Dagonet wrapped the end of the rope around one hand.
“Not simply sheep, Captain. What you see there is all of a man’s livelihood and his accumulated wealth. Westcott took the blue ribbon in Minehead with that noble ram you see mired in the slough. Anyway, he was good to me as a boy.”
Morris hung onto his arm. “Then let me go in with you! Two men can halve the time and the danger.”
“Your life is too valuable to someone else to risk, my friend,” Dagonet replied with a tilt of his head to where Amelia was now struggling down the hill toward them. “It’s no longer yours to gamble with. Mine has no such value, alas; least of all to me. Besides, think how happy it would make George if I should lose it!”
With that, in one neat movement he had shaken off the restraining hand and dropped over the edge into the pit. As soon as he hit the swirling water, he made a dive for the closest animal. The sheep, their fleeces sodden, lashed out with panicked hooves and dangerously curled spikes. Undeterred, Dagonet made a loop in his rope and cast it about the horns of the nearest ewe.
“Haul!” he cried.
Morris was already at the rope. The farmer and the boy caught it behind him. With a resounding plop, they pulled the first sheep free and dragged it up over the rim. Once it was safely at the top, Morris released it and threw the rope back down to Dagonet, swimming below. Confused, the ewe ran about helplessly before obeying the call of her fellows, bellowing beneath her. She tottered for an instant on the brink, then attempted to plunge back into the pit to rejoin the flock.
Flinging herself full length on the turf, Catherine caught the sheep by the hind leg. It kicked out violently, threatening to pull her into the pool. She yanked with all her strength, spinning the ewe away from the edge. No one could let go of the rope, but Westcott whistled. A black-and-white blur dashed at the ewe’s heels, instantly herding the recalcitrant animal into the makeshift pen in the ruin. Both dogs then lay on guard. Though the lone sheep cried piteously, it could not escape.
Amelia ran up to join Catherine at the edge of the crater. Dagonet was barely recognizable for the mud that covered him as he swam. Several fighting sheep struck at him with their horns or feet, attempting to drown their rescuer in their desperation, but sheep after sheep was caught and rescued. Between animals, he was laughing.
“I can’t bear it!” Amelia’s eyes filled with tears. “The pit may collapse at any minute. Mr. de Dagonet is a gentleman, not a farmer. How can he risk himself like this?”
Her only reply was a sonorous quotation. “O fortunatos nimium sua si bona norint agricolas!”
Amelia’s Latin was not quite up to that. She turned to her sister.
“Oh, most happy husbandmen,” translated Catherine feverishly as she fought with another ewe, “if only they knew their own blessings!” She wiped her forehead with the back of one hand. “Amy, go and help the dogs! You don’t need to watch this.” Then she laughed. “How can he think of such ridiculous things?”
“That’s the lad!” Farmer Westcott shouted down into the water. “It’s a good life, right enough!”
The mood changed, the danger was forgotten, and they all worked away with renewed vigor. Only now that the group of saved sheep was large enough to form a little flock of their own were they remaining meekly in the ruins and not attempting to return to their deaths. Amelia had dutifully returned there to stand guard over the crude barrier in the walls, so she had dirtied her hands but little else. Catherine, from grappling with each sheep until a dog could get at its heels, felt desperately breathless and bedraggled. She was liberally splattered with grime, and the front of her muslin was wet with mud.
Dagonet, however, seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of both breath and apt quotations, which Morris and Catherine occasionally returned. Farmer Westcott, not understanding a word of the gentlefolk’s Latin and even less of their French, worked happily on, and the boy, who had been grimly biting his lip, had instead begun to laugh as he worked, just from the merriment of their tone.
It was almost over. Most of the ewes had been rescued, so the dogs needed no more help. While the men and the boy hauled at the rope, Catherine and Amelia were at last able to take a breath and just watch.
Dagonet was wrestling with the prize ram when disaster struck. A huge chunk of turf, carrying soil and rock, broke loose from the edge. There was a roar like the crash of a wave on a headland. The remaining ewes, the prize ram, and Charles de Dagonet, all disappeared into the soup of mud and plants as the shaft beneath broke open to swallow them. The merry mood evaporated instantly.
