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Twenty-Seven

KILMARNOCK ABBEY, EDINBURGH - JULY 16, 1816

TOM

The sheepfold was coming along simultaneously better than I’d imagined but worse than I’d hoped. On the face of it, construction was going well. I’d managed to strip most of the bark using the blade knife with relatively few splinters, but my body was unused to such work and was quickly beginning to protest my efforts.

Xander was still gamely fretting beside me, trying his best to refrain from mentioning his sappy hands. He’d press them together occasionally before remembering the viscous goo and glaring down on them in irritation. It was clear he very much wanted to wash his hands—literally and figuratively—of this entire adventure. But he sat on the grass, occasionally peppering me with questions about various tools—most of which I only had vague ideas of how to answer.

My shoulders and back ached, and my breath was beginning to quicken with the efforts. Fenella better be appreciative of my assistance. The ewe had taken interest in my work, seeming to sense it was on her behalf. She watched with curious eyes, occasionally interjecting with a bleat or a quick bite of grass.

Tired of splinters, I abandoned the logs in favor of the postholer. It was simple enough—and I’d seen laborers use one for improvements to the paddock abutting Mother’s dower house. Fortunately, the ground seemed to be soft enough to work with but not soggy, which was likely best.

I rose, brushing off the grass stuck to my breeches—which then stuck to my hands—and held my hand out for Xander. He looked at it askance for a moment before remembering his own were equally tacky and allowing me to pull him up.

“Where do you want the sheepfold?”

“I don’t know, wherever they go.”

“Is there a flat area near the barn? That is probably best.”

He shook his head. “Too many hills.”

“Beside the shed then?” I knew that area well enough to know it was flat.

He nodded and shrugged. I took it to mean agreement—and, regardless, it would all be replaced in the near future anyway.

“Do you suppose we can keep it pretty small?”

“Yes, please.”

“Here abouts?” I asked when we were beside the shed.

“That will do.”

It was a good choice. The area allowed me to use one wall of the shed in place of fencing. “What do you think, girl?” I asked the sheep. “Can you make do with this?”

She offered a bleat that I took to be an affirmative.

With little ceremony, I decided to start beside the shed. I thrust the postholer into the damp ground with all my might before twisting it down. It went about six inches before I began to meet resistance. Again, better than I expected but worse than I hoped.

My struggle to bite back a very unattractive grunt failed as I turned it. I did not have a laborer’s build at the best of times and I’d spent the last weeks either in a carriage or in Kit’s office—neither of which improved my physical prowess.

“Is that very difficult?”

“Do you want to try?” I made sure to keep my tone light and teasing. It wasn’t a reproof and I didn’t wish for him to take it as such—and apparently he’d had more than a few in his life.

His revolted expression made his opinion on my offer exceptionally clear even before his, “Absolutely not.”

Xander was beautiful, and opinionated, and he spoke passionately about those opinions, his hands dancing in front of him in a way that left me breathless. I always knew when he had an opinion about something and what it was—except me.

At the very least, he wasn’t displeased that I was here. Whether he was as pleased to see me as I was him was anyone’s guess. Still, I was glad to find a way to make myself useful—a reason to remain here, with him.

That thought strengthened my resolve and I managed to twist the holer down another half foot. I pulled it out and the earth came with it—as it should. That was a relief.

I tried to remember fences I’d seen in the past and estimated the posts were about five feet apart and eyeballed the distance where another hole ought to go. This was not the right way to go about the work, I was all but certain of it. But the proper way to do it? I hadn’t any better notions.

The process was more easily repeated a second time once I knew what to expect, though the grunt was unavoidable.

“So, your letter…” Xander started, soft and tentative.

Damn. I’d begun to hope it hadn’t arrived yet, that it had been misdirected or waterlogged or burned.

“Didn’t mean to send it,” I replied, not meeting his eyes.

“How do you send a letter without meaning to?”

I couldn’t have kept the sigh inside if I’d tried. “Short version or long version?”

“I’ve nowhere else to be.”

“Right. I’d been… not well—since that night. A lot of drinking, very little bathing.” I felt the shame bubble up and I channeled it into turning the postholer deeper. “I don’t know precisely what Kate knows. But she was worried about me. She sent Kit to drag me out of the house. He decided I could be of use helping him clean up the offices after the fire. I—shouldn’t tell you this. Promise you won’t fire Will and Kit?”

“If I do, it will be because of the state of this house and not because of anything you did. But if I’m honest, he’s the only one who can manage Davina even a little, so I’m stuck with them both.”

“I found the address and might have… borrowed it.”

“Borrowed?”

“I had every intention of bringing it back. Eventually.”

“Of course,” he nodded with fake solemnity.

I braced myself against the postholer where it was buried in the earth. I would need its support. “So I borrowed the address and proceeded to get exceptionally drunk and write you a letter. I’m ashamed to say I only have the vaguest recollection of its contents. In my soused state, I probably did intend to send it, but the next morning, I forgot about it.”

