The Price of Pleasure (31 page)

One other thing helped sustain him: Victoria seemed eager to stay by him and examine him working. Once, when he pulled up his shirt to wipe his brow, he caught her staring at his chest and lower. Before she hurriedly glanced up at him, she'd unconsciously licked her lips, sending him into a working frenzy. And then when she'd realized they were going to complete the repairs that day, she'd looked so proud, her eyes snapping with it, that he would have worked himself to death.

Just after dusk, when he'd planted the last pole, Grant was almost too exhausted to think of bedding her. Almost. As it was, the compulsion to pull her into his arms to sleep was overwhelming. Just to lie with her. Just to stroke her hair until she fell asleep. He wiped his brow and neck and strode over to where she perched on the end of a pony cart. “We work well together.”

“You seem fairly pleased with yourself.”

“I am.”

“From what I understand, shearing will make the fence look like child's play. Of course, you won't be around long enough to know.”

“I'm very familiar with sheep,” Grant reminded her. “I ran Whitestone for four years.”

She shrugged at him, stifling a yawn as exhaustion caught up with her.

“We need to get you back,” Grant said, then called good night to the two men. He grinned, knowing Huckabee and Shepherd were going to indulge in the jug of ale Shepherd's wife had brought them at luncheon. The men deserved it.

One thing Grant had noticed was that Victoria wasn't the only one overworked. The Huckabees were playing too many roles on the estate. Huckabee was not only a steward, but a manual laborer and field hand. Mrs. Huckabee was dairy and scullery maid, housekeeper, and laundress.

When Victoria yawned again, he caught her under her knees, and before she could protest, he'd swooped her up on his horse.

Her eyes went wide. “T-Too high,” she sputtered. “Too big!”

“I'll lead him. You're too done in to walk all the way back.”

She relaxed marginally when she saw he wasn't letting go of the reins, but still had a hank of the horse's mane in her fist. “Why should you care?”

“I care very much.”

She frowned at him as though he confused her. He confused himself. Now that he recognized his feelings for her, he was baffled that it had taken him so bloody long. He was silent the rest of the way and made no advance when he lowered her from the horse.

After Victoria retired, Grant wrote to Nicole about sending qualified people from Whitestone to work here. He knew Victoria would be furious when she found out what he'd done, but in the morning, Grant whistled for the stable lad to have it delivered anyway.

 

In the middle of the next two nights, Tori ensured that some calamitous noise would wake Grant. She shoved her sparse furnishings around her room or worked on fixing her sticking window and squeaking hinges. Then early in the morning, she'd kick at his door to rouse him, but ultimately, her tactics only managed to exhaust her. He never wavered from being good-natured and complimentary as he followed her around each day, learning how she did things, and he never offered advice after the fence incident, though she could see that holding in his words was killing him. Good.

Yet it
was
pleasant having someone there to open things she couldn't budge or retrieve things she couldn't reach. She had only to show her difficulty, and he was there to help.

“I knew you were driven,” he said one afternoon as they moved one of the transferable sheep pens piece by piece. “But I've never seen anyone go after something with such single-minded pursuit.”

I went after you like that,
she thought.
And look what it got me. Hurt.
“How else would you go after something? And why go after a prize like you don't expect to get it?”

“Why indeed?” He looked as if he derived a different meaning. Had he read her thoughts?

Being around him constantly, viewing that towering, muscular body at work all day was unbearable, but now something much, much worse was occurring.

He'd started to show a sense of humor.

When a ram butted him, she'd howled with laughter,
and he'd joined her
. She'd frozen, stupefied. His laugh was deep and hearty, and his smile—she'd gaped at him, inwardly cursing, knowing there was no defense against something at once sensual and relaxed.

Then when her dress had caught on a nail and she'd nearly stripped herself in the sheep barn, he'd laughed again. To his credit, he'd caught one look at her face and fought to suppress it, wiping his eyes as he disentangled her and handed her back part of her skirt. Later, she noted, curse him, that he'd removed the offending nail.

That evening before it got too dark, she made her way to the stable to deliver scraps for the barn cats and was forced to pass Grant and Huckabee out on the terrace. As they awaited dinnertime, the two smoked cigars and drank ale, talking about grains and crop yields. She didn't even think Grant saw her hurrying past, but as soon as she called the first “Heeere kitty,” he was behind her.

