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Bartholomew’s eyebrows come together with confusion, and the poor boy looks as though he’s wondering if the sun has addled my brain as well as caused my skin to blush red.

“How much longer do you think this will take, soldier?” I ask Henrik, deciding it’s better to address him instead of letting him think I was casting longing glances his way—which I certainly was not.

Even if he is a little more appealing right now than usual.

If I were a lesser woman, my mind might wander—perhaps remembering how he held me when the vulture attacked, going as far as to reminisce on the way his body felt pressed next to mine. Thankfully, I am not that easily flustered…

“It will take less time if you grab a shovel,” Henrik responds, to which several of the men draw in surprised gasps.

Beside me, Bartholomew looks positively scandalized. “Henrik, surely you can’t be suggesting that Lady Clover—”

“How hard can it be?” I walk to the pit, which is now about half full. I extend my hand, asking Henrik to give me his shovel. “If you need a break, I can dig for a while.”

A grim smile plays at Henrik’s lips, and he narrows his eyes. Without a word, he offers me the handle, calling my bluff.

Not about to run away, I take the shovel from him, wincing as the rough wood digs into the palm of my hand.

Turning my eyes from him, I walk to the side of the road, where the men are collecting dirt, and press the shovel into the ground—at least, it’s supposed to go into the ground.

Instead, the sharp point of the spade cuts into the first few inches, and then it stops.

I must have found a rock—not a problem. I move the shovel over and push it into the dirt. Again, it sinks several inches and then seems to get stuck.

“You’re going to have to put your weight into it,” Henrik says from nearby, drinking from a waterskin. “The earth in this region is clay, and it dries like a brick.”

“Lady Clover,” Bartholomew says from nearby, practically wringing his hands. “Please, let me—”

I wave my hand, cutting him off. “No, it’s fine.”

After watching the men around me, I realize I need to press my foot to the top of the spade, as they are doing.

I smile as the shovel digs into the earth at least halfway. Deciding that’s enough for my first time, I awkwardly tilt the shovel back, trying to lift the dirt…and finding it to be quite a bit heavier than it looks.

All right, I’ll admit it—it’s not as easy as I thought.

My brothers may have taught me many things, from shooting to hunting to riding bareback…but they never made me do manual labor.

I’m not surethey’veever done manual labor.

Apparently, there was a reason Henrik was getting all hot and sweaty—the task is more difficult than it looks. However, I am stubborn.

I just need some practice…and perhaps a little more muscle.

“What’s wrong, your ladyship?” Henrik says innocently. “Not accustomed to grunt-work?”

“It’s fine.” I grit my teeth as I balance the dirt upon the shovel and walk to the pit. With great satisfaction, I dump the earth in.

It barely makes a dent.

“All right,” Henrik says, tossing the water skin to Bartholomew, finally taking pity on me. “That’s enough.”

“I’ve got it.” I hold the shovel away from him, fully aware I’m acting like a stubborn toddler.

But there’s something about the way the soldier is looking at me that is driving memad.

“Lady Clover,” Henrik says with abundant patience. “You’ve proven your point.”

“I wasn’t aware I was making one.” I grimace as I press my foot to the shovel to scoop up more dirt and feel the unmistakable bite of a splinter digging into my finger. “I’m just doing my part—”