Sebastian was digging furiously, slamming a shovel deep into the earth and hurling chunks of mud and snow over his shoulder. He wore no coat. His rain-soaked shirt was plastered to his shoulders. His hair hung in damp coils around his face. Water flew as he shook it out of his eyes, revealing brows drawn low in a dark scowl.
Prudence’s hand flew to her throat when she saw the leather-bound coffer mired beside him. But curiosity overcame her alarm as Sebastian backed up and ran at the coffer. He slipped once, driving his knee into the mud. He set his foot against the small trunk. With a tremendous heave, he shoved the coffer into the gash in the earth.
Prudence slammed the window shut as a hysterical giggle escaped her. He was burying it! Jamie’s words echoed through her mind. Tight as a Scot, he is. Don’t ever forget it.
The steady thunk of iron in mud resumed. That was one less thing to fret about for now, she thought. By the time Sebastian unearthed the trunk from its muddy grave, he would have all he needed from MacKay and would no longer need D’Artan’s ill-gotten gold. Or her.
Melancholy lodged like a dull weight in her throat, and she sank down on the hearth. Sebastian-cat bumped his head against her leg. She sighed, glancing at the empty bed. Sebastian had not come to her during the night. Was he still angry at her? Or had the night in the cavern satisfied his curiosity about bedding her? Perhaps he had found her awkward and clumsy. She knew none of the sophisticated tricks Tricia had sworn would keep a man interested for more than one night.
Her fingers curled around the warm porcelain cup. Tricia was in Edinburgh and she was here. Alone at Dunkirk. With Sebastian. And she possessed one talent that all of Tricia’s illicit rendezvous had never taught her—making herself indispensable. It had worked on Tricia’s doddering husbands and it had worked on Papa. Even at the age of three, she’d been known to toddle up with his misplaced spectacles clenched in her chubby little hands. A simple enough task when she’d been the one to hide them.
A wicked grin teased the corners of Prudence’s mouth as she gave the rest of her tea to Sebastian-cat and rose to dress.
Sebastian trudged through the muddy courtyard, his shoulders bent against the weight of the rain. Exertion had warmed him while he dug, but now the dying winter chill sank deep into his bones. He skirted his father’s grave without a glance. His gaze drifted to the stone tower, lured by the siren memory of a warm, crackling fire and Prudence nestled deep in the heather tick. Rain trickled into his eyes. He blinked it away. A pillow. He would have to ask Jamie to steal her a pillow.
Shaking off a shiver, he ducked into the damp hall, his hands fumbling to peel off his sodden shirt.
He froze at the sight of a meager flame licking a handful of sticks on the hearth. The wet wood hissed and sputtered.
“God’s whiskers!” The genteel oath drew his gaze to a rickety bench.
Prudence stood on tiptoe on its back, swiping down cobwebs with a long stick crowned by a wad of material that looked suspiciously like a satin petticoat. Her old dun dress was festooned with webs. Damp tendrils of hair escaped from her loose chignon. She caught her tongue between her teeth with a puckish grimace.
His hands fell limply to his sides as he was transported from the drafty hall back to a summer morning in an old crofter’s hut, a morning redolent with honeysuckle and alive with the lazy hum of bees.
Prudence bounced on her toes to dislodge a recalcitrant web. The bench swayed with a dangerous creak. Jarred out of his reverie, Sebastian crossed the hall in three strides, wrapping his arms around Prudence’s waist as the bench collapsed on a splintered leg.
He lowered her slowly, savoring the indolent slide of her warm body down the hard, wet length of his. She still clutched the stick with one hand. Her other hand curled into a fist between them and pushed him away.
“Sorry about the bench,” she said, a trifle breathlessly.
Scowling, he kicked it. “Better the bench’s leg than your own. How did you start the fire?”
“I caught a dragon and yanked his tail.” When Sebastian’s scowl didn’t lighten, Prudence admitted, “I carried down a stick from my own fire.” She tucked a finger between her lips.
He caught her hand and unfolded it. A shiny pink burn marred her knuckle and a blister puckered the smooth web between thumb and forefinger. Her hand was halfway to his own lips when she jerked it back and tucked it in the folds of her skirt.
