The Forest Lord (21 page)

"For weeks you planned this entertainment," he said, "and this is their gratitude."

"Oh, I cannot blame them. Why should they trust me?"

Hartley snorted. He glared toward the park gate. "I shall go down and fetch them."

"Everyone in the dale?"
She laughed, though the sound was feeble. "Perhaps I simply asked too much, too soon."

"We shall see." He turned on his heel and strode for the cart. She hurried to catch up with him.

"Let it be, Hartley." She touched his arm, and felt all the muscles bunch up under his sleeve.

He was angry, she thought with surprise—angry on her behalf. His protectiveness was as gratifying as it was unfamiliar.

Spencer had never tried to protect or defend her from anything. Lord Bradwell had been, for the most part, an indulgent but negligent father. In the end, he had not protected her either.

"Please," she said. "Do not be concerned."

He wheeled about, and she thought he might seize her as he had in the garden. She almost anticipated it.

"Do you wish to come?" he asked.

Mrs. Singleton and Mr. Appleyard were engaged in conversation, while the children tumbled about the lawn. They would scarcely notice their hostess's absence. And if she did not go, she was half afraid that Hartley would be too severe upon the delinquent guests.

"Very well," she said.

He nodded and helped her up into the cart. "What of Donal?"

"He is with his governess."

She braced for an argument, but he merely frowned and took the driver's seat.

All the way down the drive, through the park and beyond, where the road hugged sloping fells,
Eden saw no sign of the people she had invited. Only when they had advanced into the dale and were approaching the first farm did they meet a fellow traveler.

He was a dour and very elderly shepherd
Eden had seen once or twice with a small flock of ewes and lambs. Was he taking them up the fell or bringing them back down? The old fellow scarcely looked as though he could still climb.

Hartley drew the cart to a halt. The sheep milled about, bleating, and the old shepherd leaned on his staff. He studied
Eden with one good eye. The other was milky white. After a moment, he nodded a wary greeting.

"Yer ladyship."

"Good day, Mr.—"

"Kirkby."

A man of few words, as many dalesmen were
apt to be in her presence. She smiled. "Did you receive your invitation to come to Hartsmere this afternoon, Mr. Kirkby?"

He blinked slowly.
"Aye, yer ladyship."

"I would be glad if you would come with us now. We have much fine food and drink prepared."

"Cannot," he said.
"T'sheep, yer ladyship."

Eden
could not deny that he had a perfect excuse. "So I see. And does your flock… prosper, Mr. Kirkby?"

" 'Tis
noo."

"I am glad to hear it." She wondered how to phrase the next question without making
herself
look foolish. "Perhaps you knew my father, Lord Bradwell, and his father."

"Aye."

He was not making this easy. "I realize that the times have been difficult in the past, but—"

"What her ladyship asks," Hartley said, "is why no one from the dale or village attends the party that she has taken such trouble to prepare for all of you."

Kirkby's gaze shifted to Hartley, and
Eden thought that real interest sparked in his rheumy eye. "Thoo's an outcomer."

"Not precisely. Now, tell me. Why has she no guests?"

Eden
waited for another monosyllabic answer. Kirkby seemed to be weighing Hartley as much as his
question,
and he reached a favorable conclusion.

"They're afeared," he said. "Yon grand house is t'heart o' t'curse."

Eden
closed her eyes.

"Explain this curse," Hartley demanded.

" 'Tis
but a legend," Kirkby said with a cautious air.
"Once t'dale was blessed.
T'sheep were healthy and plentiful, t'grass grew sweet. Nae man wanted for aught. They said 't'last of the Auld Ones watched o'er us, granting good fortune. It has al'ays been thus, far back as memory."

"Go on," Hartley said grimly.

"They say Lord Bradwell angered t'Auld One when he entered the ancient forest, where no men go. They say he brought a curse down upon us."

"And what happened then, Kirkby?"
Eden asked, prepared for the worst.

"T'land suffered. T'next year the winter was colder, t'lambs sickly. T'hay rotted, and scarce a 'tatie would grow. T'lord went away, but naught changed. T'blessing was gone."

"And this is why they will not come to Hartsmere."

"Aye, yer ladyship."

"It doesn't matter to you that your prosperity has returned?" Hartley asked. His expression was stormy. "The lady herself gives you food and clothing and sends men to repair your homes. She wishes to give you still more." He snorted. "Your gratitude is overwhelming."

Kirkby became very interested in a loose thread on his coat. "T'auld ways die hard," he muttered.

"It is all right, Hartley,"
Eden murmured.

"It is not." He hadn't touched the ribbons, but Copper tossed his head and rattled his harness.

"If you go about your business and show the lady proper respect," Hartley continued, "your crops and beasts will suffer no harm from any weather, good or ill. This dale will be the envy of all
Albion. You will never know want again. But if you do not appreciate what you have been given—"

Thunder rumbled out of the clear sky. The sheep bunched and bolted. Kirkby followed as quickly as his aged legs would permit.

Copper set off at a trot toward the farm.

Eden
stared at Hartley, at a loss to understand his strange words. How could he guarantee the weather or the good fortune of Hartsmere's farmers?

"Perhaps it was unwise to make such promises," she said. "Please take us home. There is nothing to be gained by pursuing this further."

