A Wildflower for a Duke, page 11
She acquiesced with the slightest nod.
“As an added bonus, it will drive Keene mad to see me slaving away with an axe alongside the other men, making the task that much more enjoyable for me.” He finished wrapping her palm and tucked the end in. “There. All better.” He dropped a quick kiss to her bandaged skin.
Violet let her hand fall into her lap. “I’m sorry I yelled. You deserved some of it. At least twenty percent of it, twenty-three percent if I add extra points for the volume of your scolding, so I will round off to an even twenty-five percent for efficiency's sake. Even so, you were only concerned for my well-being. And you are my friend. I shouldn’t have implied otherwise. I’m simply accustomed to being self-sufficient.”
He nodded and rose from his chair. “Is it safe to walk out there with Goliath, or should I sneak out the back door?”
Violet opened and closed her hand experimentally, satisfied with the results. “That’s Hamish.” She glared. “The front door should suffice.”
Chapter 11
G abriel opened the door and took a brief inventory of the destruction. The mighty oak that had once stretched its fingers high into the clouds, serving as a haven for countless wildlife, now lay in a lightning-severed heap upon the earth. As monstrous as the task would be to set it to rights, he had no shortage of able-bodied men at his disposal. Gabriel felt more distraught at the loss of such magnificence. He imagined the thousands of seasons it had seen, the nests of fragile blue spotted eggs and heaping mounds of snow that had nestled amidst its crooked branches. Now it would serve to warm Mrs Evans’s home for the coming winter. He held out his arm. “After you, madam.”
“Attempting to use me as a shield and disguising it as gentility?”
“You haven't even any skirts for me to hide behind, Mrs Evans.” He winked at her.
Hamish, who had paused in his massacre of the tree to stare menacingly in Gabriel's direction, instantly softened when Violet approached. Gabriel dawdled with his horse, tightening the girth and adjusting the bridle while he observed the pair. Violet handed Hamish a glass of lemonade, which he drained in a few massive gulps. He set the glass at his feet, then reached up with one massive paw, covering her shoulder and squeezing it, his fingers coasting down the length of her arm as he walked away to speak with Zach.
Given their long history, it shouldn't have been a surprise to find Hamish equally familiar with Zach—affectionate even—as he ruffled the lad’s hair. Hamish adjusted Zachariah’s grip on the axe, and Zach remained perfectly relaxed, even as the Scot guided his swing and praised his first attempts with a hearty pat on his back. There was enormous trust there. Nearly a familial connection. It chafed like a too-tight cravat and he didn’t care to speculate why.
When Gabriel approached Violet, leading Omen by his bridle, she was gazing wistfully at her abandoned axe … no doubt deciding if she should take it up now or postpone until Gabriel was out of sight.
“I’ll be back with men to help you in … the time it takes a porcupine to peel a potato,” he said with a half smile. “If I take the time to find proper workmen, you’ll be bleeding in six more places before I return, but I have plenty of staff on hand to put this to rights.”
Violet looked up with wide, innocent eyes and took a sip of lemonade. “I will be right here when you get back.” Gabriel shook his head, mounting his horse.
Omen danced beneath him and he made a tight circle to settle the beast, glancing up one last time. She had already abandoned her refreshment and retrieved the axe. She was incorrigible. She was infuriating. Then she beamed at him and he felt the effects of that smile warm him from the inside out.
***
Gabriel rummaged through his armoire for suitable apparel, piles of rejected options heaped on his massive bed.
Keene appeared in the doorway, hands on his hips. “Should I even ask what you are doing?”
“Do I own a single article of clothing that doesn’t cost more than six months of your salary?”
“No, and you pay me rather well.”
Keene took stock of the room and heaved a sigh. “Oh, would you stop? You’re making a bloody mess. What exactly is happening? Everyone was in a tizzy outside gathering tools. Something about Mrs Evans?”
“I’m shocked there’s something you don’t know.” He shot Keene a goading smirk.
“Only because I was in a hurry to speak with you. I’ll find you something appropriate to wear, but why, may I ask, are we dressing in rags?”