He glowered at her. “From now on, if you want a fire started, you come to me. Do you understand?”
She bobbed a curtsy, mocking his brogue with devilish skill. “Aye, me laird. Whatever ye wish.”
Sebastian bit the inside of his cheek to hide his smile. If only she were sincere! What he wished for was the courage to throw her over his shoulder, carry her back to the bed, and make hot, delicious love to her all morning long.
She dropped her gaze as if she could read his thoughts in his sparkling eyes.
Suddenly her eyes went wild; her lips trembled with rage and a shriek tore from her throat.
Sebastian leaped backward as she swung the stick between them, ramming the end into his chest.
“Out! Out of here right now!”
He backed away, mystified by her sudden passion. Was he going to be the only Highland laird ever murdered by a petticoat-wielding wife?
She stalked after him. “How dare you? Just look at that! You’ve the habits of a wild beast. It’s a shame, a disgrace, a …”
Sputtering into incoherence, she lowered the staff and waved it wildly at his boots.
He looked down, half expecting to find an adder twined around his leg. Mud caked the cracked leather soles, and a perfect trail of goop led back to the door across her newly swept floor.
He threw up his hands in surrender as she backed him into the courtyard. The heavy door slammed in his face.
He reached for the handle, fully intending to storm back in and plant a muddy footprint in a more auspicious place. His boots sucked at the stoop. He glared at them, then bent to jerk them off. The water puddled on the stoop sank into his woolen stockings. He started for the door, heard the warning slosh, and hopped up and down on one foot to peel off his stockings, swearing all the while.
He threw open the door and stood there—a wet, enraged, barefoot Scot.
Prudence didn’t even look up.
She had dragged a barrel next to the sagging trestle table and perched on it as if it were a Chippendale chair. Her feet dangled inches off the floor, and he could see that the soles of her white stockings had been stained black by Dunkirk’s floors. Even with her hair sprinkled with cobwebs, she looked so cool and composed, she might have been a different woman from the frenzied harridan who had chased him outside. She dipped a feathered quill in an ink pot. Sebastian could think of nothing else to do, so he slammed the door with a satisfying crash.
She lifted one imperious eyebrow and surveyed him over the rim of her glasses. With the faintest shake of her head, she bent back to her task, scratching delicate figures on the back of a tattered envelope.
He opened his mouth to roar a curse, but her soft, cultured tones filled the silence.
“I am working on a list of food and supplies for you to procure. To begin with, I’d like a churn, a turnspit, a mop, a hoe and spade, some lye, five buckets, two goats, and three chickens.” She rose and paced in front of the table. Sebastian stared, transfixed by the graceful sway of her skirts.
She squinted at her list. “I’ll also need a detailed accounting of how much land we own and what you intend to do with it. After today, I would prefer we establish a set routine. Breakfast will be served promptly at six, luncheon at two, and dinner at seven o’clock. If you won’t be present at any of these meals, send me word at least two hours in advance and I shall prepare a bucket for you. If that suits, of course?” She paused for breath, looking at him sideways to check his response.
Sebastian was at a loss to form one. He had never heard Prudence say so much at one time. He stood there with his
mouth open, knowing he looked ridiculous, but unable to pull his gaze away from the enchanting smudge of dirt on the tip of her nose.
She cleared her throat. “Very well then. If you’ve nothing else to do, you may begin by repairing the bench and table and chopping some firewood. Tomorrow, if it’s not raining, we can start work on the kitchen roof and mend the fence behind the stable. Then Monday, I thought we would—”
Sebastian threw back his head with a yelp of laughter.
Prudence flushed and tilted her nose in the air. “Have I said something to amuse you?”
“I was picturing the look on Old Fish’s puckered puss if he could see his meek little missy right now.”
She bowed her head, but not before he saw her reluctant smile.
He curbed his urge to kiss the tip of her grimy nose, and took the list from her.
“I’ll ride down to the village and see what I can find.”
“Sebastian?” she crooned as he turned away.
He turned back, his eyebrows raised questioningly.
