The Fifth Wife

by Sahara Kelly

  He could see the sheep quite clearly, since it was fussing and trying to extricate itself from a large bramble bush at the edge of the water. Wool and thorns were a bad combination, and Charles knew it would be a difficult task. He was grateful he’d brought his dagger, because right now it would help him free the tangled mess of wool from the brambles.

  He approached the sheep with slow caution, murmuring nonsense words in the hopes of calming the poor creature’s struggles.

  It worked to a certain extent, as the sheep’s wide and frightened eyes fixed on him. It bleated still, but hesitantly, and then stopped as he managed to extract his dagger from his sock and begin lopping away chunks of wool.

  Which, he quickly realized, was satisfactory for the sheep, but not so for him. Wet clothing seemed to attract fleece and it wasn’t long before he wondered who had more fluff on them, him or the poor animal he was supposed to be freeing.

  But finally, after spitting out what felt like an entire dinner’s worth of grubby wool, Charles stood back and considered his mission a success.

  The sheep was moving carefully away from the brambles, looking rather disheveled, but happy to be unencumbered by thorns.

  In gratitude, it lowered its head and butted Charles. Hard.

  Straight into the stream.

  His arms flailed as he flew backward and he braced himself for the impact. It was, as expected, ice cold and wet. But the water cushioned the shock and after a quick dunking he shot up to his knees and then his feet. The stream was barely thigh high on him, which was a mercy indeed.

  The temperature wasn’t, and the shivers set in very rapidly as his saturated clothing finally gave up the ghost and the water made it to his skin.

  “Fuck.” He spat the words at the sheep. “You damned…”

  He sloshed from the stream, slipping on the muddy bank, cursing some more, and generally about as furious as a soaking wet man in a snowstorm can be. Hannibal looked down his elegant nose at his master and snorted.

  “Yes, you can laugh. Stand still, for God’s sake.”

  He shivered again. The sheep bleated. “If you’re laughing at me, I swear you’ll be on the dinner table before nightfall.”

  The sheep fell silent.

  Charles thought for a moment and stared at the sheep. It stared back, then moved away as Charles approached it. “You have to be good for something. I’m cold. You have wool. Not a lot left, but enough.”

  He grabbed the creature by the shoulders, threw it over Hannibal, and managed to mount. Once in the saddle and with his boots in the stirrups, he slid the sheep down over the horse and in front of him, close enough that its warmth spread to his sodden coat. It didn’t help at all, but at least it stopped him from chilling much more.

  Not that it would be possible to be much colder. He turned the horse toward the path leading to the barn and they walked slowly through the heavy snow and over the uneven ground.

  God forbid Hannibal should stumble; Charles wasn’t sure he could manage a yell for help if they all ended up in a heap thanks to a rabbit hole. But the sturdy hooves prevailed and they successfully made it to the first field, where Hannah had turned and was trotting up.

  “Good lord. You were supposed to rescue the bloody thing, not give it a bath and a haircut.”

  It was one of those rare moments Charles had read about. A time when one opens one’s mouth and no words come out. He simply shook what felt like a foot of snow off his head, grabbed his sheep even closer, and rode past Hannah with a look that should have seared her into a small greasy spot.

  “Oh come on, Charles. It was a jest. You’re wet and miserable, and your poor friend there isn’t the prettiest sheep on the farm…”

  “Did you giggle?” He flashed her a glare over his shoulder. “If you giggled, I swear to God that when I have handed over this annoying lump of mutton, I’m finding you and putting you over my knee.”

  “Pooh.” She rode up next to him. “You are shivering. Did you fall into the stream?”

  “I see your skills of observation match your sense of humor.” He looked straight ahead, steering Hannibal toward the Cheshams. “Yes, I fell in the stream. This damned beast knocked me over.”

  The silence that greeted this statement was deafening, and finally Charles gave up. “Oh go ahead. Laugh. Get it out, girl.”

  She was still silent for a few moments. Then she spoke in a flat tone. “I apologize. For the jests and for the improper use of your first name, my Lord.”

