Page 6 of Rules for a Bastard Lord (Rogues Gambit #2)

A pig by any other name stillstinks.

“G it the bucket! Git the bucket!”

Maybelle’s hands and shoulders were screaming, but she put everything she had into hauling Mr. Periwinkle back. The moment that pig got a belly full of ale, he’d be a drunken pig, and no one could move him until dawn when he’d wake with a sore head and worse disposition.

Entire evenings at the pub had been spent retelling one Mr. Periwinkle story after another, and she did not want to add today’s adventure to that list of disasters. She had too much to do yet and no strength left in her hands as the pig got the better of her.

She lost her grip and dropped to her knees. And poor Mr. Hallowsby was now flat on his bum with a hand to his chest as he gasped for air.

God no. He couldn’t be dying! Getting hit by Mr. Periwinkle was no small thing, and men had been killed by less. She’d managed to maneuver the pig off him with a few well-timed shoves, but the damage had already been done. He’d been sat on, and…

Phew. He breathed, and with no grimace of pain, as far as she could see. But then he raised a hand.

He was holding a knife. The blade flashed in the sun, and she nearly swallowed her tongue. He couldn’t kill Mr. Periwinkle. He couldn’t! That was Widow Dwight’s only means of support beyond what little she brought in doing laundry. Plus the thing had fathered half the pigs in Hull.

“No!” she bellowed, and she saw his hand stop in midair.

He didn’t strike. He also didn’t keep the bucket away from Mr. Periwinkle. And as they froze in that tableau, the clearing filled with the snorts of a pig guzzling ale.

Damnation.

She plopped down on her rear, belatedly realizing that she was covered in mud and Mr. Hallowsby wasn’t much better. Baths for them both and fresh clothes before they left. Which meant she had to get that pig back to Widow Dwight’s to trade for the washing. She had precious few dresses to take to London, and this was one of her best.

“Aw, blimey,” cried Thomas from the far side of the clearing. “We told ’im not to feed ’im the grub.”

Mr. Hallowsby whipped his head around and glared at the boy. “And how was I to keep that brute away from it, I ask you?”

“By running faster than a pig,” Thomas shot back, disgust in every line of his body.

Maybelle pushed herself to her feet and managed to grab the empty bucket away from Mr. Periwinkle. Tossing it to Thomas, she said, “Go fill ’er up again. He’s in a better mood now, mebbe I can get ’im going.”

Thomas eyed the three of them doubtfully, but didn’t argue. She leaned down and grabbed hold of the rope around Mr. Periwinkle’s neck. She didn’t pull, though. Her gaze went to Mr. Hallowsby, where he sat in the mud looking stubborn.

“I’m not paying another two shillings.”

“What for?”

“The ale.”

Oh, of course. Gillian would have charged him for the grub. “No bother. The widow will cover it. She does the inn’s laundry.”

He eyed her darkly, though in truth she didn’t think the expression was meant for her. “I hate the country.”

“The country seems none too fond of you,” she said. “Are you hurt?”

He grunted as he pushed to his feet. “Just my pride. And my knife.” Then he held up the no longer shiny metal to the sun. The handle was broken.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ve killed men for less,” he said darkly as he advanced on Mr. Periwinkle.

She was horrified by the thought. “Truly?”

He whipped his gaze back to her, and a moment later, he stomped over to his two other knives, where they waited, sunk into a tree trunk. She thought he wouldn’t answer, but in the end, he muttered something that sounded like, “Not really. But I’ve wanted to.”

Well, as to that, there wasn’t a man, woman, or child in thirty miles who hadn’t wanted to murder Mr. Periwinkle. She was thinking it right now as she hauled on the rope.

“Come on, you brute. You can’t be drunk yet.”

She thought Mr. Hallowsby would refuse to help, but once he’d secured his knives he came to her side. Setting his hand on her forearm, he spoke gruffly into her ear.

“I’ve got it. Your hands must be mash by now.”