Setting down the plate, she turned and smirked at his expression. Grant Sutherland was foxed. She raised her eyebrows. “I take it Gerald shared some homemade ale with you and Huckabee.”

“Potent stuff, that.” He rubbed his chin, drawing her attention to the stubble he sported.

“I thought you shaved every day.”

“I've been far too tired to even contemplate it. For some reason,” he said with an engaging grin, “I sleep poorly here.”

She gave him a smug one back. “Even an animal knows to leave a place that makes him uncomfortable.” He chuckled—
bastard
—looking relaxed and at home and not at all like the grim Grant she'd balked at marrying.

Closing in on her, he murmured in her ear, “The only thing that could make me shave is if I thought I might get to kiss you.” He brushed his fingers over her cheek. “I wouldn't want to rasp your soft face. Or thighs.”

Her breath left her like a whisper.
I wouldn't mind,
she thought, then inwardly berated herself. She backed away, blathering an excuse about dinner, and fled.

Grant showed up at dinner half an hour later. Clean-shaven.

She knew what he was doing. He couldn't love her, so he was out to seduce her. And Lord help her, each time she glanced at his face, at his strong jaw and chiseled cheekbones cleanly shaven, a flutter erupted in her. Had he made plans that included kissing her this very night? She shook herself. She would not get aroused just looking at his face! Still, dinner was an ordeal, and she excused herself before she was finished, ignoring his obvious disappointment, to retire to her study.

Leaning back in her chair, she analyzed his strategy. She'd already told him she needed more than lust, and he'd told her that he couldn't give more.
Impasse.
And who was about to get his way, just as he had at every other impasse?

He was mixing their lives together, intertwining them until she didn't know where hers began. And not just in work. He even planned to go to the wedding in the hamlet next Saturday that she'd been looking forward to. She'd never seen people in their eighties marry; now she probably wouldn't attend.

She muttered a curse. The villagers already saw them as co-owners, everyone looking at them as though they were working as one. There was no
one
. She wasn't a
half
. She owned this place. It was hers by right in less than a week. She would get rid of him and not live a loveless life of unanswered compromise after compromise. She wanted him gone before her desire for him made her forget why love was even important.

That wasn't the only reason for her anxiety. She knew it wasn't fair to keep control of the property when a better owner, better by virtue of wealth, was waiting to take over. She needed to squeeze out just a bit more money for that shearing crew. Tori went over the books until her eyes felt like crossing. She reviewed wordy, bloated contracts with McClure, the wool broker, but couldn't make sense of them.

After long hours, she dozed off, her head falling to a desk littered with historical wool prices, contracts, and reports she'd had Huckabee compile, entailing all the assets of the farm—what they produced, when, and how.

Tori dreamed of sheep, though these days she loathed the bleating little beggars. She jerked awake, rubbed her eyes, and rolled her head on her neck. She couldn't think. She wasn't a businessperson and demonstrated that fact daily.

But curse it, I have to be.
Her brows drawn, she organized everything to begin again. It was in this midnight hour, when her vision blurred, that she saw it.

The most wonderful mistake.

She riffled through the thick pile of contracts, focusing on that line only. Every one had the same error; how had they missed it? For years, McClure had paid her grandfather's farm for cheviot wool. They did not produce cheviot, but something much, much more expensive.

They produced…Anglo-merino.

T
ori called a secret meeting with the Huckabees right at daybreak to tell them about her discovery, but she wrestled confusion and even guilt for not including Grant. Why did she want to share the news with him? Because she wanted him to know that she was shrewd, that she'd found something no one else had?

No, that wasn't it. She just wanted to see him smile at the news. And he would. His breathtaking grins came easier these days. He was becoming integral to the Court. And to her. Yet even when he'd been foxed the night before, he hadn't confessed tender feelings, much less the love that she wanted.
Impasse.
This new information was her way toward complete ownership, and she'd keep this card close to her chest.

After she'd explained the details to the couple, she said, “I'm going to write McClure and tell him about the mistake. He owes us thousands of pounds
in arrears.
” She gave a sly grin to Mrs. Huckabee. “I learned that term the other day.”