“Good God! Dagonet!” Morris made as if to leap after the other man, but Amelia grabbed onto his arm.
“The rope, Captain!” Catherine shouted. “Haul up the rope! Amelia Hunter, let go of him, come here, and help us!”
The sisters grabbed the rope behind the men. The lower end had disappeared beneath the roiling surface of the slime, but as they all pulled together, the ram’s head — eyes sealed over, but mouth like a red gash as it bellowed — rose into view.
“Dang me if he hasn’t got my ram saved!” the farmer exclaimed. “But twenty prize rams won’t make up for the loss of a lad like him.”
With another haul the ram’s body reached halfway up the slope, and then it could be seen that clinging to its belly was the lithe body of a man.
“Hang on, sir, for God’s sake!” Morris cried.
Catherine pulled desperately with the others, until both ram and rescuer were delivered over the rim onto the wet turf. At that instant the sheep kicked out viciously with its hind feet and caught Dagonet a solid blow to the temple. He sank insensible, the carved features obliterated by mud.
“Oh, please!” Amelia said, quite white. “Is he dead? I don’t think he’s breathing.”
There was a dreadful silence for a moment, then the carved lips smiled in their mask of grime. “Vivre ce n’est pas respirer, my dear Miss Amelia, c’est agir.”
“What, sir?” Farmer Westcott said. “Can’t ye speak English like a proper gentleman?”
Dagonet opened leaf-green eyes, filled with merriment. “Mr. Westcott, how very rude of me! My deepest apologies. Let me translate: life is not breathing, my dear sir, but doing.”
“If you continue to act the idiot, I shall knock you out!” Morris said with a huge grin.
Dagonet sat up. Her heart overflowing, Catherine spun away to moisten her pocket handkerchief in the clear water of the rivulet. She stared down at the burbling stream for a moment, then walked back to offer him the dampened cloth.
“Thank you, Miss Hunter, lady of infinite courage and good sense. I’m glad that someone keeps some proportion about this absurd little scene.”
He wiped both face and hands clean of mud, then stood to look over the edge of the pit. The water and the few remaining ewes had disappeared, leaving a gaping hole where the mine shaft had opened up like a malevolent eye.
“Like Odysseus, I am rescued from Cyclops on the belly of a ram,” he commented dryly and pulled on his boots. “Yet I am doomed once again to ride with wet feet. At least this time, before I plunged in, I first removed my footwear.” Only Catherine understood the reference, but she refused to meet his eye. The muddy square of linen was thrust into his pocket. He turned to her. “You are too generous, Miss Hunter, for I have ruined your pocket handkerchief.” Then he suddenly reached out a hand and pushed her tumbled hair off her face. “You could have used it first yourself, you know. Must we always meet when our clothes are so bedraggled?”
Catherine became instantly aware of how she must look. Her muslin was ruined, wet with mud, and clung most immodestly to her legs and breasts. Her hair had partly come down and though she had not realized it at the time, in pushing it back she had left a streak of dirt across her face, which she could feel now it was drying. It seemed infuriating that he should always see her at such a disadvantage.
Dagonet gently rubbed the mud from her cheek with his finger. “You can’t imagine how tempt
ing you look,” he said in a low tone. “Could we not retreat together into the ruins, for I would very much like to kiss you again.”
“How dare you!” She felt suddenly as if she might weep at any minute. “Can’t you be sensible even for a moment? You were almost killed.”
“So I was. That must account for my sudden amorous intent. I wish I could think that you would be sorry for my demise. Perhaps if I kiss you again very thoroughly you might be?”
“I shouldn’t be sorry if you were to drop dead this instant!”
“That would certainly save the virtue and reputation of innumerable young ladies, wouldn’t it?”
For an agonizing moment, she thought he was going to kiss her anyway. Instead, he stepped back and swept her a perfect bow before moving off to catch his horse. He swung himself easily into the saddle.