  He sighed. “Look, Charles will do quite well, so don’t consider it improper. A better apology would be if you could promise me a hot bath, but I doubt that’s available at the Sow’s Ear. So if there is a kettle going when we get back, I will put my name on it. The second will go toward the tea. Understood?”

  “Yes sir.” She rode off.

  Charles shivered again and looked down at the now miserable animal wriggling in front of him. “Hold on. We’ll have you down with your friends in a minute or two.” The Cheshams waved and he waved back. Hannah was speaking to them and ignored him. “She remembered who I was, didn’t she? Pity. I suppose I’ll have to have that talk with her.”

  The sheep turned its head and glanced at him.

  Charles knew sarcasm when he saw it. “What the hell do you know? You’re just a sheep with a terrible haircut, and I’ve learned today that shepherding in the snow isn’t fun. Plus I will never be hired for my sheep-shearing skills.”

  Finally the Cheshams pulled the animal down and let him scamper into the warmth of the barn and the welcome bleatings of his friends.

  “Thank ye, sir. Ye’ve done more ‘n anyone else could’ve. In yer debt, we are.”

  “Don’t mention it. Happy to help. Right now I’m off back to the Sow’s Ear. Is everything all right?”

  “Indeed sir, thanks to all o’ye. Miss Hannah’s just ahead o’ye, sir. Follow her tracks up the lane.” Both men touched their caps and turned to secure the barn.

  Charles swore he could hear a specific bleat—the one from his little rumpled friend.

  And cold and wet though he was, he smiled through his shivers. Yes, he had probably saved a little life this afternoon. Which wasn’t a trivial matter.

  He smiled as he shuddered and urged Hannibal into a slow trot. The lane was snow covered but a lot safer than that damn field.

  It had been an exhausting adventure and he was frozen to the bone. But even more chilling was the thought of the conversation he was going to have to have very shortly with Hannah.

  *~~*~~*

  She was happy to see the large fireplace filled with a cheerful blaze when she pushed her way back into the welcome warmth of the Sow’s Ear. Martin hadn’t been there long, but he’d done a sterling job of producing heat.

  Hurrying to the hearth, Hannah took full advantage of it, peeling off the icy cold cloak and spreading it out over a couple of chairs. Then she pulled a couple more out, knowing Charles would need them.

  “All right then, girl?” Martin called from behind the bar where he was busying himself with something hot and fragrant.

  “Yes indeed. Chesham sheep all safe and sound.” She managed to unwrap most of the thick outerwear she’d squeezed herself into, and was very glad that it had kept her dress dry. She had extra petticoats beneath and they too had kept the cold at bay. But her feet were icy and she stamped them as she dealt with her clothing.

  Since the fireplace was several hundred years old, there was a chain and pivoting arm built into the brick, meant to facilitate the production of stews, oatmeal and anything else that could cook over a good fire. Now it held a huge kettle of water and she swung it into the fireplace, positioning it over the flames. It would heat up quickly given the heat beneath.

  At least one thing would make Charles happy.

  It was strange how easily she had come to think of him as “Charles” rather than Lord Penvale. Even now, mere hours after meeting him and learning of his identity, he was Charles. Not Mr. Fontaine or his
Lordship—just Charles.

  She frowned as she sat and pulled off her thick boots. What was it about him that permitted such familiarity? She admitted to herself it caught her a little off guard, that air of charming friendliness. There was nothing haughty about him and he was quite at home leaning on the bar watching Martin go about his humble business.

  And yet this was Lord Penvale. The man she was contracted to wed.

  A small shiver, that had nothing to do with the cold, coursed up her spine. He was strong, without question. He’d picked up that sheep and managed to get it across his horse. It took quite a bit of muscle to complete that maneuver successfully.

  His broad shoulders must have helped with that task. And he rode with the ease of someone who loved it, not a man more used to a sedate trot in Hyde Park.

  She sighed. There was something amiss with all this. She was confused, puzzled and a little apprehensive. What would he say? How would he act now that their identities were laid bare? Who the hell was this man?

