by Diana Quincy
She inhaled, taking in the earthy smells of sunshine and fertile fields. Watching her father work the land with his people reminded her of the centuries of tradition and heritage behind each harvest. This was home, a place of peace and comfort for her. Her throat ached at the realization this would be her last harvest at Nugent Manor. Next year, she would preside over harvest festivities at Laurie’s Wiltshire estate. Her stomach cramped as reality hit her anew.
Laurie’s viscountess.
Fighting back tears, she bit her lip, resisting the impulse to weep at the mammoth sense of loss that assailed her. It was not only the finality of leaving home that made her emotional; her marriage would also forever shut the door on Rand.
She forced her thoughts back to tomorrow’s Harvest Home. The celebration meal would be an inclusive event, with the master breaking bread with his tenants this one meal of the year. And then the singing and dancing would begin—again with the master and servants enjoying the festivities together. She would dance with Laurie, of course, who was due to arrive today, and quite possibly with some of the people from the village she’d known since childhood.
She spied her father among the workers. His perspiration-laden white linen shirt clung to his back. He’d retained his fit looks as he’d aged; she could detect just a bit of extra flesh gathering around his middle. He laughed as he and a worker lifted the load and carried it toward the wagon. The movement drew Kat’s eye to her father’s companion and she lost her breath.
Rand. How could he be here? He’d shed his shirt in the heat, baring an impossibly lean form with no evidence of extra flesh; there scarcely seemed to be sufficient skin to cover all of the taut muscle stretched over bone. There was an angry-looking, mottled scar where his shoulder met the lean sinews of his arm. Her gaze traveled over the smattering of dark amber curls on his chest, toward the thin line of hair that trailed down his stomach, disappearing into the mysterious fold of his breeches.
Together with her father, he heaved the load of corn onto the wagon. The lean cords of muscle in his arms and back slid beneath sweat-glistened skin, which had taken on some of the sun’s golden color. He must have been at this for hours. Rand paused for a word with a small group of workers by the wagon. He seemed to move easily among the people of her childhood.
Perspiration trickled between her breasts and her skin felt unbearably hot. She thought she’d successfully removed herself from temptation, yet here it was in the form of laughing emerald eyes, strong shoulders, and miles of bronzed, bare male skin. Her father caught sight of her and hailed her over. She forced her mare forward despite an overwhelming instinct to turn and flee.
“Kat,” her father said in cheery greeting as he helped her from her horse. “Come to see us take in the final load?”
She nodded, murmuring something in response that she hoped sounded distinguishable. Rand turned away and reached for his shirt, pulling it on as a gentleman ought to in the presence of a lady.
Once he was decent, he bowed. “Lady Kat.”
“My lord.” She licked her dry lips. “What a surprise to see you here.”
Her father mopped his brow with the back of his hand. “It seems your mother invited Randolph just before we left town.”
She schooled her features into polite impartiality. “How unexpected.”
Rand smiled, and she detected the subtle amusement beneath his courteous demeanor. “Yes, I mentioned to Lady Nugent that I have much to learn about managing an estate now that I have one of my own to oversee in Devon.”
“I see.”
“So when she invited me here to observe the Harvest Home, naturally I could not refuse.”
“Naturally.”
Her father sent a broad smile in Rand’s direction. “And a fine lord of the manor he shall be. A man must be willing to get close to the land and work with his people.”
Rand returned the older man’s smile. “I’ve a great deal to learn from you, my lord.”
Kat swallowed a snort of disbelief. First her mother, and now her father. Rand had succeeded in charming both her parents. It was almost as if this offensive was part of his battle plan to win her—amassing his forces like a wave gaining momentum before it finally slammed into her. Only she couldn’t be overwhelmed if she refused to stay on the beach. “I will leave the two of you to it.”
Her father regarded her with obvious surprise. “You’re not staying for the crop parade through the village?”
“I think not. Mother will have need of me to help in preparing for tomorrow’s mell supper.”