They weren’t a lady’s hands—that was for sure—but she’d handled worse. “What about your clothes?”

“There’s no saving them now, is there?”

No, there wasn’t. And maybe not her dress either. “We’ll pull together.”

“Don’t hurt your hands.”

She flashed him a smile. This close, she could see the darkness of his beard on his cheek, the rugged cast to his skin, and brown eyes the color of mink. They were unsettling, those eyes. Rich and deep, she felt like she sank into them, and her smile faltered.

So did his.

They stood there, eye to eye, while her breath caught and her belly tightened.

“I got it!” Thomas bellowed from somewhere far away. Except it wasn’t far away. It was a few paces behind, and she jolted as she realized she’d been staring.

“’Old it out,” she instructed.

“I know, I know,” groused the boy. “Move out of the way.”

It wasn’t easy. It took all three of them to coax, bully, and drag Mr. Periwinkle to his pen. And during the long, agonizing process, Mr. Hallowsby was grim, but he didn’t complain. Not even when the blasted pig lifted a leg and pissed on him.

He cursed, of course. And she worried about his boots, but there was nothing else to do but keep hauling, while the stupid beast was off-balance on only three legs.

Then, finally, they were done. She stared at the ruins of her favorite gown and sighed.

“Well, look at you,” cried Widow Dwight from where she came out from the laundry area. Her face was slick from boiling water and her eyes red-rimmed from the lye, but she was grinning with her gap-teeth from her big heart. “Mr. Periwinkle, you been out roaming again?”

Maybelle nodded, her hair flopping into her eyes and making them sting. “He was out by the inn.”

“But that’s not far. You two look like you dragged him from Yorkshire.”

Mr. Hallowsby grunted from where he was leaning hard against the stone part of the pen. “It took us more than an hour. That was far enough.”

“Naw,” piped in Thomas. “Once my dad and Miss Bluebell dragged him from Newbald. That took four full buckets of me dad’s best ale.”

“That it did,” the widow said with an indulgent smile.

It hadn’t, but Maybelle loved how the tales expanded with age, so she didn’t say anything.

“Now, ’ow come these others are covered in mud, and you’re just regular dirty?” the widow asked Thomas.

“’Cause I’m faster than they are,” he answered with a grin. “Bye!” And off he ran before the widow forced the child into her laundry tub for a good scrubbing with that lye soap. Maybelle knew. She’d been a mite slow once upon a time when she was younger.

Meanwhile, she gestured to her dress. “I’m afraid this one’s done for. But do you have my other washing?”

“I do. And I’ll only charge you half ’cause you brought Mr. Periwinkle back.”

With anyone else, she’d dicker. But everyone looked after the widow. They didn’t fuss about prices so long as the widow kept the cost low. With a nod, she fished out her purse and counted out most of her coins, giving the woman a dark eye as she did it.

“Fair counting,” the woman answered. “Now go on. Get in that wash water afore the sun starts to bake you in.”

Maybelle smiled, knowing exactly where her laundry would be waiting. But then she paused, all too aware of who was leaning against the pen watching everything with his dark chocolate eyes.

“Mrs. Dwight, may I introduce you to Mr. Hallowsby?” She was careful to speak slowly and pronounce everything as she ought. “He’s got a broken carriage at the inn and is waiting for it to be fixed and painted.”

“Just fixed,” he said, as he swept into a deep bow.

“That’s a mistake,” the widow said as she creaked into her own curtsy. “You’ll get a better price with a fresh coat.”

“Not with what they’re charging me,” he answered with a rueful smile. “I was going to do it myself, but the cost for the paint was more than anyone would pay.”

The widow chortled, then gestured to Maybelle. “Let Miss Bluebell do the dickering. She’ll sort it out right and tight.”

“And charge me for the privilege?”

“Nothing more than I’m due,” Maybelle put in, feeling the need to defend herself.