“Not rags, just not something from Weston’s. Mrs Evans had a mishap from the storm last night. A rather large oak came down on some of her fencing, and the longer we stand here chatting, the more likely it becomes that she will single-handedly disassemble it at the expense of her gloveless hands.”
“And you don’t think that the legions of servants you have called away from their duties are up to the task?” He paused and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Oh, I see, you are playing the hero to her damsel in distress and don’t want her showering all of that abundant praise on some strapping young footman.”
Gabriel couldn't deny the sentiment entirely. Mrs Evans hadn’t even considered him as a potential avenue for help, and he wanted to prove himself beneficial beyond what his title afforded. He wanted her to look to her friend, Gabriel Anson, rather than look to the Duke of Northam. Look to him as a man? And if that meant spending the day sweating like a labourer, that's precisely what he would do.
“Are we talking about the same Mrs Evans? I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman less likely to play the damsel in distress,” Gabriel said.
Keene gave him a disbelieving look and left, presumably to borrow a set of work clothes in Gabriel’s size.
***
“I suppose you thought that was jolly good fun, tormenting His Grace with all that menacing hostility.” Violet poked her finger into Hamish’s abdomen with all the subtlety and deference of a bull in rut. With the duke gone, Hamish had returned to his usual joviality.
“And really! Rip out your wee aristocratic arms and beat you with them?” Arms akimbo, she made an abysmal mimic of his Scottish brogue.
His face contorted in an exaggerated grimace as he covered his ears. “Dinnae massacre me native tongue, lass.”
She yanked his fingers from his ears, attempting to school her amused smile. “And you are an abominable hypocrite, considering that two minutes before his arrival you were chastising me for helping you clear that tree,” she said indignantly.
“Aye, but he brought it on himself, lass. Charging in irate, muscles bulging … pissing on everything in sight like a territorial tomcat. I couldnae help toying with him a wee bit. And with all that deliciously untethered masculine bravado?” His eyebrows danced suggestively. “It was too irresistible, Vi. I’m not that strong a man.”
“You are insufferable.” She swatted him.
“Maybe so, but ye like him. And dinnae try to deny it. I saw your cheeks. Red as summer berries they were, when ye walked out of the house,” he said, his voice teeming with mischief. “And it doesna take that long to scrub up yer hands and grab a tankard of lemonade. Yer lucky we Scots aren’t so strangled in pointless propriety.” A wicked smile stretched across his chiselled face. “I'd half a mind to knock down the door when ye didnae come back.”
“I’m a widow. We aren’t tied to the same rules of propriety,” Violet said with an indigent sniff.
“Och. A widow are ye?”
Violet threw her thick plait over her shoulder, marshalling the twitch of a smile that threatened, and stomped off to retrieve her axe. She tore into the tree, sending splinters of wood showering around her. Beads of sweat trickled down the curve of her neck as she actively ignored Hamish’s booming laugh.
Sunshine that would have felt cosy and cheerful in a more sedentary activity, was merciless as she toiled without shade or respite. No doubt her fair skin would pay the price for her stubbornness. Swatting away the intrusive logic, she carried on.
Nearly two dozen men flooded into the yard, some on horseback, others, including Keene, piled into a wagon heaped high with tools. While Hamish paused to greet a few familiar faces, Zach beat a hasty retreat from the influx of strangers after waving goodbye. Despite being dressed like the others, devoid of any scrap of clothing that would denote his station, Northam stood out. He perched atop his horse in artless perfection. There was a confidence in his posture, and grace and authority in his deportment that could not be stripped away as effortlessly as his change of apparel.
He donned well-loved brown trousers that hugged the long muscles of his thighs, bracers, and a cream-coloured homespun shirt. The top two buttons were unfastened, leaving the “V” of his neck, and what felt like acres of well-defined chest, exposed. Cleaving her eyes away, Violet returned her attention to her axe and the delightful cracking noise it made.