Sadness tinged his expression. “I can’t recall the last time you missed the bearing of the cart. You’ve always loved it so. And this shall be your last at Nugent Manor.”
Something akin to regret crossed Rand’s face. “Please don’t go on my account.”
She fixed him with a haughty look. “It is time I put girlish whims into the past. Next year I shall preside over the harvest at Sinclair Hall.”
Her father beamed. “Indeed you shall.” He moved to help her into the saddle. “My Kat, mistress of the manor.”
But Rand stepped forward with a polite “Allow me.” Wrapping large, long-fingered hands around her waist, Rand lifted her easily onto the mount. His man’s scent, intermixed with the earthy smell of exertion, filled her nose. “I shall look forward to seeing you at supper, my lady.”
Heady with his scent and the raw power of his proximity, she mumbled something in response before blindly turning her mount in the direction of home.
…
The following day at noon, the long tables that had been laid out for the mell supper were filled with tenants and their families. Kat’s father stood at the head of the principal table carving the meat, in keeping with the tradition started by the first Earl of Nugent more than a century ago. After he sliced a few ceremonial pieces, footmen whisked the meat away to finish the job of trimming and serving. Likewise, Kat and her mother proceeded down the main table with beer jugs—as the first earl’s countess and daughters of the house had once done—serving a few of the tenants before footmen swooped in to take over their task as well.
A boisterous, cheery energy swirled among the tables as the tenants, happy to see the year’s harvest come to a successful end, indulged in beer and ale and mounds of food prepared especially for the occasion. Tables were stacked with boiled hams and roasted sirloins, plum puddings made by the Christmas recipe, and fresh plum loaves, some of which were still warm.
Laurie sat to her father’s right while Rand had the spot to her father’s left, having been given the other place of honor at the table. Laurie’s jaw had braced when he’d arrived to find Rand in residence, but he had not remarked upon it to Kat.
“You still hold to the traditional mell supper,” Rand was saying to her father.
“Yes, indeed,” he answered taking a swig of his ale. “Here at Nugent Manor we keep to the old traditions. On this day, the master and tenant sit at the same table.”
Rand nodded his approval. “I believe the term ‘mell’ is derived from the French mesler meaning ‘to mingle together.’”
Laurie winked at Kat as she slid next to him. “I never thought to see the ton’s incomparable serving beer to the lower orders.”
“Every daughter of the house has done so since the first earl,” her father said. “Do you hold a mell supper at your estate, Sinclair?”
“Not exactly. We hold a day of food and games,” he said. “But perhaps when Kat is my viscountess, she will bring a bit of Nugent tradition with her.”
Laurie seemed more himself today—the old friend and companion who made her feel safe and protected. “I hate that you will have to leave us on the morrow.”
He smiled with his usual easy fondness. “I must away to the Harvest Home at my estate. Next year, you shall be by my side.”
“That will be most agreeable.” She forced a light tone, determined to ignore the tangle twisting in her belly at the thought of how much her life would
change in a few short weeks. Her attention went to the end of the table, where the Maid of Malagon sat near Mama. She forced herself not to grind her teeth at the sight of Rand’s mistress, who had also been invited to witness the English harvest tradition. It seemed she’d have no escape from either of them.
After supper, the sports and games began. Some of the older people congregated under trees to sip their ale and gossip while children loped through the crowds chasing each other and stealing the rare treat of a sweetmeat passed around by footmen. A large group of men congregated around the boxing challenge, chanting and roaring their approval with each swing.
To her relief, Kat managed to avoid Rand for most of the afternoon by sticking close to Laurie. Although she couldn’t help noticing that Rand mingled with the tenants as easily as he did with her father.
Late in the day, as twilight approached, she and Laurie strolled to one of the last events before the evening’s music and dancing. The climbing of the pole was a favorite Harvest Home game among the tenants. One of Kat’s blue satin ribbons was tied atop the tall pole.
“Lady Kat,” called one of the farmers. “Will you offer a boon to the gentleman who retrieves your ribbon?”
