Page 27

Twenty-Six

KILMARNOCK ABBEY, EDINBURGH - JULY 16, 1816

Alexander Hasket,

Gloomy weather has my spirits low, but your kind letter brightened my day. I can feel the brotherly affection pouring from your words.

In order for me to inform Celine of my punishment, she would need to leave her boudoir. As far as I can tell, the newlyweds have not yet surfaced for air.

Now you’re to wed a ceasg according to Mother. Apparently it is some sort of half-fish, half-human creature. I’m not entirely clear on how it differs from the kelpie. I assured her that your children would be no more hideous with a ceasg wife than a human wife, and she calmed right down. I also reminded her that the last human woman you tried to court had her father arrested rather than wed you. She agreed that if the ceasg would have you, it was for the best. She does long for grandchildren, after all.

Best wishes,

Davina

P.S. I asked a friend of mine with some familiarity with sheep. Apparently they come by their jumping skills quite naturally.

XANDER

Tom sent Lock and Godfrey to town for whatever timber and building materials could be scrounged up before braving the shed. After, of course, shucking his coat and rolling up his sleeves in a way that truly ought not be quite as appealing as it was.

Unwilling to risk the infested hellscape a second time, I waited outside offering helpful encouragement. He was taller than me—at even greater risk of spider attack—but he merely ducked under the doorway before setting a lantern on the floor of the shed and taking inventory of the supplies.

“Was that skittering? I thought I heard skittering.”

“Probably a mouse—there are almost certainly mice in here,” he said, running a hand through his messy curls with no real concern.

“Are you sure you want to be in there?”

He turned to face me, his smile light and easy. “It’s fine. I’m a fair sight bigger than a mouse. And I hate to be the one to tell you this, but there are almost certainly mice in your doorless house as well.”

Oh, good Lord, I hadn’t considered that and now that I had, I wanted to cry. “There aren’t rats—surely?”

“And bats. Snakes as well—we should probably ask Lock if there are any we should worry about.”

My whimper was masculine and impressive. Tom’s smile was bright and teasing.

He stepped out of the shed and caught my hand in his. “I’ll protect you,” he whispered, dipping his forehead to press against mine before stepping back into the shed. The display had no reason to affect me the way it did, but I was forced to bite back another whimper for an entirely different reason.

Quietly, he took stock of the equipment before pulling several different saws—or saw-like things—off one wall and setting them on the grass in front of the shed. He forged back inside and brought out a long T-shaped pole with some sort of cylindrical metal bit at one end. Its purpose was a mystery to me, but it, too, was set on the grass.

Seemingly satisfied with his collection, he grabbed the lantern off the floor, blew it out, and returned to my side. He dropped that beside his tools and ran a hand through his hair before brushing off his shoulders.

There was a cobweb in the crook of his neck that he missed. Summoning all the bravery I possessed, I brushed it away with the back of my hand, the other hand mimicking the effort on the opposite shoulder for no real reason other than the pleasure of an excuse to touch him. Of their own volition, my hands slid down his shoulders to his chest. Tom’s eyes slid closed, savoring, before they fluttered open again—darkened.

His hands caught mine, trapping them against his chest. “Do you want a sheepfold built? Because that is not how you get a sheepfold built.”

“What is a sheepfold?”

“Small paddock, but for sheep. They’re usually made of stone, but that would take longer and require materials we don’t have.”

“How do you know that?”

“Michael. He’d take me sometimes, when he visited with tenants.”

“And you know how to make a sheepfold?”

“No, but I can hazard a guess.”

I nodded toward his collection of tools. “You know what all of those things are? How to use them?”

He shrugged. “More or less.”

“Even that one?” I nudged the mysterious T-shaped tool with my toe.

“Postholer—for holing posts.”

“Holing posts?”

His chuckle was soft and teasing, not a cruel note to be found. “Digging holes for posts. Now, we need to see if there are any downed trees—we’ll need timber.”

“I thought you sent Lock for some.”

“I did—but we’re going to need quite a bit. And we might as well use what you already have.”

“But…”

“Xander, come for a walk in the forest with me.” His voice was low and soft, and my body reacted before my head—with a tightening in my breeches and a flutter in my belly.

“Right, yes. Yes.” My nod was too enthusiastic, but he didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he slung one axe over his shoulder before guiding me with a hand on the small of my back over to the small copse of trees lining the pond.

Tom Grayson was a tease.

A tease that was forcing me to carry half of a massive tree. If I was being honest, massive was an overstatement. But still—an entire tree—third of a tree—he’d cut it down into smaller pieces first. But basically a tree. While it wasn’t terribly heavy, it was sticky with sap. The sensation left my skin crawling as I trailed Tom out of the wooded area.

The unpleasantness of the tacky, viscous goo on my hands nearly outweighed the delightful view of Tom’s shoulders straining to carry the tree and the play of the muscles in his bottom as he navigated the terrain. And it was a lovely bottom, firm and round and worthy of admiration—or it would have been if he weren’t responsible for the gluey gelatinous substance all over my hands and waistcoat.

Godfrey would have a fit. Rightfully so.

Once freed of the woodland copse, Tom picked up speed, leaving me to stumble after him. He must have sensed my struggle because he turned and caught my gaze before slowing again.

“Sorry!” he called back.

“You should be!”

“I know, I know. It’s covered in sap. And sap is sticky.”

“I don’t like sticky things.”

“So you’ve said.”

The words were a familiar reproach. I was whining. He was doing me a favor and I was being difficult and demanding. Ungrateful. Too much. I’d heard all of those things before. While I couldn’t hear the admonishing note in his voice, an apology was due.

“I apologize. I’m being rude.”

Tom’s stop was sudden, jarring. Gently, he set his half of the tree down, and came to my side. His eyes were wide—concerned. “You don’t need to apologize. It is sticky. I don’t like it either.”

“Yes, but you’re helping. You don’t need a litany of complaints while you do.”

“What is this about?”

My head hinged back toward the sky, it was lighter, with more grey than his eyes. “I’ve been told I can be a little… peevish.”

“I know. I like it. I like knowing what is upsetting you—so I can fix it. Or try to, I suppose. I cannot fix everything, of course. And I do need your help to carry the wood. But I like knowing what is bothering you. I’m a second son. I’ve been idle most of my life. It feels good to have a purpose—an easily identifiable problem to solve. Your problems specifically.”

“But—”

“And I hate guessing. Michael and Hugh have been butting heads my entire life. I’ve spent years guessing what was upsetting one or the other and trying to smooth it over. I may be good at it, but it’s exhausting, constantly searching for pitfalls, trying to keep myself and everyone else out of them. And most of their problems would be solved by simply talking to each other. But instead, they get in a snit and stop speaking entirely.”

“You don’t feel I’m ungrateful?”

“Oh, you very much are.”

My heart twisted painfully in my chest. “But…”

“But you also feel right in a way that nothing else ever has. I don’t want gratitude. I want you, complaints and all.”

What could I do in the face of such words besides toss my half of the tree to the side and pull his lips down to mine?

His smile tasted like hope, even as his surely sap-covered hands found my waist.

Too soon, he pulled away, glancing behind for observers. Finding none, he dropped one last kiss to my forehead before nodding to the tree. “Come on, if we’re going to have a place to keep Fenella before next year, we need to get to work.”

He strode back to the other end of the log and picked it up. From behind, I caught sight of the place where my sappy hands had found their way into his curls, leaving behind bits of goo.

Served him right for starting such things with no intent to finish them.