Seven Wicked Nights (59 page)

JAMIE DUG HIS SHOVEL deep in the earth and heaved a heavy clump of mud to the side. The strain on his muscles felt wonderful after the frustration of the night before.

Pent up as a rutting bull in a pen, that was he.

With a great shove, he buried the blade again. The mud made a sucking sound as he hauled out another load. The earth didn’t want to give up. Jamie knew how that felt, the stubbornness of clinging to muck and mire. He had let himself remain angry at Cat for five years now.

Holding a grudge was exhausting work. Maybe Cat was right, maybe it was past time he let it go.

With a sigh, he dredged out another clump of muck and threw it onto the growing pile.

He’d spent so many years reviewing the reasons he had to be angry with his wife—and they were good reasons—that he’d not even considered the possibility of forgiveness. He was like a ship sailing on one course for so long, he’d forgotten how to tack. An entire world waited on the other side of the horizon if he just dared to move the rudder.

Certainly, he’d wanted to set his course in Cat’s direction last night. Good Lord, but she was all temptation wrapped in soft silk, her hair down and golden in the firelight.

Annulment, his arse. He wasn’t letting Cat go.

“It will take a right mount o’tile to drain the field, milord.”

Dragging his thoughts back to the damp morning, Jamie glanced over at his land steward, Mr. Bourne. The man was short, with a brimmed cap and boots that went over his knees. He was half covered in mud.

Jamie leaned against the handle of his shovel. “Then we will fire more tile.” It seemed so simple, his plan to turn this swampland into arable fields. Change felt not only possible, but nearly guaranteed of success. What if his marriage could follow the same path? “Let’s lay the first tile, shall we? I’d like to test our theory.”

“Robert and I can do it, sir.” Mr. Bourne looked over his shoulder to where his boy waited with the horse and wagon. Three tiles were stacked within. “It’s a tricky thing.”

Jamie didn’t argue. The land steward had struggled enough that morning, watching the Marquess of Forster dig in the mud. He stepped back from the hole he’d dug and let the man and his boy take over.

Next harvest, this field could be waist high with wheat.

And what of him? Could
he
leave behind his muddy past and turn to the future? He certainly wanted to.
Needed
to, if he wanted to be fair to Cat. She was right; he should set her free if he couldn’t learn to forgive her. Lingering resentment was no life for her, for him, for their family.

He sighed and looked over the fields. Late morning mist rose above the muddy acres and tangled in the trees. Birds chattered and argued and sang for the pure joy of singing. It was an undeniably British scene.

Like a breath of wind that blows over the meadow and finds the exposed places on one’s skin, it caught up to him, all in a rush.

He loved this land. He loved the roll of the hills to the west. The meadowlarks in the fields. Even the fish in the pond. These were his creatures. Not by some sense of entitlement or ownership, but by history. By the love engendered by a youth spent out of doors exploring these green miles.

He had watched the sun rise over the snow of the Alps, blaze across the shining expanse of the desert, and set through the thick canopy of the jungle. But the beauty had not stirred his heart, not like this.

This was his home. His soil. He was born of this earth and would be buried within it.

A rider at the far edge of the field caught his attention. Cat, riding alone, regal as a queen. He was ridiculously glad to see her. Lifting a muddy hand, he waved. A wide arc of his arm that she couldn’t fail to see.

She was part of his home, too.

But she did not stop. Just rode on ahead in the direction of the village. Still avoiding him, then.

All at once, he wanted to see her. To try to change. To try to forgive her and move toward their future together.

“Can you finish up here?” he called to Mr. Bourne. He’d need to hurry to the house to dress in clean clothes first.

“Of course, sir.”

Jamie smiled into the morning, and went after his wife.

C
AT KEPT HER GAZE AHEAD
and pretended not to see her husband. It was a bit ridiculous, considering how he waved and waved as if calling in a ship from sea. But she hardly wished to speak with him this morning. She felt entirely too…unsettled by his return. Vulnerable.

Last night had been a wild challenge. Her desire for him was a force she could not control. Did not
wish
to control, truth be told.

But she needed to keep her distance from him until she felt more certain of her future. She was not surprised he had declined an annulment—that had been a rather far-fetched idea. But neither did she wish to be the womb he required.

In truth, the idea terrified her.

For now, she would focus on what was hers to control. She would put her attention on her village project.

She turned her mount onto the wagon path, and from there entered Abbey Lane.

Mayhem awaited her.

Or, more correctly, a number of the families awaited her by the cottages. Mrs. Harthorn was trying to keep her young boys out of the flower gardens while another gaggle of children played tag in the street. The women clustered around each other chatting.

They all stopped and waved as she approached.

“It looks wonderful, Lady Forster.”

“I cannot believe me eyes.”

“Are you sure you want to let us live here?”

Cat halted her horse and slid onto the mounting block, then stepped down to the earth. She smiled at the small crowd. Truly, she was as grateful to them as they were to her. They had saved her from a life of uselessness. A future of idle nothingness.

Looking around at their hopeful faces, her joy was a tangible thing, taking wing in her heart. “I cannot wait to show you everything. What an adventure we shall have together.”

