocabulary.

Good old Sam. Michael couldn’t believe his superior fortune as he looked over the barns and the animals within. There was just a tickle of disquiet lurking in his mind. Good fortune had never found its way to him, and so he distrusted it.

“That’s the last of the water for the sheep, Timmy,” Michael said to the lad, teetering on manhood, who stood beside him. “Let’s see to the horses next.”

“Yes, sir,” the boy said with reverence and a bit of fear in his eyes.

Michael had tried to put the boy at ease upon meeting him, with little success. People were often in awe of his stature and did not easily forget him—not a good trait for someone attempting to blend in.

“Never heard such a din, Timmy. Are you certain English sheep don’t make more noise than those in other parts of the world?” That finally brought a grin to the eager-eyed lad’s face.

“No, sir.”

“Well, my horse would beg to differ with you, I’m certain.”

“She be a real goer, sir.”

He leaned down conspiratorially. “It’s a good thing you said so. I’ll tell you a secret. Like all females, she responds well to compliments.”

His eyes widened. “Yes, sir.”

Michael clapped the young man on the shoulder and laughed. It was going to take some doing to extract conversation from the boy.

The tack room, which also housed the grain bins, was across from them, and Michael headed toward it. Just before opening the door, Michael spied Timmy out of the corner of his eye.

“No!” Michael’s heart pumped frantically as the blood drained from his head. “Stop!” He spun and grabbed the pitchfork from Timmy’s hands.

Timmy was now as terrified as Michael, his back against the stall door.

Michael tried to regulate his breathing. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I should have explained how we shall go about it with the horses.”

Timmy nodded, red-faced.

“I want you to always remove the horse from the stall first, before you muck it out. Then, fill the buckets before you return a horse to its stall. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I want to have a look at every lantern here before the day is done. No one is ever to leave one unattended.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Right. Now I’ll see to the grain while you start with the plough team. I shall always see to Sioux, myself.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and Timmy?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You did an excellent job overseeing the animals by yourself yesterday. I don’t know many men who could have maintained relative order with this large a group under one roof.”

“Thank ye, Mr. Ranier.”

Michael smiled at the boy and took a deep breath before he headed into the tack room.

His quick glance last night had been correct. Sam had left him a veritable windfall. Rows of well-tended leather goods decorated one long wall of the chamber. Oiled bridles, saddles, girths, and harnesses draped from pegs while gleaming bits and other assorted metal goods hung nearby. The bins were free of dirt and filled to the brim.

A thorough inspection of the assorted side buildings revealed a well-stocked establishment for farming the land and breeding stock. It would take time to fully determine the merits of the horses, sheep, and cows, and to learn if the land was fertile, but hope filled his veins for the first time in many years. Sam had planned well, and Michael was filled with an aching gratitude for his childhood friend. Who would have guessed that kindness to a young boy would lead to this?

Michael opened Sioux’s stall door, and the mare’s large, supple neck swung toward him. She whinnied low, and nuzzled his side, searching. “You know it’s there, sweetheart.” A cloud of her exhaled breath surrounded him and he stroked the mare’s shoulder. She retrieved the half carrot visible from his voluminous coat pocket and chomped on the treat. “Come along, now.”

His mare dropped her head and followed him to the center aisle. Once she was in cross ties, Michael curried her flanks while Timmy cleaned the stall.

The peaceful sounds and smells of the barn soothed his spirit as they always did. It was more than good to be set free from the confines of that storm-tossed ship’s cabin he’d endured for many weeks. If the rough crossing from England to the colonies all those years ago hadn’t proved it to him, this last journey, aboard a Jamaican privateer’s ship dodging the Royal Navy bent on war, certainly had. There was something about being trapped on a bobbing, creaking, leaking vessel with a fleet of English commanders hungry for promotion on your tail, or worse—a pirate hungry for bounty of any kind—that left the taste of bile in Michael’s throat.

Whatever it was, he’d have to be trussed and chained before he’d leave solid ground again. He’d risked his life when he decided to return here, and he hoped he could eke out a simple existence. For this was surely the last, and only, opportunity he would ever be given on a platter.

He felt a sudden relief from the worries that had weighed on his mind for more than a decade and a half. He was finally in a place where he didn’t have to spend half the day or night in the blasting heat of a furnace, while also trying to work and protect his meager strip of land from starving British or colonial troops bent on raiding. Trading his hardscrabble life for the risk of discovery in the dales between Derbyshire and Yorkshire seemed more than fair.

Methodically, Michael’s mind ran through the rest of the chores that would have to be seen to today. Chickens, eggs, more milking, evening watering and feeding. And then, of course, there was the question of the mysterious, elegant lady inhabiting his new residence. He began to hum as he brushed out his horse’s tail and thought about the strangely haunting beauty in Sam’s manor.

It was painfully easy to sense she was hiding or running from something. He should know. She was as skittish as an unbroken yearling, and as prim as the spinster schoolmarm in the village nearest his tiny farm in Virginia. It was a good thing, too. He could not afford to dally with a woman of consequence, or really with any woman here, if he was honest with himself. It was just too damned dangerous. It would up the risk of exposure and might ruin his chance for a better life.