“I shall alert your estimable wife, Westcott, so she can send some men with a cart for Miss Hunter and Miss Amelia. Then Captain Morris may escort the ladies safely home, and you can run your flock through a stream before the mud dries and ruins your wool crop, after all.” The horse pranced under his practiced hand, as he laughed again. “You had better avoid the village, Captain. Miss Hunter’s dress will cause a scandal. Not all members of her father’s congregation will appreciate it as much as I.” And with a salute from his crop, Devil Dagonet galloped away.
“Well,” Catherine said furiously. “I suppose we must all be suitably impressed, but is he always so insufferable, I wonder?”
Chapter 7
That afternoon, bathed and in fresh dresses, the sisters sat together in the small vicarage garden.
“So, Cathy, you cannot now, surely, feel the same way about Dagonet? I never in my life saw anything so brave.”
“Nor so foolhardy! I’ll concede the bravery of what he did for Farmer Westcott, as I conceded his courage facing down Sir Henry over George’s rabbit traps, but it alters nothing in my view of the man. I think him an arrogant rogue. I almost feel that he rescued the sheep as much for his own perverted amusement and vanity as anything else.”
“Oh, however can you say so! That is too ungenerous.” Catherine’s reply was a sneeze. “Now do not say you are going to catch cold before the Montagu’s dance. You were all over wet and mud.”
Catherine’s laugh was a little bitter. “Yes, and my hair all to pieces and dirt on my cheek. I was certainly a figure of fun.”
Amelia looked at her sharply, but Catherine smiled and made an entirely different remark. She had seen herself in the hall mirror with dismay when she had come in. It was so grossly unfair. Even when coated in mud, Devil Dagonet had been anything but ridiculous. Every sinew of his body was like steel, and he had subdued the sheep with an enviable economy of motion controlled by an implacable will, all the while keeping up a stream of inane wit to prevent the rest of them panicking. She, on the other hand, had felt very much like a drowned rat, and she blushed to think how much of her figure had been revealed yet again by the wet muslin of her dress. She would, just once, like him to see her in silk and diamonds.
“It can’t matter how we looked, Cathy,” Amelia said gently. “We shall make up for it with a dazzling display at the Lion Court ball.”
“You may, Amy, but not I.”
“Whyever not?”
Catherine was instantly restored to all her good humor. “It’s too absurd, but Mrs. Clay does not find it suitable that I attend, and has overridden Lady Montagu on the issue. I am, after all, the paid companion. It would offend the shade of the late Mr. Clay. I may watch from the minstrel’s gallery as if I still wore my hair down, but I do not take part in the revelry.”
“But that’s so unfair! You love to dance, and, who knows, you night meet some eligible gentleman there.”
At which, Catherine finally gave way to peals of heartfelt laughter. “Dear sister, I have compiled the guest list and sent out the invitations myself. There is to be no one there in whom I could have the slightest interest, only all our old neighbors, including the dreadful Mr. Crucible. No, in truth, it’s a relief to me not to have to attend. And with so many people in the house, we shall surely be safe from the unwelcome visits of Charles de Dagonet. No mysterious stranger will turn up and ask me to dance. Instead, I intend to have a perfectly peaceful evening.”
Catherine did for a while watch the arriving guests from the minstrel’s gallery at Lion Court. Without question, Amelia was the loveliest young lady at the dance. She was dressed simply, in white and amber, but her features were lit with excitement and her burnished hair shone like a lamp. Captain Morris, resplendent in his regimentals, was instantly at her side. After watching them go in together, Catherine moved away to return to her own room. What she had told Amy concerning the guest list was true. She had found herself pulling back behind the cover of a pillar as Mr. Crucible minced into the hall. But she did love to dance and had no wish to subject herself to watching all the other young people of the neighborhood disporting themselves when she could not join in.
The gallery backed onto the library, where the little balcony led to Charles de Dagonet’s old room. It occurred to her that she could watch the carriages arrive from the curved windows, and admire the horses instead of the occupants. Her feet ran lightly up the stairs and she quietly turned the handle and went in. Instantly, strong hands seized her from behind and spun her around to face her attacker. Her heart leapt to her throat.