“How did it arrive here then?”

“My maid has been out of town. Kate sent a few over to help. They saw it—addressed and ready to be sent—and very generously took care of that task for me.”

“Ah… So you didn’t mean it?”

There it was, my way out of this. But there was something in his eyes, the set of his mouth—no I couldn’t lie about this. “No, I very much did. I simply didn’t wish for you to read it.”

He was silent for so long that I moved on, measuring the next hole. My skin was itchy and uncomfortable and only some of it was due to sap and sweat.

At the same moment I thrust the tool into the ground, he said, “I’m glad you did.”

“I beg your pardon?” I shook loose curls out of my eyes to meet his.

“It was beautiful. Heartbreaking and wrong, of course. But beautiful.”

“What?”

“It was wrong. I’m not unaffected. It did… hurt me to leave you.”

“I... You… But…”

He pressed his lips together in that way he did when he was amused but trying not to show it as he halved the distance between us. Strong fingers found my own and pulled them off the pole to tangle together with only the slightest grimace at their sticky, dirty state. “I did notice—was flustered by you. Leaving you—for your own good, I might add—was painful. I was there—with you—experiencing all of those first flutterings of affection.”

“Oh…” It was utterly inane, but there was no word sufficient to express my awestruck adoration and joy—at least none I was in a state to name.

He pressed in closer, seeking a kiss—a gift I was all too happy to bestow. Just as I was to meet his lips, a whinny broke through the clearing. We sprang apart, Xander leaning down and snatching the nearby blade knife to inspect with absurd interest while I drove the postholer into the ground once again with newfound strength.

My heart was still pounding when Lock and Godfrey rounded the corner in a wagon loaded with timber.

“Ho!” Lock called as he bounded off the wagon. “Where do ye want this?”

“What is it?”

“Wych Elm.”

“I think the pine here is best for the sheepfold. Best to save that for inside. Do you know, is the door still intact and we just need to replace the hinges? Or do we need to construct an entire new one?”

“Hinges were rusted through. Picked up a few of those and other bits and bobs in town. Also talked to a few folks. Found a carpenter who is free. They’ll come by tomorrow,” Lock explained.

“Thank you.” My gratitude was sincere. I could probably manage the door but repairing the broken slats was beyond my knowledge—and masonry was well out of my grasp.

Xander was still staring at the blade knife in fascination while I dug another hole. It had me biting back a smile.

“Would you two see if there are sawhorses in the shed? I’d ask His Grace, but I suspect the effort would be traumatic.”

“Aye, I’ll look. Godfrey was to start on supper. Hopefully the lass has finished an inventory of the kitchens at least.”

They set off to their respective tasks while I nudged Xander with a shoulder, offering him a crooked smile. Though his lips remained twisted in a pout, he curled one up at the corner for a second to placate me.

I felt it, too, the lost moment. It hung there, waiting to be fulfilled—acted on. But we could not, an oppressive reminder that any future we could have would be peppered with unfulfilled moments, missing kisses, tempered conversations, and longing glances.

Lock grunted from inside the shed, before exiting with two sawhorses.

“All right then, lads. I best be off before my wife has a fit. The two of ye can manage yer log?”

“You have a wife?” Xander asked, all puzzlement.

“Aye.”

Xander’s expression was one of baffled silence. Eventually, he shrugged when Lock didn’t seem inclined to elaborate.

“If ye have problems with the sap, scotch will take it right off.”

Filled with relief, Xander started toward the house.

“Not so fast!” I called after him before turning to Lock. “Thank you. Will you be back tomorrow?”

“Aye.”

“Send my best to your wife.”

He merely nodded. In the meantime, Xander had frozen and pivoted back to face me. “We need to split the log—I’ll need your help. Best not to waste the scotch.

Broad shoulders slumped as Xander all but trudged back to my side. “Help me get it up and split and you can go wash the sap off.”

“Fine,” he muttered. I was fairly certain he was more distressed about the sap than our aborted kiss, and I tried not to take that personally.

In the end, we only got the timber on the sawhorses before light abandoned us. I tied Fenella up in the stables with little faith she would remain there until morning while Xander went to wash the sap off.

As I stepped in the house, it was clear Miss McAllen had done more work than I’d expected. The sheets were removed from furniture and several rooms had been dusted. The kitchen was warm and inviting and the shepherd’s pie smelled wonderful—especially given the limited resources.

Xander patted the seat beside him and across from the others at the table, then handed me a whiskey soaked rag as he took a swig directly from the bottle. “Didn’t have any scotch.”

“I don’t recall any instruction from Lock to drink it.”

“I’ve been sticky all day—that you thought I wouldn’t require a stiff drink is frankly astonishing.”