He lifted one of Sioux’s forelegs, cleaned the hoof and examined the frog for rot. Satisfied, he started on the next hoof. He felt her warm muzzle nudge his backside and he smiled. Yes, the only females he was going to concern himself with, as soon as he could help the countess on her way, were the ones with four legs. This new home of his was not to include any sort of golden-haired beauty wearing pearls that were worth more than any property he would own.

His mare snorted with something that sounded remarkably like disapproval.

Michael stomped his snow-covered boots inside the side entry to the house and Timmy followed suit. The storm showed not a single sign of letting up. It was but a moment before the unmistakable scent of burnt stew assailed his nostrils.

He stayed Timmy’s progress and set a finger to his own lips. “I trust you’ll grin and bear it?”

The boy wrinkled his nose, shrugged, and nodded.

An alarmed protestation sounded from the kitchen, followed by the clatter of crockery. He made his way down the hallway.

Huge blue eyes flew to his as he paused at the doorway with Timmy. An enormous apron splattered with numerous stains was wrapped twice around her tiny waist, and flour dusted her arms and face.

“Mrs. Sheffey, allow me to present one of the best stable hands in the North Country, Mr. Timmy Lattimer. Timmy, Mrs. Sheffey.” He had no intention of revealing her stature in society to anyone. There was too much at stake and he had no intention of tarnishing her reputation just because two people of differing sexes were forcibly stranded together for a short period.

Timmy tugged on his forelock and looked everywhere but the countess’s face. “Ma’am.”

“Mmmm,” Michael murmured. “What is that delicious scent? I should warn you we’re as hungry as two bears after a long winter.”

She bit her soft lower lip and drew a fallen strand of hair away from her face. “Of course.” Her voice held the beguiling, cultured musicality of an angel’s.

“Come along, Timmy. Let’s help Mrs. Sheffey by setting out the table goods.” He filled Timmy’s outstretched hands with dishes and cutlery and then loaded his own with a wheel of cheese and a large loaf of bread he spied, with relief.

He called out, “I hear tell that Yorkshire cheese is a delicacy not to be missed. Shall I toast a bit for the table?”

“Oh, please do,” the lovely countess said, with something more than desperation in her voice.

He smiled. Toasting fork in hand, he speared a block of cheese and placed it before the fire, expertly turning and catching the melting sections with chunks of bread while she ladled stew from a pot and placed the shallow dishes on the table with ill ease.

Michael seated the countess and came around to his place across from her. He looked at the dish in front of him and it was all he could do not to make a sound. A glutinous quagmire of grayish matter was before him. He regarded the enticing platter of melted cheese and bread but for a moment before he resolutely picked up his spoon.

It not only resembled something one might find mired in a bog after a century, but he imagined it tasted like it too. It took a mountain’s worth of determination to swallow a mouthful and to take another. “Delicious, Mrs. Sheffey,” he rasped. “Absolutely delicious.” He glanced at Timmy, whose face had turned as ashen as the color of the stew. His estimation of the boy’s character was rising by the minute.

“Oh, please stop,” she moaned. “It’s revolting. No, worse. I beg you to stop eating this instant.”

Timmy’s spoon stopped in midair and he gratefully looked at Michael and replaced it in the morass of burnt stew. Michael silently offered the cheese and bread to Grace and Timmy before taking a portion for himself.

“Oh, I don’t understand. I put everything in the pot as you said, the mutton, the flour, the carrots, and potatoes. I added some water and then put it over the fire. And, and—”

“And it’s a rare cook who can turn out a meal in an unfamiliar kitchen.” He clamped his lips to stop them from trembling with laughter.

“I had a difficult time carving the mutton, it was partially frozen.”

“Of course.”

“And I think I added a bit too much flour.”

He nodded, his eyes smarting with held-back mirth.

“The vegetables seemed to melt after a few hours.”

“It appears so.” He offered the platter to her and to Timmy again before surreptitiously wolfing down three more pieces of cheese and bread.

“Oh stop it!” she said, her face drawn from fatigue. “Go ahead, and say it. I’m useless. I’m so sorry I made such a horrid meal and a huge mess in the process.”

“That’s all right, ma’am,” Timmy spoke up. “Me mum always makes one o’ us clean the pots after dinner, and that’s nothing I haven’t seen afore wot with seven brothers and sisters tryin’ their hands at the cookin’.” His accent was poor, but Timmy’s heart was rich, and that counted more than anything at that instant.

At that exact same moment Michael noticed a pattern of blood seeping through the front of the countess’s gown. He abruptly stood. “Thank you, Timmy. I’ll join you for evening chores in a bit.”

“No need, sir. The barn looks better than it ’as in months. I can do the milkin’.” Pride laced Timmy’s plain words.

Michael nodded and offered his arm to the countess. “May I beg a moment of your time in the front salon? Straightaway?”

She looked up at him, her face pale and her eyes reflecting the edge of pain in their deceptive blue depths. “Of course.”

As soon as he had escorted her past the kitchen door, he scooped her up into his arms and headed for the stairs.

“What are you doing? Put me down, Mr. Ranier!”

“You know, I think this is becoming a habit. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”

“I don’t see why you feel the need to—to carry me about like some sort of child. I was disentangled from leading strings more than two decades ago!”

He bounded up the last of the steps, taking care not to jar her. He kicked the bedchamber door shut with his boot heel. “I know, sweetheart, I know. But humor me, will you?” He glanced at the jumble of the unmade bed and placed her in the padded leather armchair next to the fire, which had gone out.