My Dearest Enemy (24 page)

Sheep stink. Not as much as, say, a sloth, Avery thought, but close to it. And wet sheep, like wet sloths, stink even more.

Cold swims hadn't done it, moving things around the house hadn't done it, and his trip to London where he'd spent two nights immersing himself in a society that seemed unaccountably delighted to meet him—particularly the females, and in particular one Viscountess Childes—certainly hadn't done it. But if he just perservered, really exhausted himself out, then he
would
be able to get Lily Bede out of his thoughts.

He grabbed the huge ewe around her middle and heaved her from her foothold at the edge of the mill pond into deeper water. She thrashed madly in protest. Burdocks and bits of bramble floated to the top of the churning brown water. Beside him another man released his captive and shoved her toward the far bank and the fenced pasture that waited as a reward.

Drummond stood post, scrutinizing each sopping sheep as it emerged. Every? now and again, alternately cursing and cackling, he would push some hapless victim back into the churning pond.

"You, Ham!" Drummond shouted. "That sheep's dirtier than your grandfather's bunghole! Cob, you're supposed to wash that sheep, not drown it! And, Master Thorne," his voice dropped to a sickly, sycophantic whine, "begging your pardon, sir, but would you kindly consider moving yer blue-blooded arse? We've got five hundred sheep to wash!"

Avery released the ewe and grabbed another startled-looking sheep that came hurtling down the mud slide. He shoved her into the water, burying his hands in her wool.

Raddle
. He was covered with the stuff; it coated his arms, his chest, and most of his face. His pants were shredded by sharp hooves; his shirt, which he'd carefully draped over a shrub, had been found by a lamb and partially eaten; and his boots—wonderful, custom-made Moroccan leather boots that had crossed from one hemisphere to another—might prove unequal to being soaked for five hours in raddle-poisoned water.

The ewe bucked violently but Avery grimly held on. He ached with his exertions. His muscles burned with strain, his head swam with fatigue, and his body cramped up each night as he took his dinner in his room. And yet, damn it all, every night when he dropped exhausted onto his bed, still she danced before him, her dark, glossy hair a veil slipping through his trembling fingers, her mouth an erotic memory tormenting him.

"Marry her!"

Of course he'd immediately turned Bernard's ears red for making such a suggestion but it hadn't stopped his traitorous thoughts from replaying it time and again.

Marry Lily Bede? Madness. He'd have to give up any notion of comfortable, temperate pastoral bliss because there'd be no bliss with Lily Bede, pastoral or otherwise. There might be other compensations perhaps…

What the
hell
was he thinking? Just because some boy had made a ridiculous suggestion didn't mean he had to entertain it.

The sheep twisted suddenly, flinging muck over his face. "Ach!" He let it go, swearing vociferously.

"You certainly do swear a great deal. For a gentleman," a woman said.

He should have known. The air should have crackled, lightning should have struck, the crickets should have fallen silent, at the very least he should have been visited by some sort of mental seizure.
Something
should have telegraphed her advance. It didn't seem right that nature could create so powerfully stimulating a force and then not warn lesser creatures of its approach.

He squinted up. She was standing on the very edge of the bank, surrounded by placidly grazing sheep. Her hands were on her hips, one booted foot tapping out a message of irritation. Behind her the dark sky threw her ridiculous man's white shirt and buff bloomers into a reverse silhouette, throwing the swell of her bosom and flare of her hips into sharp contrast against the cobalt colored clouds piling up on the horizon. His body tensed and in spite of the cold water in which he stood, he hardened.

Lightning strikes were too subtle a warning for something like her; birds should have dropped from the sky.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, all-too-conscious of the slick, reddish ooze streaming from his torso and the same slippery mud half coating his face. Anticipating the next round of battle, he began sloshing slowly toward the edge of the pond.

"What is
she
doing here?" Drummond shouted from the opposite bank. He snatched his hat from his head and snapped it angrily against his thigh. "This ain't no damn picnic, Mister Thorne, and I'd as soon you sent yer woman back where she come from."