  And could she run the risk of trying to find out? Because a little voice in her head was whispering that getting too close to Charles Fontaine, and his sky blue eyes, might prove dangerous in far too many interesting ways.

  There was a clatter outside and then the door opened, admitting a blast of cold snowflake-filled air, and the man himself.

  He slammed the door and leaned against it for a moment.

  She realized he was dangerously cold. The wet clothing, the ride in the wind and snow…and now his face was pale where it should have been red.

  “Damn it. Come here. You have to get warm.”

  She hurried to him and half-dragged him to the fire, pulling at his clothes.

  “C-c-c-cold.” His teeth chattered. “So cold…”

  “I know. You have to get out of these wet clothes. They’re sucking all the heat from your body.” She unwrapped his cloak and flung it to one side, then ripped the thick muffler from around his neck and ears. It was sodden and fell to the floor with a slap.

  “Urgh.” He shook, a whole body shiver that scared her.

  His fingers fumbled at his coat buttons and she pushed them aside. “Let me, Charles. Just let me do this.”

  She had him standing in front of the fire, so that the heat could warm his back and legs, which must have helped a little. “My arse is cooking.”

  “Good. Let me know when it’s well done.” She busied herself extricating him from the snug fitting sleeves.

  Martin came up to her side. “Let me take over, Hannah. I got an old robe he can use. You go on up and light the fire in his room. Warm the sheets if you got the bed warmer up there. We gotta get him dry and that means I’ll have to strip him. Best you be elsewhere.”

  “You’ll spread out his cloak?” She glanced at Martin. “’T’is rich fabric, Martin. This is him. I was right.”

  “I guessed as much when you came in a’fore him.” The old man nodded, ignoring the shivering aristocrat he was presently stripping. “Go. I’ll take care of things here.”

  Since Charles’s shirt was about to come off, she knew she had to leave. But damn, she didn’t want to.

  “G-g-go, Hannah. We need to t-t-talk, but I have to get warm f-f-f-first.”

  Martin’s hands dropped to the fastening of Charles’s breeches. “Well, girl? You stayin’ to see the sights?”

  Hannah fled.

  Chapter Five

  Charles couldn’t remember ever being this cold.

  His bones ached with it, he’d pretty much lost feeling in his fingers and toes and he wondered if he’d gone and done himself serious injury.

  Martin was not tender in his ministrations, either. The towel was rough, but blissfully warm, since it had been heating on the back of a chair while Charles’s clothes came off.

  He wished he could have teased Hannah a little, but for once he passed on that opportunity. He just couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering.

  “Yer gonna be fine, lad. Jes’ need some warmth in yer.”

  Martin toweled his head with enthusiasm, making Charles’s eyes roll. He grabbed a chair to hold himself upright. “Easy man. I need both those ears.”

  A rough chuckle greeted his words. “There now. Keep doing this and the feelin’ will be back in yer toes in no time. I’ll fetch that old robe. Mice have had some of it, but I reckon there’ll be enough left to wrap yer up like a coddled baby.”

  Coddling sounded wonderful to the chilled ears, so Charles did as he was bid, rubbing awkwardly around his neck and shoulders, and turning to that heavenly blaze to roast himself from forehead to shins.

  The pins and needles in his toes let him know that he was returning to some form of normalcy, and they hurt like hell. His face was starting to burn a little as well. It had been some time since he’d ridden into the teeth of a snowstorm. He’d become weak, it would seem.

  He sighed.

  “Here.” A large lump of flannel was thrust at him. “Wrap yersel.”

  “Thank you.” Charles fumbled his way into a garment that must have been made for a giant. And at a time when they roamed the land, by the smell of it.

  “Bit musty, and the cat had kittens in a pocket last year after chasin’ off the mice, but I got nuthin’ else near yer size. Big men in yer family, then?”

  “Viking ancestors, I’m told.” He managed to avoid putting a hand in any of the pockets, afraid there might be a kitten or two left behind.

  “Ah. That’ll be the thing then, won’t it?”

  “Will it?” Charles pulled a chair near the fire, sat down and proceeded to toast his feet.