“Well, Miss Bluebell,” he drawled, “what’s reasonable in the country and reasonable in London seems to be a bit different.” Spoken by anyone else, Maybelle could have taken offense. But he stood there covered in mud. The only part of him not brown was the white of his smile and the twinkle in his eye. His tone was kind with no hint of censure in it, just a rueful charm that took the sting out of his words.

Though the widow’s next comment stung. “I see you’re well acquainted with Miss Bluebell’s ways. Come on, sir. I’ve got some extra clothes if you like. Will trade you free o’ charge for what you got on, mud ’n’ all. But I ain’t got a coat—”

“It’s done for anyway,” he said as he shrugged out of it. “Cantankerous beast chewed on the sleeve.”

“It must have tasted of the ale. Mr. Periwinkle wouldn’t touch cloth otherwise.”

“It likely did,” he said. Then he frowned in her direction. Maybelle had only moved a step or so away before stopping to watch the discussion. “How much is a bath going to cost me?”

“Oh, don’t you fret now, Mr. ’Allowsby,” the widow said with a laugh. “There’s a creek right down there. See them trees? They’re shadowing it so it’s cool in summer. You go on and wash there.”

That meant that she had the hot tub with the lye soap. “It’s a mite cold,” she said hopefully. “You can have the wash tub ’ere, and I’ll—”

“I’ll take the cold, thank you,” he said, the twinkle in his eye telling him he knew about washerwomen and their soap.

She grimaced. “Or we could take turns.”

“Listen to ye,” the widow scolded. “Washing in the stream like a gypsy girl. Off into my tub.”

She had no choice. It was the proper thing to do, or at least, less improper than bathing in a stream. And yet her feet dragged as she thought about times when she had happily bathed outside and wondered if she really wanted to be a lady.

She did. So it was the lye soap for her.

She walked around the outside of the house. There were bathing screens set up for customers, a copper a bath. But no one had been expected today, so it was the washing tub with its boiling water and lye soap for her.

She stripped out of her clothes, grimacing at the mud and the tears. Even the corset was filthy. She had to wait while the water cooled off, so she helped the widow with her work, though she couldn’t do much more than fish clothing out of the water and do her best not to get mud on the freshly laundered attire.

“That’s a finely made man, that is,” the widow said, her gaze sharp on Maybelle’s face. “If I were a mite younger, I might set my cap at ’im.”

“Oh?” she answered, doing her best to sound casual. She didn’t think it worked. Fortunately, the widow didn’t talk unless it was important.

“I like some hair on a man. Keeps a woman warm in winter.”

Maybelle frowned at the widow, not understanding what the woman could possibly mean. Certainly, she understood the male form. She’d seen workers strip out of their shirts, so she knew that some had thick pelts of hair, others not as much. But did that mean Mr. Hallowsby was hairy? And why would a woman like that? She’d never thought twice about a man’s chest hair, but suddenly, she was anxious to see Mr. Hallowsby’s. What exactly did his torso look like?

“Water’s cool enough,” the woman said, a quirk to her lips that might be a smile. “In you go.”

Maybelle hissed as she climbed in. It wasn’t nearly as cool as she wanted, but she adjusted. She wanted to be washed and out as soon as possible. She had an idea of sneaking down to view Mr. Hallowsby, and she couldn’t do that while being scrubbed here.

So she hurried when she might have lingered just to tease the widow into sharing some gossip. Then she pulled on a dress that was too large for her, billowing around her body until she tied a heavy rope around her waist. Looking in the mirror, she couldn’t look less like a lady. Her wet hair stuck limply to her skin, and her dress was a dull brown, pulled in to fit her. But she didn’t have to be a lady just yet, right? Not until London.

Still, her heart ached that Mr. Hallowsby would see her like this.

“Like a girl dressin’ up in her mama’s clothes,” said the widow. “Fresh and clean—”

“And looking like a child?” She inhaled deeply, seeing her full breasts stretch the fabric. Well, at least in that regard, she wasn’t a little girl.