As she paused briefly to adjust the weight of the axe in her hand, the familiar hug of her favourite felt hat fell into place on top of her head. She turned then, and Northam’s resigned eyes met hers, a pair of oversized work gloves clasped in his hands. He extended the offering with a sigh. He’d brought her gloves. She blinked at them.
“I knew you wouldn’t stop, so this is the next best alternative.” He reached up and shifted the hat brim. “And fair skin doesn't like the sun.” Why did the man have to be so damnably likeable?
His persistent consideration and charm constantly undermined her valiant attempts to remain neutral towards him. He was picking away at her defences, slowly capturing one chess piece at a time until only her king remained standing, without a single pawn to protect it.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” At least they still had the formality of titles to hide behind. She turned away to shield the emotions that she knew would pulse plainly across her face and shoved her battered hands into the gloves. The scrape and pinch of cracked blisters against coarse fabric was a welcome distraction.
They were a merry group of workers, chattering and laughing while they sawed and hauled side by side with Northam. While they were inarguably respectful, they also included him in their boisterous play. They genuinely liked and admired their master. Not at all the kind of relationship Violet would have thought a member of the aristocracy capable of cultivating with servants. She had assumed his friendship with Keene was an anomaly, but apparently, that was not the case. He was kind and respectful to everyone. And it seemed this particular duke was as at home on a farm, wielding an axe, as he was reigning over his imposing estate. All the pieces seemed so incongruent with one another, yet here he was, constantly reshaping her views. The more human Northam became, the more fervently she was forced to remind herself that he was not just a man, he was a duke. A duke, she suspected, who was still very much in love with his wife. The thought made her unreasonably grumpy, so she tried her hardest to ignore the blasted man and focus on her task. A feat which was made impossible by her treasonous ears and their refusal to cease their search for the sound of his voice.
She heard him above the crack of wood giving way beneath sharp blades, and over saws ripping through bark and pulp. Periodically, Keene would make some sarcastic jab about sending Northam home to his study where he belonged, which seemed only to make him laugh and work harder. The pair was fascinating to watch. Whole conversations occurred in a smirk and a glance. It was the kind of friendship that took a lifetime to build, which Violet could recognise because she had the same with Hamish.
Violet paused, gazing up at the cloudless sky and vibrant orange sun that fired her skin and caused a prickling sheen of sweat to form. Hamish had stripped down to his trousers, as had several of the other workers. Northam’s shirt remained on his back, but he had compromised with the weather by releasing an extra button. Apparently that was as far as his aristocratic upbringing would allow, but it was still four more buttons than she ever would have expected possible. There was no tan line, indicating that in the privacy of his estate, he had occasionally shirked modesty in favour of the sun on his skin. She fought her urge to invent a reason to approach him and get a closer look. Doubtful such an opportunity would ever present itself again; what would a little peek hurt?
A throat cleared behind her. “Mrs Evans?”
Violet whirled around so quickly that the toe of one boot clapped against the heel of the other. Northam’s arm shot out, wrapping beneath her arm and around her back, steadying her against his very exposed, very solid chest. He didn't even drop the lemonade clutched in his opposite hand. Step back, Violet. You should not be here, Violet! But the soft curling hair on his chest was tickling her cheek, and she could feel his heart where it hammered in his ribcage. My God but it was pounding, and hers eagerly joined in the overzealous rhythm. The backs of her eyes felt hot. What an odd place to feel hot. Then the hand that rested against the swell of her hip squeezed, and the heat was no longer relegated to her eyeballs. She sucked in a breath and he released her immediately, assuring that her balance was sound before shuffling back.
“Are you? … I am—” He stopped, sighing. “I’ve brought you some lemonade. Are you well?” She stared at the exposed “V” of his shirt, assailed by an almost overwhelming urge to snuggle back in like some kind of attention-starved feline. A pool of warmth settled in her belly. She blinked several times, then tore her gaze from that spectacularly intriguing place.