The rag made quick work of my tacky hands, and I used the opportunity to follow Xander’s lead with a drink of my own. That my lips touched the same bottle his had was a coincidence—it certainly wasn’t a thought that made my heart flutter like a lovestruck debutante.

The burn was pleasant and another sip quickly began to soothe my aching muscles. I was both exhausted, bone-deep, and on edge. Xander’s presence at my side was painfully difficult to remain nonchalant about. He smelled more like pine than usual but also retained that herbal edge. His warmth burrowed into the side of my body as he bickered, a rhythmic sniping in time with Miss McAllen.

I was too tired and too aware of him to contribute to the conversation. If I truly considered it, the shepherd’s pie was surely quite good, but I could taste nothing as I shoveled it down at an unreasonable pace. Presumably I was hungry, but I couldn’t feel that gnawing in my stomach. There was nothing, save the humming awareness of the man at my side.

As though it was possessed by someone, something else, my left hand found Xander’s knee of its own volition. He stiffened, tripping over his words for a second before I felt him forcibly relax and continue the conversation. The fabric under my fingers was a fine buckskin. Velvet softness over rigid muscle. The thought popped into my head unbidden and I couldn’t help but shift uncomfortably as it lingered there. Other, even more desirable, parts of Xander probably felt similar.

I let my fingers trace the seam lining the inside of his thigh and catch on lines and divots of firm, well trained muscle. He must ride—it was the only way a gentleman of his standing would have such thighs. What else did he enjoy that I hadn’t known about?

His swallow was loud—but it seemed I was the only one who noticed. A fork clattered to a plate seconds before a warm, masculine palm covered the back of my hand. I froze, making to pull away. Instead, that hand squeezed mine before pressing it more firmly into his thigh and dragging it upward.

My own breeches tightened uncomfortably, my heart racing, as I risked a glance. Xander’s jaw ticked, but otherwise he was unaffected.

And wasn’t that the way of things? I could barely breathe for wanting and he was not even ruffled. In irritation, I pulled my hand away—only for him to grab and tug it back—not to his thigh—no. Xander placed my palm directly over his prick where it tented his breeches.

My heart threatened to pound right out of my chest. He was hot—hotter even than his thigh. And so hard. I did that . I made him that way .

He squeezed my fingers in his once more, then shifted his hips to thrust against my hand before releasing me with a sly look.

At some point, he had bowed out of the conversation, and Miss McAllen and Godfrey had taken over, planning meals for the coming days.

In a desperate attempt toward equilibrium, I took another, heartier, swig of the whiskey before passing the bottle to Xander.

He chuckled quietly and took his own sip, before letting his hand fall between our stools and catch my fingers with his.

I must have flushed because Miss McAllen glanced at me curiously before asking, “Are ye well, Mr. Grayson?”

“I’m a bit tired. I should see about finding some bedding for the floor.”

“What?” Xander said at the same time that she replied, “Oh, no, I will go sleep in town.”

“Absolutely not,” he added, directing his comment to Miss McAllen. “You’re not going to run away, Sorcha.”

She huffed but said nothing. Clearly I was missing a part of the story, but I was too exhausted to care about piecing it together.

“One of the servants’ beds is still in good nick,” Godfrey nodded toward a closed door on one end of the room. “I will take that one.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly ask you to give up your bed. I’ll take it,” I insisted.

Godfrey looked like he planned to protest before Xander added, “It makes the most sense, Godfrey.” There was an eager note to his voice with an unknown source. He accompanied it with a finger squeeze for me to enjoy.

Eventually, the valet relented, slumping back against his stool and the conversation swirled around me.

I couldn’t recall a time I had ever been this exhausted or this content. Sleep had eluded me for most of the journey, which had been an irritant—under normal circumstances, I quite enjoyed allowing the swaying of the carriage to lull me to sleep. But from the moment I realized my letter had been sent, I’d been at least slightly on edge. Only once I arrived and assigned myself an occupation did I begin to relax. And that occupation left me aching in places I couldn’t even name.

With everyone else, I stumbled to my feet to wash the dishes before Godfrey showed me the servant’s room that was still standing.

It was small, but serviceable. Barely wide enough to walk beside the bed, but they had managed to cram a washstand and a trunk in there as well. The far wall was entirely taken up with a window, and I suspected the curtains had been taken down to cover some piece of furniture or other. If I wasn’t mistaken, it faced eastward as well—the sun would greet me first in the morning.

“Perfect,” I said. Godfrey eyed me warily but nodded.

Soon, everyone was readying for sleep, myself included. The room was warm enough with proximity to the stoves to be comfortable—though I imagined when the kitchens were running to serve an entire household it was probably stifling. The problem with the bed was immediately apparent. In truth, it was apparent before I ever tried to crawl in it. It was the same problem I had at more than one inn during my travels. I was a damn grasshopper and my legs were far too long.

Once I curled up on my side though, I was able to fit relatively comfortably, and I drifted off quickly.

But I woke with a start at the quiet knock on my door.