“Not like a child,” the widow chided softly. “Like a fairy girl trying on—”

“Other people’s clothes,” she sighed softly. “Someday, I’m going to have fine things. I’ll never use a rope as a belt, I’ll have silk slippers for every day of the week, and people will curtsy to me.”

“Oooee,” the widow whistled. “And don’t you have fine plans? Nothing comes of dreaming big except heartache.”

Maybelle lifted her chin and tried to look like an aristocrat. “I am a lady. You’ll see. I’m—”

“That’s your mum talking. Lord knows her passing was a sad day for us all, but don’t be letting her dreams ruin your living.”

This was an old refrain from the widow, as well as everyone else in town. Maybelle was tired of it. “I got my plans.”

“I know ye do. Ever since you were a babe, you had plans. But girl, listen to an old woman. Plans is one thing. Pie in the sky is another. And you—”

“Thank you, Widow Dwight, for the bath. I’m going to leave now. Tell Mr. Hallowsby that I’ll come by the inn later for another lesson.”

“A lesson! In what?”

“In speaking like a lady.”

“But you—”

“Bye!”

Then she was off, stomping toward her house as if she meant to go there. She didn’t though. She had another destination in mind.

It took a while. The widow watched her for ever so long, but in the end, the old lady turned back to her washing. Good. The moment the widow went behind the tub, Maybelle cut sideways into the trees. She’d been running around this stream all her life, so she knew exactly where and how to cross it. And from there, it was easy as pie to sneak through the trees to where Mr. Hallowsby should be bathing.

And there he was, lying on his back in the water…

Stark naked.

She swallowed. She knew that she ought to look away, but she couldn’t. She’d seen men before, but they’d all been at a distance as they worked in the field. Or sick ones that she brought possets to. But Mr. Hallowsby was a healthy male and…

Stand up. Stand up. Stand up.

The words were a refrain in her head as she crouched in the shadows. She couldn’t see anything, since he was floating under the trees. Only that he was there. Only that…

He straightened.

She saw his wet head pop up and then came his broad shoulders. His back was to her as he scanned the bank on the other side. She got to see white skin, rippling muscles, and…whip scars? They were long, thin, and crisscrossed his back.

He was submerged to the lowest part of his ribcage, so she could see only the expanse of skin and broad back. She knew he was tall, but his height disguised the width of his shoulders and his lean strength.

She swallowed, willing him to stand up all the way. The widow was right. He was a fine figure of a man.

He straightened further, and she watched as his narrow waist appeared along with the indentations before his bottom.

Next came his bum, small and tight. He was standing full upright then, and the water came to where his thighs bunched with corded lines. Truly, there was no softness in the man, and her mouth went dry watching.

Then he twisted to look over his shoulder…and found her where she crouched beside a bush. She froze, thinking perhaps he couldn’t distinguish her from the foliage, but his words proved her wrong.

“Ladies don’t hide behind bushes, Bluebell.”

True right, they didn’t. But she wasn’t a lady yet, so she forgave herself. “I came to…I came to see if you needed anything.”

“If you’re going to lie, then you can leave.”

She winced. She didn’t want to go. She also didn’t like being caught ogling a man.

“Why did you come here, Bluebell? Tell the truth this time.”

Did she? Could she? Why not?

“Widow Dwight said you were a fine fig’ of a man. I wanted t’ see.” She got it all out in a rush.

He smiled at her, the expression slow and wicked. “Slow down your words, Bluebell. Ladies speak slowly.”

She stared at him, confused by his actions. He was just standing there, his back to her as he talked over his shoulder. Wouldn’t most men at least crouch back down into the water?

“I wanted to see if she was right,” she said excruciatingly slowly.

“And is she?”

He was teasing her, challenging her to admit her interest. She knew it was a game to him, and yet she found herself responding, nonetheless. “I ’aven’t seen the front o’ ye yet.”