Kat gave her best coquette’s smile to the appreciative audience. “I would be pleased to, Mr. Ogilvie.” At Laurie’s questioning brow, she added, “If my betrothed husband concurs.”
“What say you, my lord?” Ogilvie called. “A maiden’s kiss for the man who conquers the pole?”
“That depends,” Laurie answered in an affable tone. “Are all allowed to participate? Myself for instance.”
Good natured cat-calls and whistles came from the gathered men, but Ogilvie shushed them. “By all means, my lord. As the lady’s betrothed, we’ll give you the first chance.”
“They’ve rendered it as slippery as a glacier,” Kat warned. “With soap and wax and who knows what else.”
“I’m a competent climber.” Laurie approached the pole, rubbing his hands on his flanks as if to dry them. “No harm in trying. Especially with so lovely a prize to be won.”
“No harm at all,” Ogilvie agreed, amidst more calls and whistles from the growing crowd of curious revelers who wandered over as word spread that the viscount intended to give the climbing pole a try.
Approaching it, Laurie embraced the pole with a strong grip, clenching his knees as he began his ascent. An agile athlete, he managed to climb a bit, before sliding back and having to regain lost ground again and again, continuing upward with a determined expression on his sweat-glistened face.
At length, he reached the first prize fastened to the pole, a sweetmeat which he retrieved and tossed to the appreciative crowd. Many lunged for it, but a young boy emerged from the crush with a triumphant grin on his young face holding up the prize.
“Well done, lad,” Laurie called from his perch above them before continuing his climb. Kat laughed and clapped at Laurie’s gallantry, enjoying his good-natured interactions with her father’s people. Yet the act of halting to retrieve the prize impacted Laurie’s momentum and, even though he repeatedly tried to regain his grip, he finally acknowledged defeat by sliding down the pole, amidst cheers and ribbing from the onlookers.
With now tousled hair, he approached Kat with a rueful grin, his blue eyes sparkling. “I guess I shall have to wait until my wedding day to gain the lady’s kiss,” he called out to the appreciative crowd, kissing her hand with exaggerated gallantry.
On it went, candidate after candidate taking to the field with little luck. Partway into the contest, her father beckoned Laurie away to make him known to some neighbors, but Kat stayed since she was essentially the prize for any man who managed to conquer the pole.
“Will none of you rustics take up this challenge?” Ogilvie called when they seemed to have run out of takers.
“I will.” The familiar masculine voice, polished yet roughened by experience, dragged shivers down her spine. Her breath hitched when Rand emerged from the crowd like a gladiator ready to do battle. In keeping with the casual tone of the event, none of the gentlemen wore waistcoats. Rand had on buff breeches and a white linen shirt. He cast a playful pitying look around to those who had tried and failed. “Behold how the climbing of the pole is done,” he said to benign jeers from the crowd.
He wrapped himself around the pole with steady hands and pulled his body upward, those long, lean lines radiating self-assuredness. Each time he hoisted his form another hard-won inch, the sleek muscles in his thighs slid under his breeches. Despite his apparent confidence, Rand had difficulty making his way up the pole. Halfway up, he seemed to falter, stopping and slipping a bit. She caught her breath and waited.
Keeping his position with one hand, he drew the other away from the pole and slipped it into the pocket of his breeches, only to withdraw it laden with sand. The crowd gave a roar of appreciation for this display of the earl’s wiliness. Dipping his chin in wry acknowledgement, Rand clasped the pole with his dirtied hand, while he repeated the same action with his other one. He began to progress quickly now, thanks to the traction gained by the sand, amidst the laughing and cheering below him.
The gazers hooted when he reached the top and seized the prize, giving it a triumphant wave over his head before sliding easily down the pole. Casting a wild look about, Kat exhaled in relief to see Laurie had not yet returned. Although he would, no doubt, hear of Rand’s success later. She pushed that worry from her mind when the crowd parted for him as he approached her—tall, lean, and most definitely dangerous to her peace of mind.
Coming to a halt in front of her, he bowed and offered her the ribbon. “Your prize, my lady.”