Avery winced. Sure enough, like a bull taunted with a red cape, Lily glared at Drummond. The tapping of her toe turned into a single, emphatic stomp. The ewe grazing next to her lifted its head and blinked.

"First of all,
Mister
Drummond," she said, "I am not anyone's woman except my own. Second, I am not here bringing anyone lunch."

"Then be off with you," Drummond said. "You're the one what was nagging me to get the sheep washed and here I am doing my best to get it done and you're jabbering away, distracting my men, causing problems just like you always—"

"Shut up, Drummond," Avery said.

Instead of a look of gratitude he could have anticipated from any normal female, Lily scowled. "I don't need your help, Mr. Thorne," she said. "I am well able to handle myself—and Mr. Drummond."

"You're not going to leave?" Drummond demanded.

"No!" Lily shouted back.

"Then
I
will. Break for lunch, lads! Now!" Drummond lifted his chin in the air, daring her to take some action.

How would it feel to have one's authority not only constantly challenged but openly denigrated? Avery wondered, unable to quell the sympathy he felt as Lily's face paled. He, too, had experienced the frustration of being disregarded, of his opinions and suggestions being ignored because he was physically unable to command others' respect.

And sure enough, the other workers, without a look at Lily, their ostensible employer, released their sheep and began tromping up the berm. They headed toward the copse of trees at the far side of the meadow where their lunch pails waited.

Drummond strode away, a victorious troll king surrounded by his entourage, his jaunty gait clearly relating that he considered he'd won the encounter. Lily watched them go, unable to mask her anger and frustration before returning her gaze to him. She hitched her chin a degree higher, daring him to voice his sympathy, ready to fight yet another skirmish with another adversary. He understood pride, too.

Suddenly he didn't want to fight her.

"Lily." He extended his hand.

She looked down at it as if he were offering to paint her with raddle.

"Lily." He tried again, keeping his tone soft and unthreatening. He could see that she was trembling slightly.

She took a step backward. "I came to tell you that you have visitors," she said.

"What visitors?"

"The Misses Camfields, who
happened
to be passing by with their
dear
friend Viscountess Childes, whom you met in London, and
her
dear friend Miss Beth Highbridge and her brother, Ethan Highbridge, whom you knew at Harrow."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Mr. Highbridge is rabid, simply
rabid
," she said sweetly, "to have you as his houseguest. He and some of his
lads
are getting up a party next week."

Avery narrowed his eyes on her. "Don't remember any Highbridge. Where does he live?"

Lily waved her hand in a general southerly direction. "A few miles the other side of the Camfields. I am told the house is quite beautiful and well-appointed. No dust covers on any of their furniture."

"So?" he said, trying to ascertain what she was about. "I'm perfectly happy right here at Mill House. Dust covers and all."

She deliberately let her gaze travel over his mud-covered body. "I understand."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Only that you might as well accept the invitation and desist with the he-man exhibitions. These transparent attempts to illustrate how much better suited you are to be the owner of Mill House impress no one but yourself."

"My
what
?" he exploded.

"All these projects you keep undertaking." Her voice rose as she stalked to the edge of the bank. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing. Merry and Teresa and Kathy and Bernard are full of your daily muscle-flexing antics. I will not bow out of the running simply because you've rearranged some furniture and moved a few shovelfuls of silt from the pond—"

"Wait!" He had no idea what she was talking about. He knew only that if she inherited Mill House all the backbreaking labor he'd been putting in could very well end up benefiting
her
. And instead of being duly appreciative of his effort—not to mention his manly sovereignty over dirt—she was upbraiding him! "A few shovelfuls? I've moved at least two tons of that muck!"

"It looks like you're wearing most of it."

He took a deep, steadying breath. "You, Miss Bede, are an ungrateful, sharp-tongued shrew."

Impossibly, astonishingly, as he uttered that last adjective Lily's lower lip began trembling and her startlingly dark eyes turned black behind a veil of liquid. For one awful second he thought she was going to cry. But then she mastered whatever emotion assailed her.