“If you want to be perceived as a respectable laird by your new neighbors, may I offer a suggestion?”
“Oh, please do.”
She stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear, “Pay for the items. Don’t steal them.”
He doffed an imaginary hat with a sweeping bow that would have done Sir Arlo proud. “Aye, Yer Grace. Whatever ye wish.”
Before he could reach the door, Prudence was down on hands and knees, scrubbing the blackened hearth with the hem of her skirt. He closed the door gently and leaned against it, weak with laughter.
He was wiping his streaming eyes as Jamie strutted from the stables toward the castle. Sebastian threw an arm across the door. “I wouldn’t if I were you. Not unless you’ve six months to listen and six more to work.”
Jamie scratched his head as Sebastian strode across the muddy courtyard, whistling “Once I Loved A Bonnie Lass.” He was well into the third chorus and halfway to the village before he realized he’d forgotten his boots and his horse.
Twenty-eight
The Highland rain yielded to a surprising abundance of early spring sunshine. The northern winds might still blow too briskly for the sluggish, but Prudence gave her new husband little opportunity to feel the chill as together they sought to remedy the neglect of decades.
Beneath Prudence’s loving hands, Dunkirk bloomed. She had never before known the pleasure of having her own home. Living in rented London lodgings and then Tricia’s overgrown dollhouse had not prepared her for the warm glow of pride Dunkirk stirred in her. Daily, Sebastian brought her new treasures: a tattered mop, an oaken bucket, a cake of precious lye. They were far more dear to her than any diamonds or pearls.
They worked to the music of Jamie’s chatter while their own unspoken words hung heavy between them. Sebastian’s presence sustained Prudence, brought hope to each day. She basked in the sheer pleasure of watching him chop wood, his skin kissed by a golden sheen of sweat, his cheeks pinkened by the bite of the wind. She ached to press her lips to his throat, to tangle her fingers in his sweat-dampened hair and draw him into her arms. But still he did not climb the stairs to her lonely bed. The thought that he must prefer the stables and Jamie’s company haunted her long into her sleepless nights.
The same physical nearness that strengthened Prudence was slowly driving Sebastian mad. As she took to wearing her hair loose or simply pulled back by two combs, baring the delicate curve of her throat, he found his blood boiling with more than exertion. He would stride outside and throw his throbbing body into yet another chore, praying he would tire himself enough to stumble to his blankets and fall into a dreamless sleep. But too often, his dreams were haunted by a throaty laugh and the feel of burgundy hair slipping between his fingers.
One night he sat watching Prudence sew before the fire, his eyes lazy and heavy-lidded. He enjoyed the soothing flow of her work, the graceful flick of the needle through the ragged linen of his shirt.
She glanced up at him. The needle stabbed her finger. As she tucked her finger between her rosy lips, the crumbs of his contentment scattered, leaving in their place a wild unrest, an insatiable desire to know more of her than just her fine-boned profile or the taunting fragrance of her hair.
But he could expect word from MacKay any day. Once Prudence discovered the bargain he had struck with the treacherous devil, he would have no choice but to send her back.
He rose abruptly, leaving Prudence to stare after him, the slam of the door echoing in her ears.
Prudence fidgeted with her hair, twisting a heavy strand into a reluctant curl only to watch it fall straight when she released it. She sighed, wishing desperately for a mirror. For all she could tell from her reflection in the warped window glass, her hair might be a mop of corkscrew curls like Jamie’s. She made a face at herself, then pulled the window open for a breath of cooling air. An overcast sky had brooded over the mountains all day, as grim and implacable as Sebastian’s most recent mood. The wind was picking up now, and dark clouds banked in the east.
She lifted her skirts and let the teasing wind blow across her thighs. The heat from the kitchen fire lingered against her skin even in the damp tower.
Dropping her skirts, she smoothed the lavender silk with anxious fingers. This was the only fine gown that remained from her days in Edinburgh. She donned her spectacles, then pulled them off and slipped them in her pocket. She adjusted her lace fichu and leaned out the window for the twentieth time. At last she was rewarded by the sight of a lone figure walking through the courtyard, his steps slow, but edged with tension.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. The devil take practicality and efficiency! she thought. Tonight she was determined to use all the charms of home and hearth to find out if Sebastian still wanted her.