“What about your prize, my lord?” someone called from the crowd.
“Aye,” said another. “A maiden’s kiss he surely deserves for prevailing where so many others have failed.”
With an acknowledging smile and wave to the crowd, Rand turned a penetrating gaze onto her. “My lady.”
Her heart sped up. “My lord.”
He stepped close enough for her to feel his body warmth and to detect the musk of his cologne mingled with masculine exertion. Fighting the urge to flee, she remained frozen in place, even when Rand lowered his lips toward hers. Her heart pounding, she closed her eyes and felt the warmth of his breath against her cheek. Her mouth almost twitched with impatience waiting for his kiss.
Then something brushed along her forehead. His lips. She opened her eyes in astonishment in time to see Rand step away. It took her a moment to realize he’d opted to kiss her forehead instead of taking a real kiss. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. Rand gave her one last look, a flash of amusement lighting his eyes, before he stepped away and disappeared into the applauding crowd.
At twilight, the festivities moved to the home paddock for dancing to the music of pipes and fiddles. Kat’s parents danced together before each took a turn with a tenant before saying their good nights and heading back to the main house. Kat coupled with Laurie, but saved the rest of her dances for the tenants, most of them young men she’d known since childhood. Laurie danced with the local women who practically swooned at being in the arms of the handsome, affable viscount. Winded from all of the dancing, Kat sought out the refreshment table and helped herself to some ale.
“I’ve been awaiting my chance to dance with the fairest maiden of them all,” Rand’s deep voice said from behind her.
Her heart jumped, but she forced herself to turn around slowly. She’d noticed that he’d spent most of the evening a bit away from the crowd, his back up against a tree trunk. Vera, faithful as ever, stood by his side. “I have but one dance left in me and I am saving it for Laurie.”
“I see.” He tilted his head back as he regarded her. “Are you enjoying yourself, Kitty?”
“Very much so. But I shall enjoy myself ever so much more when I preside over the Harvest Home as mistress next year in Wiltshire.”
“Or in Devon.”
“Beg p
ardon?” She scrunched up her nose. “What’s in Devon?”
“My estate. By the inlet. You will enjoy living by the water.”
Her strained patience snapped. “You are the most insufferable man. I am marrying Laurie.”
He cast a cursory look about. “Where is he? I don’t see him by your side.”
“We are not in each other’s pockets.” Of course, that hadn’t always been the case, but this evening she hadn’t seen him since their dance more than an hour ago. “Unlike you, he is decent enough to dance with the tenants.”
“That is very kind of him.”
“Yes, it is,” she said, her tone edged with obvious irritation. “And if you will excuse me, I shall go and find him to remind him of our dance.”
“Yes, by all means, do go and run him to ground.” He allowed her to pass and she flounced past him in a less-than-ladylike manner. She had no idea where Laurie had got to, but she knew she wanted to get away from Rand’s probing gaze. She walked away from the party past the barn, but saw no sign of Laurie.
Mr. Ogilvie spotted her and said, “If you’re looking for your viscount, I believe I saw him headed in the direction of the stable not too long ago.”
Thanking him, Kat headed that way, wondering what business Laurie had there. Perhaps he’d gone to check on his mount. She passed some boys shooting marbles and smiled at them. The music grew faint as she neared the barn. Peeking inside, she acknowledged a greeting from the lone groom still on duty while the others had long since joined the festivities up on the main paddock. “Good evening, Patrick, have you seen the viscount?”
“No, my lady. Just me and the horses here.” Thanking him, she turned to head back toward the party, but decided to check the gardens first.
An unusual sound from the direction of the gazebo drew her attention, slowing her gait. Slapping sounds. Followed by a husky accented murmur in a voice she recognized. “Not the ground, mi amor, it will dirty my clothing.”
Elena. A man grunted in response—a guttural thing. Kat’s heart sputtered, followed by furious disbelief that she could have the misfortune to come upon Rand and his mistress for a second time. Rand, the blackguard, who claimed to be courting her, who said he no longer consorted with his mistress.