  “Yer Lord Penvale. The Lord what’s supposed to marry Hannah then.”

  “That’ll be me. Yes. But as to marrying Hannah—that’s yet to be decided.”

  Martin frowned. “She’s a fine lass. Yer’ll not do better lookin’ at some o’them Lunnon wimmen.”

  “I’m sure she’s as fine a lass as there is, Martin. I don’t doubt it. But since we’ve known each other for almost a day, I can’t say I’m ready to ask her to be my wife. Sheep herding adventures notwithstanding.”

  “Yer not gonna take her away then?”

  Charles was sympathetic. He could clearly see the affection between Hannah and the old man, and understood Martin’s anxiety, well-hidden though it was.

  “My only plan at the moment is to thaw out, have something hot to eat and drink, and then sleep under about twelve blankets for the same number of hours.” He grinned. “After that I should have my wits back in working order and will be able to make sensible and practical decisions.” He blinked. “Dear God. I sound like the vicar. Ignore that. Perhaps I shall make irresponsible and absurd decisions as well.”

  Martin sighed, went behind the bar and returned with a glass. “Yer better have this. Yer talkin’ like the village idiot.”

  Charles sniffed the rich and smooth bouquet of a fine brandy. He smiled appreciatively. “I like you, Martin.”

  “Thought yer would.” He snickered. “Now get yersel’ upstairs when yer ready. Hannah’ll have a fire goin’ and the bed warm.”

  Charles nodded. “I will.”

  “And mind me, now, lad. Yer’ll be the only one warmin’ that bed tonight.”

  “Understood. Never fear, Martin. I am not one of those gentlemen.” He looked the old man straight in the eye. “I’ve always believed it takes two to make that kind of choice.”

  “Right then.” The old man’s shoulders eased. “I’ll be heating up food in a bit, and I’ll bring up hot water. Yer’ll want to wash perhaps.”

  “I can take it up with me. No need for you to put yourself out. Go put dry clothes on, Martin. You’re still damp, man. If you get a chill, I’ll never hear the end of it from Miss Hannah.”

  “That’s a fact.”

  He left Charles to his own devices by the hearth. Which was just fine, since it gave him chance to savor the brandy, the fire and the lassitude that was now sweeping through him.

  The conversation had sti
mulated Charles’s brain, however, and he found himself staring into the flames and wondering what the hell he should do about Hannah and the blasted Penvale heritage.

  It certainly wasn’t what either of them wished for. At least he didn’t think so. She was attractive, seemed intelligent and had a quick wit that appealed to him. She was also twenty-three and unwed, which was unusual. One could imagine that perhaps she didn’t want him, but since she’d never met him until today, that had to be unlikely.

  Perhaps her affections were pledged elsewhere. That sounded far more possible, and he determined that was one of the questions he would ask her when they next spoke.

  Draining his brandy, and happy to feel sensation when he wiggled his toes, he deduced the time had come for him to retire to his chamber. He remembered to pour himself a bucket of piping hot water, and—wrapping the robe tightly around himself—walked carefully up the stairs and along the corridor to his door.

  She was awaiting his arrival.

  Seated on a low stool by the fireplace which, he noted, was a lot smaller than the one downstairs, she had changed into a thick dress and what he guessed were knitted socks. They looked warm. She was wrapped in a shawl of many different colors and her hair was tousled, with curls flying around all over the place.

  A surge of desire swept over him as she looked up and smiled. “I think you’ll probably roast in here tonight, but I’m sure it’s better than freezing.”

  Her eyes gleamed and the smattering of freckles across her cheeks caught the candlelight like tiny stars dancing on her skin.

  “What?” Her expression turned wary as he continued to stare. “I have soot on my nose?”

  “Your nose is perfect.” He snapped out of his trance. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to be rude. I wasn’t expecting you to be here.”

  “I wanted to make sure you had everything you need. I see you bought hot water. There’s a ewer over there. I’m sure Martin has some of his stew going so there’ll be food too.”

  “He mentioned that, yes.” He couldn’t stop looking at her for some reason. She seemed almost unreal in the flickering light of the fire.