“Miss Hunter?” Dagonet said. “Is it your fate, do you suppose, to always discover me when I skulk like a thief in the night at my old home, or is it my fate that it should be you rather than George that does the discovering?”
Catherine stood helpless in his grip. The soft evening light shone across his dark hair and struck fire in the depths of his eyes. Simple buckskin breeches stretched across his lean thighs. His coat was carelessly unbuttoned. His shirt lay open at the neck. Drums began to pound in her breast as the strangest sensations spread warmth throughout her body.
His gaze swept over her. “How fortunate that’s it’s you, Kate,” he continued gently, “or I shouldn’t be able to do this.”
And drawing her into his arms he began to kiss her.
Her pulse quickened as she felt herself respond. Did he mean only to charm her, disarm her a little, perhaps? Did he need an ally in the household so badly? Did he think he could seduce her to his cause simply by using his skill and his beauty? He certainly couldn’t want her raising the alarm. So he kissed her and reduced her knees to water, while any determination to resist him took flight like so many bright birds.
Alas, alas, no doubt he was using her!
Catherine knew all of that, yet as she felt his lips move over hers, she forgot all caution and opened her mouth willingly to his questing tongue.
In an instant, he became more demanding, insisting on an even deeper response. His hands drew her closer, supporting her as she softened. Catherine caught fire. Sweet sensations coursed through her body, fluttering in the pit of her stomach and filling her with desire. Her tongue caressed his. She wanted to know every corner of his mouth. As his beautiful fingers moved over her neck and back, she longed for them to explore every part of her. Tentatively she ran her hands under his coat against his shirt. The muscles beneath the soft fabric were firm and hard. Then, discovering where the shirt lay open at the neck, she felt the smooth skin of his chest. With a gasp he broke away.
“Good God, sweet Kate!” He dropped onto the window seat, breathing hard, then threw back his head and laughed a little unsteadily. “I deserve any punishment you can suggest! I never meant . . . no, I meant every bit of it, but I had no right . . . Oh, damn it all to hell!”
Catherine steadied herself against the wall. It took all her will power to reply calmly. “Your cousin intends to drive you from here with horsewhips, sir, should you be discovered. Will that do?”
Dagonet laughed. “He has already tried that with sad results. No, I think he might indulge a stronger dissuasion the next time.”
; “If you will insist on breaking into the house and stealing the jewelry, you can’t expect a civil welcome.”
“And if I kiss his mother’s companion?” He caught her hand and pulled her down beside him.
“You only confirm your reputation, sir.” She was fighting to steady her breathing. “How did you get in? The house is full of guests for the ball.”
“Why, someone had thoughtfully left open a casement. I came across the roof as I did many times as a boy when locked in here by my uncle, the estimable Sir Henry. I used to escape his kind ministrations and take refuge with old Westcott. His wife would shower pity upon the poor orphan waif and feed me homemade scones and honey. I was never found out, you know. The practice in stealth and deception has stood me in good stead ever since in my disreputable career.”
“A career in thievery? Sir George Montagu could have called in the magistrates and watched you hang in Minehead.”
“But he did not. How curious!”
“He saves his mother further distress, sir: it’s quite simple.”
Dagonet turned to her, the emerald gaze faintly mocking. “Mea culpa! I had not actually intended to involve the ladies in that unpleasant little scene, Kate, and certainly not you. Your father was once a great friend to me. I can only ask you to accept my apologies if you were made uncomfortable.”
“Made uncomfortable! You kissed me in front of them all. You took advantage of Sir George Montagu’s family pride to steal his valuables without repercussion. What did you do with the jewelry? Did you sell it?”
“Alas, my careless tongue! I rather lost my temper, I’m afraid.” He reached into his coat. “Here is the watch that I took from cousin George. Perhaps you would like to look at it?”
Catherine took the heavy gold watch with its single diamond, and turned it over in her hands. “I can see,” she said, “that it’s very valuable, and that you have not yet sold it. Does that excuse you?”
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