She gathered her skirts and was halfway down the stairs before remembering her matching lavender slippers. She raced back after them, and jerked them on as she ran. As she reached the bottom step, she tripped over her petticoat and nearly collided with Sebastian as he entered the hall.
He caught her by the elbows as she skidded past. “Ho there, lass. What’s the bloody rush?”
She bobbed an awkward curtsy. “Pardon me. I must tend to something in the kitchen.”
She darted past, squinting in misery. Was nothing to go right today? What was Jamie still doing there? The insolent moppet had his feet on her table. But she had promised him a slice of her treat. She couldn’t scold him, could she? He had been nice enough to procure the tender kidney for her, despite his interminable jokes about who he had gotten it from.
She returned to the hall with two brass goblets polished to a high sheen and filled with sparkling ale. Sebastian still stood by the door as if he were an unwanted guest.
He glanced at her, then surveyed the well-stoked fire and satin-draped table, his eyes unreadable. “I’m really not hungry. I thought you’d be asleep by now.”
Prudence gave all of her attention to placing the goblets on the table, struggling to hide how deeply his honesty stung. “I waited up for you. You didn’t take dinner. I thought you’d be famished.” She managed a warm smile.
He grunted, obviously unwilling to take his rudeness into more verbal territory.
As she fled back to the kitchen, Jamie stopped picking his teeth with one of the knives, jumped up, and pulled out Sebastian’s chair with a flourish. “A throne for the laird of the manor.”
Sebastian sank heavily into the chair. “Playing Cupid again, Jamie?”
Jamie smiled cryptically. “ ’Tis wiser than playin’ the fool.”
A wail of dismay rang out from the kitchen. Sebastian rose, but Jamie placed a hand on his arm, giving him the same warning Sebastian had once given him. “I wouldn’t if I were ye.”
Prudence did not reappear for several minutes. When she did, she bore a chipped earthenware plate and a look of grim determination. She slid the plate in front of Sebastian.
He stared down at the bl
ack shriveled lump, then cleared his throat before softly asking, “What is it?”
“Suet pudding,” she replied.
Jamie peered at it. “Looks to be more soot than pudding.”
Sebastian gave him a dark look. He poked the miserable morsel with his knife, hoping to cut into it to reveal a steaming core. It shot away, bouncing off his plate and across the table.
Prudence clenched her jaw in an agony of embarrassment. “Would you care for some black buns?”
Over her head, Sebastian caught Jamie’s violent wave of warning.
“No, thank you.” But she looked so crestfallen, he added, “Well, perhaps just one.”
Jamie rolled his eyes and drew his finger across his throat. “I’d best be goin’,” he said, clapping on his beaten hat. “I promised this sweet lass in the village I’d stop by and give her a good-night kiss or perhaps somethin’ more if she’ll allow—”
“Good night, Jamie,” Sebastian interrupted.
Jamie glanced at Prudence as if he would have liked to say something kind. The hectic color in her cheeks warned him to silence.
“I’ll fetch the bread,” Prudence said as Jamie ducked into the night. Her lips trembled. She did not dare meet Sebastian’s eyes.
Sebastian rescued his pudding and sawed at it with his knife. He was famished, but not as Prudence thought. He was starving for a taste of her lips, a sip of the tender ecstasy they had shared in the cavern. That one sweet morsel had only whetted his appetite for more.
The scent of cedar wafted to his nose. Prudence had hung fragrant boughs over each doorway. He looked around, really seeing the castle for the first time since his return.
The hall was unrecognizable from the cobweb-festooned horror it had been only a week ago. The floor was clean-swept. A braided rug lay in front of the hearth. Two chairs sat cozily on it, as if whispering secrets. Prudence’s tender polishing had revealed the ancient beauty of the heavy oak and cherry furniture. She had found the grace beneath the ugly gouges from his father’s boots, the careless scars of his own boyhood. The touch of her loving hands was everywhere.
Heather and Velvet Page 29