"And you, Mr. Thorne, are a loud, filthy, domineering lout and
no gentleman
!"

Before he could rebut, she turned, promptly colliding with the sheep behind her. Startled, the ewe swung its giant hindquarters around knocking Lily sideways and sending her sprawling headfirst down the steep clay bank. She landed in the deeper water at the far end with a loud, satisfying splash and disappeared under the opaque waters.

She didn't come up. He waited. A few seconds under some cold dirty water could only improve her disposition.

She still didn't come up. With a sigh, he sloshed over to where she'd gone down and fished about until he found her head and then her neck and then the back of her shirt. With a grunt he grabbed her collar and yanked her up. Sopping wet, clothed in a half dozen yards of heavy material, she weighed a lot, even though the water here, nearly to his shoulders, bore much of it.

"No fair hiding at the bottom of the pond," he said.

"I wasn't hiding," she said. "I couldn't get a foothold and—get your hands off of me!"

"Gladly." He released her. She went down like a ton of bricks, her soaking bloomers billowing out a second before dragging her beneath the surface once more. This time he counted to five before reaching under the mucky water.

She wasn't there.

He dove under the surface, finding the bottom with his hands and sweeping his arms out in great circles. He tried opening his eyes but the mud stung them, blinded him with darkness. He made himself act, moving in quick, ever-increasing circles. She'd been under half a minute. A minute.

Panic gibbered in his mind. He forced it away, forced himself to remain focused on the next stroke, the next sweep of his arm. He made the edge of the lily pads and began groping frantically through them. If she'd unsuspectingly swam into them she could be caught in a net stronger than any fisherman's… and drowned.

No!

A minute and a half—his hand brushed through something silky. Hair. He reached down just as her arms came up struggling weakly.

Thank God.

Blindly he ran his hands over her body, quickly finding the net of weeds that wrapped around her upper torso. Feebly she tried to help him as he tore at the lilies imprisoning her, finally rewarded when she slipped free of their deadly embrace. He grabbed her under the arms and with one last jerk, thrust her toward the surface.

She came up choking and thrashing. He looped an arm around her waist. She kicked weakly, still gasping, her body quaking in the cold water as he hauled her toward the shore.

As soon as his feet hit the silt bottom he scooped her up in his arms and carried her up into the meadow. Dropping to his knees, he lowered her to the grass. She was breathing harshly, her eyes shut.

Tendrils of hair clung to her face. Gently he pushed them away, studying her with increasing concern. Had she fainted?

He straddled her hips and leaned over her, his forearms bracketing her face. Tenderly he wiped the mud from her soft mouth, her cheeks and nose. Her lids fluttered open. Jet black irises stared up at him, unreadable, preternaturally calm. He became acutely conscious of the rise and fall of her breasts, their shape and form as clearly revealed by the slick coating of mud as if she'd been naked, the feel of her hipbones jutting against the inside of his thighs, her open hands flexed above her head, vulnerable between his forearms.

Concern died and desire erupted, surging through him with painful force. She murmured something, so softly he could not hear. He dipped his head closer, his gaze traveling from the fascinating pool of russet water that had collected at the base of her throat to fixate on her full red lips.

His own breathing grew labored. "What?" he managed to rasp out. "What did you say?"

"I asked if you were planning on taking that potshot now?" she whispered weakly.

He pulled himself back and rolled off of her.

It would have been better, Lily thought watching Avery's face grow blank and cold, if she hadn't sounded so hopeful. But when she'd opened her eyes and found his mouth so close, she'd wondered if he—

She closed her eyes again. Mortification at having to be rescued by Avery Thorne made her want to disappear. She'd thought only to teach him a lesson, show him how well she could swim after he'd dropped her. So, she'd struck out under the water, thinking to emerge with a triumphant sneer on the opposite side. Only she'd gotten turned around in the muddy water and ended in a snare of water lily roots.

When she peeked through her lashes, he was sitting beside her, one arm nonchalantly draped around his knee. One would think he was simply enjoying the view if not for the muscles working in his jaw and throat.