They clasped hands, joyous over the discovery. Then Huckabee's expression dimmed. “What if he meant to cheat the earl? Think about it—the farm's wool manager was gone, the earl was sick and didn't handle business anymore, and I was barely holding things together. It seems unlikely to me that this man made an honest mistake over a four-year span, right when the farm was most vulnerable.”

Tori sank back in her chair. “You're right. You're absolutely right. So what do we do? Do we go to the authorities?”

“If you go the court route,” Mrs. Huckabee began, “you won't see any money for years.”

Huckabee slapped his hand on his knee. “I've got it. We could go the ‘gentleman's threat' route.” When she frowned, he explained, “Make copies of everything and send him the proof, then write ‘Govern yourself accordingly.' ”

“Gentleman's threat.” She tapped her chin. “Let's try it. What do we have to lose?”

So she worked most of the day copying contracts, then sent the package out for delivery. If Huck caught the mail coach, the documents would arrive at McClure's in the morning.

The next day, nervous and tense about the outcome, Tori decided to work herself into oblivion, but a commotion in the drive interrupted her.

She met up with the Huckabees, and the three strode to the entrance. Grant was there, greeting a carriage from Whitestone that brought a laundress, a cook, a maid, as well as a carpenter to work on the roof of the sheep barn. The Huckabees were overjoyed—Mrs. Huckabee nearly swooned with relief—with everyone beaming at Grant.

Tori stomped off, out of sight of the new help and the Huckabees, but Grant followed her to the salon. When she turned around, he was very close, reaching out to gently touch her arm.

“You look done in.”

She backed away. “As if I needed you to tell me that.”

“You should have a bath drawn for you,” he suggested, his voice deep, lulling her. Her mind was so muddled. Heaven forgive her, but a bath in her room's big marble plunge tub did sound divine. Soaking in steaming, scented water up to her chin…Her weakness made her even more furious. “I don't want a bath, and I didn't want servants. I don't even know where to put them.”

“They can stay on the third floor of the lower Court.”

She put her fingers up to her temples. “We can't heat it.”

“Summer is coming.”

“Still, their wages—”

“I'm paying for any additional cost.”

She stiffened.
“I don't want that.”
He looked so reasonable, and the gesture was so logical, yet she wanted to screech her fury at him. Instead, she said, “Clever Grant, finding another way into the Court. Do you think I don't see what you're doing?”

His face registered disbelief. “You would believe that I brought help here to undermine you, before you would believe I brought them to make your life easier.” His voice was hard. “Do you know me at all?”

“I've had to learn that you'll do whatever it takes to get what you want. And now, with this move, everyone will look to you for decisions to be made.”

“You must really want me gone,” he said, then shook his head. “Damn it, Victoria, deny it.”

She said nothing.

“I thought you were beginning to see that we worked well together, that we could make a go of this.” Disappointment laced his tone. “I was mistaken.”

 

Grant strode out to the stable to ready his horse. He spotted her at the window, biting her lip and nervously fingering the edge of some ancient curtains, and he wondered if she thought he was leaving for good. What he'd said was true—he had thought she was coming around. He'd stormed out, furious and full of regret, but he was more angry with himself. He must have hurt her deeply for her to have this continued animosity. The idea that he'd hurt her made him crazed.

No, he wasn't leaving her. Not today, not ever. He hitched up a cart of supplies and rode to work on another line of fence. This one wasn't downed, but it
could
be soon, and he needed the work.

By the time he got Victoria to marry him, she'd have the best bloody fences in the county.

When he ran out of materials near sundown, he ambled to the stream to wash off. He skipped stones, finding himself staring after them long after they'd sunk to the bottom.

When night fell, he lay on a rock by the bank looking up at the stars. Their placement was what he was accustomed to; he was in England, listening to the countryside prepare for sleep, his body weary from work. His heart should be glad, but he knew as long as he was away from and unmarried to the only woman he'd ever loved, nothing would be right.

Damn it, he missed her.

He stood and stretched his sore back, wondering if she could possibly miss him too. He wondered if she was so strong and self-assured that she'd cast what was between them into the past, never to be retrieved.

He turned in the direction of the Court, as if to
see
her. What he saw out of the corner of his eye made him suck in a breath. He turned to the eerie light, scrubbing a hand over his face, unbelieving.

Fire lit up the valley.