~~~~
He had not told her, of course.
Had not told her what he and the others who worked for Snelling would be doing for most of the morning in this barn floored with hay, its leather bags stuffed with sawdust swinging from ropes hung from the rafters. Had not told her because he'd known she'd be angry with him, and what with the way she'd been looking at him lately — her eyes soft and almost adoring — Gareth could not stand the thought of bringing on either her disapproval or ire.
Besides, she did not have to know. There was no need for her to know, really. It was simply a way to earn a living — more base than some, more noble than others — and wasn't an income all that mattered at this point?
Of course it was. For the first time in his life, he was actually earning money instead of having it handed to him for no other reason than the fact that his brother was one of the five wealthiest men in England. For the first time in his life — excepting his rescue of the stagecoach passengers and that of Juliet and Charlotte by way of a wedding ring — he actually felt good about himself. Proud of himself. He was not relying on someone else to support him. He was not searching for some new way to chase away the endless boredom of his life or making a spectacle of himself for the amusement of others or getting himself into trouble with the knowledge that Lucien would bail him out. With his own brain and hands, he was supporting his wife and his daughter — the two people he loved most in the world.
The two people he loved most in the world.
Ah, there was no question about that. He'd adored his little Charlie-girl from the moment he first met her and saw his brother's blue eyes peering up at him from beneath those thick de Montforte lashes. And as for Juliet, beautiful, dark-haired Juliet with the creamy-smooth skin and loving hands and long, luscious legs ...
He grinned like a fool. He was the luckiest man in England, and, by God, he wasn't going to jeopardize things by telling her what Snelling had really hired him to do!
With a cheerful farewell to the others, he left the barn bare-chested, his shirt slung over bulging shoulders that were still damp with sweat. His muscles tingled and sang after his vigorous exercise, and everything inside of him felt alive and eager and free. He knew he was walking with a bit of a swagger; he could not help it. He was on top of the world, and if he proved himself tonight, Snelling, the bastard, had promised to give him half of the proceeds the fight brought in.
'Sdeath, I just hope Lucien doesn't get wind of this.
That would be almost as bad as if Juliet found out. Eventually she would, of course — and possibly quite soon — but he would deal with that when it happened.
Aren't you afraid of the sort of reputation your fighting will bring down on your family, yourself, and Juliet?
No, no, and, of course, yes.
But he would deal with that later, too.
Through the trees, he could just see the pink brick of Swanthorpe Manor and, some distance beyond, the dower house itself. And there, off to his right, the cold waters of the Thames beckoned, swelling against its clay banks, glittering in the sunshine.
Gareth paused. The sun was warm on his bare shoulders; the river looked cool and smooth and inviting. And, 'sdeath, he couldn't go home looking — and smelling — as though he'd just spent a day laboring in the fields, now, could he?
She might know. She might ask. And he really didn't want to lie to her. He had misled her a little, yes — but he wouldn't actually lie to her.
Whistling happily, Gareth turned and strode back across the meadow, heading away from the houses and toward the riverbank. Around him, wild dog rose was still in bloom. Buttercups, dandelions, and daisies sprang up in the grasses through which he strode, and sunshine turned the ivy that hugged the trees to a brilliant, shining green. He felt happy to be alive. Happy with his lot in life. As he neared the Mill Stream that branched out from the river, the ground beneath his feet grew dark and richly fertile, and not for the first time that day — that hour, even — he envied Snelling his fine estate with a passion that bordered on lust.
God, how he wished it were his own.
But such empty dreams would get him nowhere. If he thought about how he much he loathed Snelling — and coveted what he had — it would only spoil his exceedingly good mood. Besides, he thought cockily, he had Juliet and Charlotte; they were more valuable to him than a hundred Swanthorpes.
He found the footpath and crossed the bridge that spanned the Mill Stream, pausing atop it for a moment to watch a swan and her downy cygnets in the waters below. Then he continued across the springy turf to the banks of the river itself.
As he'd expected, no one was around. Nothing but a robin in a nearby hawthorn and a few mallards eyeing him from half-way out in the river.
He tossed his shirt over a low-hanging branch, removed his boots and stepped out of his breeches. Flexing his muscles, he waded into the icy river, gasping at the bracing shock of it against his skin. His teeth chattered. His legs went numb. And then he dived beneath the surface, letting the water wash away all evidence of his morning toils.
Ah, yes. Life was indeed grand.
The Wild One Page 58