"So easily defeated, my lady?" he asked. "You allow a superstition to undo all your good work? Or is it your pride you're worried about?"

Her throat developed a lump. "My pride is my own concern. Please take us back."

The cart came to a stop. Hartley glared at her. "These people must be taught to respect their betters."

"And you, I suppose, are the one to set a suitable example?" She laughed. "If they are all as respectful as you, I had better accustom myself to a lifetime of disappointment."

"By Titania's wings—" He frowned up at the sky, and then abruptly turned the cart about, avoiding a pothole.

Eden
tried to ignore her wounded feelings. "What these people need most is education. I have already discussed a school with Mr. Appleyard. There was one, once, but it is in disrepair."

"And the dalesmen will surely appreciate that, as well."

"Is it your intention to make me feel worse, Hartley Shaw?"

Copper lunged to one side, nearly upsetting the cart. Hartley steadied
Eden with a firm hand and did not let go when the horse and cart settled again.

"No," he said in an altered tone. "It is not. But I—" His grip became almost like a caress. "I do not enjoy seeing you sad."

Eden
shook her head. One moment she thought she knew this man, and the next he changed yet again. "It is but a temporary reversal," she said. "But thank you for your concern."

They looked at each other, and
Eden was swept back to the garden where they had last shared such intimacy. But now they were no longer at odds. They were allies against a world in which both were outsiders.
Eden sensed that a man like Hartley would be an outsider wherever he went, belonging nowhere.

That was true loneliness.

"Hartley," she said. "Why do you… care so much?"

She regretted the words instantly, when it was far too late to recall them. Her cheeks grew hot. She almost snatched the ribbons from Hartley's hands in hopes of moving again, anything to distract them both from what she had revealed.

"
Eden," he said. Only that, but he filled the name with all the lovely melodies of spring: birdsong, the breeze sighing among new leaves, the rush of water from snow melting high on the fells.

And emotion—a whole world's worth.

What was happening?
Eden had known scores of men, and yet none of them had so affected her since… since the man she had called Cornelius Fleming. Not one among her peers had made her heart hammer and her body thrum with need as Hartley Shaw could do with but a word.

"I do not think—" she began.

He stroked his hand up her arm.

"Hartley."

He pressed his finger to her lips. Without words, he seemed to be telling her that thinking, and speech, and every social impediment between them meant nothing. She looked into his eyes and knew he was about to kiss her. Here, in the middle of the road.

And she was not going to resist.

His fingertip traced a circle about her lips. He cupped her chin in his hand and lifted it gently. She closed her eyes.

Someone cried out from not very far away.
Eden opened her eyes with a start. She drew away from Hartley, searching for the source of the cry.

They had been seen. How was she to explain
—

Her gaze fastened on a figure running at breakneck speed down the fellside. The figure resolved into a boy a few years older than Donal.
Eden didn't know him. He wore a dalesman's clothing, and his eyes were wide with worry.

He drew up to the cart, panting hard. He tugged his cap to
Eden, but his gaze settled on Hartley. "Beggin' your pardon, sir, can ye help me?"

Without so much as a glance at
Eden, Hartley swung down from the cart. "What's the trouble, lad?"

" 'Tis
our best ewe, sir. She fell between rocks, an' her
leg's
broke, an' her lamb is birthin'. Can ye come?

"I will." He finally looked at
Eden.
"If her ladyship can drive back to the house alone."

How was it that he could show such indifference to what had just occurred? Her own face still burned with consternation and thwarted desire. "You may go with the boy, Hartley," she said, "but I shall accompany you."

" 'Tis
a hard climb, m'lady," the boy said, studying her with new interest.

In answer,
Eden hopped down from the cart and shook out her gown. "What is your name?" she asked the boy.

"Jeb.
Jeb Topping, m'lady."

"You needn't worry about me, Jeb." She raised a brow at Hartley. "I wish to see if Mr. Shaw is as good with sheep as he is with horses."

Man and boy exchanged glances and conceded defeat. Jeb started up the fell, while Hartley hung back to assist
Eden.

"Don't wait for me," she said, hitching up her skirts. "I shall be with you presently."

He frowned. "If you should fall—"

Her emotions were in such disarray that she chose to ignore them entirely. "I am not likely to break. Go on."

Surely it wasn't her imagination that his eyes warmed with approval.
"Very well.
Call if you need me." He set off after the boy, climbing with impressive speed and agility.

Call if you need me
. Such simple words, and yet they made her knees quiver like blancmange. She steeled herself, took a deep breath, and followed Hartley's path up the fellside.

Very soon she realized just how impractical were the flimsy slippers she had chosen to match her gown. Dress and shoes would be ruined, and she was apt to have blisters to boot. Her legs, which had but recently become used to vigorous walking, began to cramp and shake. Setting her jaw, she persevered, slipping and sliding on rocks, mud, and grass.

At the top of the fell—just when she was certain that her legs had lost every bone they possessed—she heard the ewe's pitiful bleating. Hartley and the boy had gone to the other side, where a jumble of large rocks had formed a trap for the unwary animal.

All
Eden could see was a mass of ivory wool and Hartley's back. Jeb watched anxiously, eager to help. She descended toward them and tumbled onto her rump. No one heeded her mortification. Abandoning all
pretense
to dignity,
Eden slid the rest of the way until a sizable rock provided a landing place.