She tethered her horse in the shade, then peeked into the empty carts on the side of the road. The vehicles had collected the families at their temporary lodgings in Nottingham that morning and would return them later that afternoon. Finally, Cat found what she wanted—the bushel of apples she had requested.

“But first, come here, children,” she called. “Who is my apple monster today?”

The brood of straggly, patchwork children surrounded her. They looked hardly better than street urchins. They were clean, however. And smiling.

Cat handed the basket to an older girl, who dispersed the apples to anxious fingers. “Let’s start in the gardens while you eat, shall we?”

She led the noisy group around back of the cottages to a series of gardens. “We have vegetable gardens and herb gardens already planted. I am told the carrots, cabbage, onions and—” she waved her hand at the other mysterious green plants “—a variety of vegetables will be ready for harvest this fall.”

The women ooh-ed and aah-ed. Cat felt wonderful, knowing these families would no longer be hungry. They would be independent, in control of their future happiness beyond the whims of men. They would not be thrown off course by—

A tall figure rounded the side of the Warners’ cottage.

Jamie.

Her belly flipped with nerves as he approached. She could not anticipate how he would react to her project. She’d purposefully kept the details from his estate manager. This was
her
domain, funded by her pin money. Yet, the cottages were Jamie’s, or at least belonged to the estate.

His easy smile did little to soothe her agitation. If anything, it kicked up her heartbeat. She tried not to notice how his riding breeches hugged his long legs, or how his jacket molded to his wide shoulders. She’d always known he was handsome; it was silly that the fact should steal her breath now.

The women noticed her distraction and turned toward the marquess. They greeted him with curtseys and murmured words to their children to bow.

Jamie smiled his lopsided smile into the crowd.

“My husband, the Marquess of Forster.” Did she sound breathless? She felt rather breathless.

“Please, don’t let me interrupt.” He waved a hand.

Taking him at his word, Cat straightened her shoulders and plowed on ahead. “We’ve also a barn for milking cows and goats, and pens for chickens. If you would please follow me.”

The women twittered behind her as they filed down the path.

“So handsome,”someone whispered.

“Dashing,”said another.

Cat could feel Jamie’s eyes on her as she led the way toward a newly built barn. He was not going to like the surprises on the tour. She turned to face the crowd, her chin lifted to hide her nervousness. “The animals will be delivered once you are all in residence and can see to their care. To our right”—she pointed in that direction—“is the new lace factory.”

This was it, the moment Jamie would interrupt. She steeled herself and met his gaze.

But he said nothing, simply raised a brow.
Lace factory?
He did not need words to convey his surprise.

Marquesses did not have factories on their estates. And, if they
must,
they would support an iron furnace for a local mine or some other such industry.
Not
a lace factory.

Jamie strolled forward, his hands clasped behind his back, and poked his head into the small building.

Cat felt a tug on her skirts and looked downward. One of the young children, he couldn’t have been more than seven, stood at her side. “Ma tells me I don’t ever have to go back to the workhouse.”

“That’s right.” Cat smiled at the boy and put her hand on his head.

He beamed up at her.

“You will help your mother here, at the factory, but you will also go to school.”

“School.” He screwed up his face. “Aww.”

Again, Cat looked up at Jamie to gauge his reaction. He had disappeared within the factory. She could see the outline of his form through the windows. Ah, well, she couldn’t worry about him now. “Are you ready to see your cottages?” she called to the crowd.

“Yes!” the children cried.

“Follow me. Warner family.” Cat looked over her shoulder. “You are first here in the yellow cottage.”

J
AMIE ENTERED THE COTTAGE
at the back of the crowd and found his wife standing in the kitchen. She flicked her gaze to him, then over his shoulder. She was dressed right out of a fashion plate, as always. Soft wool fell in perfect lines, while lace framed her collar and cuffs. She was more of a delectable than a sturdy country miss. Jamie liked this about her. He liked it very much.

But he didn’t like the surprises that had awaited him. He supposed he could grow accustomed to the idea of a lace factory on his estate, but he should have been apprised of Cat’s plans earlier. He’d been home nearly a week, had visited the village more than once. His wife had possessed plenty of opportunities to make him aware of the extent of her project. Again she was taking matters into her own hands, making decisions without considering the effect they would have on his life and reputation.

The old irritation itched across his skin. Having a wife was harder than he’d ever anticipated. Especially a wife who did things her own way.

He relaxed a shoulder against the wall and took a deep breath. He was here to make amends with Cat, not begin a new quarrel.

The crowd was noisy and filled the cottage. A gaggle of women and children with a distinct lack of men. In fact, there wasn’t a single male over the age of twelve or so.

What else was Cat not telling him about her project? And why didn’t his estate manager know what was going on? The man had simply said that her ladyship was renovating the cottages.

Over an hour passed before Jamie could talk to his cunning wife. He spent the time inspecting the renovations. Cat had seen to everything, including refurbishing the chimneys for safety and repairing the roofs. The cottages were in near perfect condition. He had to admit, he was impressed. And he could not blame the families for their excitement. These inviting homes would be theirs in just a week’s time.