“Say it correctly.”

“I ain’t a lady yet.”

“But you’re practicing. Say it—”

“I haven’t seen the front of you, so I can’t tell.”

“Do you want me to turn around?”

Yes! No! Yes!

“So far, you’re not any different than the men I’ve seen afore.” Liar, liar!

“It’s true, the parts are all the same. But I take issue with the idea that I’m not any different. My hair, for example. Does everyone’s curl so abominably wild when dry but remain completely flat when wet?”

“Lots.”

“Are their shoulders so broad? Their noses so strong?”

He was pointing out all the things she had noticed, though a strong nose was not necessarily an asset in her mind. Still, he had a kind of chiseled granite to his features that she found very appealing.

“I didn’t look that closely.”

“Liar.”

“I didn’t look closely…at your nose.”

He grinned. And then he dropped more deeply into the water. Gone was his tight bum, gone too were the tiny indents just below his waist. But that was as far as he sank. And then he turned around.

She gasped and pressed a hand to her mouth to silence the sound. It was too late, of course, but she tried anyway. Especially as her eyes were devouring the sight of the dark hair on his chest. Not as thick as a pelt, but it was slick with water and drew the eye from the widely spaced nipples, narrowing down to his flat stomach, and into…

The water.

She could not see more.

“Have you seen a naked man before, Bluebell?”

She nodded without willing it. “I helped the witch-woman for nearly a year until Mama found out and stopped me. But I saw ailing men of all sorts.”

“Truly? For nearly a year?”

She nodded. “Mum had the cough and was sleeping whene’er she could. Hard to keep track of me then.”

“So you took the excuse to play?”

She glared at him. “I worked to pay off the medicines. And I worked to learn ’ow t’ make them meself.”

“How to make them myself ,” he corrected.

She grimaced. It was damned hard to keep her words on track when other concerns seemed more important. But she repeated the words slowly with the h .

“Good. Now I’m going to stand up, Bluebell. I’m going to stand up completely and let you look your full.”

She gaped at him. He couldn’t truly mean it, except one look at his face told her he did. “But…”

“But what, Bluebell? It’s not proper? That is true. In fact, a properly reared young girl would have run away squealing by now. She wouldn’t be standing bold as brass discussing things with me.”

She should run. She definitely should. Even she knew she was courting disaster by talking to him like this. If the vicar found out, she would be branded a whore and worse. But she could not make her feet move. And when she spoke, it was to challenge him. As if she had planned her defiance.

“You said ‘young girl.’ I’m four and twenty. What would a lady of my years do?”

“Well, she’d be already married and know exactly what to do with me. But she wouldn’t be waiting on the opposite bank.” He glided forward in the water, stepping into the sunshine where—if the angle were right—she would see so much more. But it wasn’t right, and she was looking into his eyes.

He’d know if she looked lower, damn it.

And yet, she still tried to sneak a peek.

“Shall I stand up?”

“No.” Not yet.

“Are you sure? Those are lessons I would be more than happy to teach you. No one expects a girl of your years—reared in the country—to be ignorant of these things.”

“Yes, they do!” she snapped. The vicar had spoken oftentimes of the sins of relations outside of marriage. And if she’d missed it in church, he had come to talk to her often enough as she aged.

“A lady is expected to be a virgin, Bluebell,” he said, his tone laced with humor. And temptation. “There is much that I could teach you that wouldn’t change that.”

She thought about it. She didn’t want to, but she couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to finally learn these things. She knew married girls whispered together. She knew that people found something so enjoyable that all the bellowing from the pulpit meant nothing. A little peek wouldn’t hurt. A tiny peek…

“I’m standing up now, Bluebell.”

But to see, she’d have to give up her dream of being a lady. Even she knew that a lady never looked at what he was going to show her. Never saw until she was safely wed.

“No!” she cried. And then she ran.

But not before he’d risen like a god before her. And she’d seen everything.