“Yes. Quite. And thank you for the refreshments.” She folded her fingers into a knot and waited for him to realise that the glass was still gripped in his own hand. A moment passed, then another, as something alive and energetic passed between them. Finally glancing at the lemonade, his eyelids slammed shut, then opened with one swift shake of his head followed by the unmistakable rise of a blush. Handing her the glass, he quirked a half smile.
Violet drank in long unladylike gulps, the sweetness sliding across her tongue. By the time she finished, he had gathered himself and fastened the lower two buttons of his shirt.
“It shouldn’t be long now before the last of the tree is cleared away and the fence should be easy work. I sent a footman to procure a late lunch for us. He should be back any moment. We’ll break for an hour or so before we finish up.” They were rescued from further awkwardness by the arrival of said lunch.
Violet chose a space far from the Duke of Northam for luncheon, having experienced quite enough bewildering emotions for the day. Tucked close to Hamish, she fell into a state of instant contentment. The meal would have been a lovely reprieve if it weren’t for Hamish’s obvious ploy to inspire some kind of jealousy in Northam. Hamish gave her his undivided attention despite the presence of several friends amongst the group, even going so far as to offer her a strawberry from his fingers. She glared and snapped the ripe berry with her teeth, wishing for all the world that she would miss and nip his fingers instead. For his part, Northam thankfully didn’t spare her so much as a glance through the entire meal.
Chapter 12
W ith the manual labour complete, most of the men returned to the wagon and departed. Gabriel leaned against the newly-secured fence and wiped his brow, assessing the impressive pile of wood neatly packed beneath a newly-expanded shed. Exhausted but invigorated, he let his head fall back, the cool afternoon breeze wafting across his sweat-dampened skin.
Mrs Evans stood beside Hamish, watching the twenty or so goats frolic across the garden. A pair of tan and white does snuffled around where the wagon had been. Another, a stark white spring buck, nibbled a man's discarded jacket. Several others had wandered towards the orchard and were attempting to pluck and pillage from low-hanging branches.
A few of the remaining men were attempting to coerce the goats back through the open gate. Approaching from behind, a burly footman shoved at the rear end of one rotund, sable-coloured doe. Her bottom was raised several inches into the air with every aggressive push, but her front legs remained stock straight and rooted in place. A clump of lush clover hung forlornly from her mouth as she looked over her shoulder, seemingly surprised to see all the activity behind her.
Gabriel scanned the yard for his first target.
“Northam, do ye have any actual experience herding goats?” Hamish’s Scottish brogue was thick with amusement.
Gabriel volleyed a surly gaze back. “My valet is an arse and my mother is a stubborn old goat, but that’s where my barnyard experience begins and ends. I always thought I would have made a splendid farmer!” He grinned as he stretched his arms, muscles flexing tightly against the supple cotton shirt. Like a child who couldn't wait to challenge himself by shimmying up the highest part of the tallest tree, he vibrated with boyish enthusiasm.
Two goatlings wandered close to the gate, the picture of innocence as they stopped to gaze adoringly up at him. Gabriel remembered them from his birthday dinner, Plum Pit and Apple Core.
“Look at those two little sweethearts. They’re practically begging to be tucked up snuggly in their habitat.”
Violet bit her bottom lip, apparently struggling to contain her amusement. She failed, as a quick bubble of laughter broke free, followed by a cough.
“Oh, by all means, Your Grace,” Hamish said with an exaggerated wave of his tree trunk arms, “return the docile little goatlings to their enclosure.” He snorted his amusement, obnoxious brute.
Gabriel walked in slow rolling steps, speaking in a cajoling voice to the adorable babies, arms outstretched as if to offer a tasty morsel. The goats stood stock-still but for their briskly wagging, feathered tails. The moment he stepped within reaching distance, they burst to life in a rousing game of chase, bucking and throwing their little bodies in unpredictable directions as they circled him gleefully. A madcap game of duck, duck, goose ensued, wherein he was absolutely the goose. Darting and weaving with unfettered exhilaration, Apple Core zipped between Gabriel’s legs at the exact moment he lunged to grab Plum Pit. Tripping over the unexpected hazard, he flopped face first into the grass.
