“So you’ve come to find writing implements?” He frowned, glancing at the clock.
“I was going to go see the horses first. The front door creaks, and the kitchen door is usually locked, but if I leave these doors unlocked, I can get back in.”
“Your talent for reconnaissance is impressive. Well, come here.”
“Am I to get a lecture?” Winnie cautiously approached the big desk, only to find herself scooped up and deposited in the earl’s lap.
“I am supposed to write to Rose, too,” he said, “but I didn’t know what to say. Have you any suggestions?”
Winnie settled on his knees, deciding she liked this perspective. In all her varied life, she’d never sat in the lap of an adult male whom she actually liked, and she rather thought there were things to recommend about it. She felt safe, for one thing. Safe and protected, and better, she felt powerful, just like when she was up on old Roddy’s back. The earl smelled good, for another, like meadows and flowers and security. And he was warm and comfortable, at least compared to a tree limb.
“So what would you like to write?” he prompted, setting paper, pen, and ink before her. He reached his long arms around her to do this, and Winnie noticed he’d turned his sleeves back, leaving his forearms revealed for her inspection.
“Your arms are hairy. We should write, Dear Rose.”
“Is this your letter or mine?” the earl asked, glancing at his forearms.
“Mine. Dear Rose. My name is Winnie, and I live at Rosecroft. Your papa is visiting, but I would like to borrow him while he is here.”
“Slow down,” the earl growled, setting pen to paper. “You want to borrow Douglas?”
“Your papa is nice,” Winnie went on. “I would give him back when he leaves. I did not ask him, because he is your papa. I do not have a pony, but if I did, I would let you make him a knight. Sincerely, Bronwyn Farnum.”
The earl finished writing, sanded the page, and sat back to arrange Winnie crosswise on his lap, which let her see his face.
“You are jealous of my niece?” he asked, frowning.
“She has a papa, a mama, and an uncle. I have Miss Emmie, who is my friend, but that’s all. I like Lord Amery because he listens and climbs trees, but I only want to borrow him.”
“You want to borrow him for what?” the earl pressed, shifting her again but keeping an arm around her as he did.
“To be my papa,” Winnie said, trying to keep the exasperation from her voice. “He is not Rose’s real papa, so I thought she might not mind if he wasn’t mine either.”
“I see.” The earl’s frown was becoming thoughtful, but Winnie didn’t think he was seeing much at all. The earl was not the quickest fellow to her mind, but he had horses, and he was bringing Miss Emmie to the manor. And he had not ever, ever lied—yet.
A large male hand began to make slow circles on her back, and Winnie felt her eyes wanting to close. “I will send your letter, Winnie, but you must help me write mine.” Winnie sighed, leaned against the earl’s chest, and let her lashes flutter down.
“I’ll help,” she said. “Lord Amery says Rose likes stories about her real papa. He was Lord Victor. I don’t know any.”
“My letter might go something like this,” the earl began, his voice a soothing rumble in the ear Winnie lay against his chest. “Dear Rose, Your papa has come to visit, and we are very glad to see him. By we, I include in my household Miss Bronwyn Farnum, a very pretty and intelligent little girl who is kind to animals and nimble at climbing trees. Your papa told me she reminds him of you, but I saw Winnie first, and he cannot have her. She is mine now, though while your papa is here, Winnie will be all that is polite and friendly to him. I hope Sir George is doing well and not eating too much summer grass, and I hope your brother and mother are thriving. You must look after them until I can visit this fall. Uncle Devlin.”
“Devlin?” Winnie murmured through a sleepy smile.
“My mama named me Devlin. Like Miss Farnum is Emmaline.”
“And I am Bronwyn, at least to Miss Emmie.” Winnie nodded, eyes closing again. “I don’t suck my thumb anymore.” She yawned and felt her seat rising as the earl came to his feet. “Should I get down?” she asked, blinking.
“Hush. I’m just moving to a rocking chair, and you are just going to sleep.”
***
St. Just rocked slowly, thinking of all the nights when he’d been unable to sleep or afraid to sleep. Winnie was soon snoring softly, her mouth slightly open, her features angelic in repose. As he carried her through the house, he wondered what would keep a little girl up until midnight and what she would have done if he weren’t still at his desk.
Probably fallen asleep in the hayloft, he mused as he tucked her in.
He made his way to the library, lit an extra candle, penned a slightly different note to his niece, then found his bed. For the second time in less than a week, the earl of Rosecroft slept peacefully through the night.
And for the first time in two years, he awoke with a cockstand he could hang a bridle on. Seeing the sun had yet to rise, he rolled to his back, savoring the fullness in his groin. This wasn’t just a morning salute, he concluded, as fragments of a dream drifted through his awareness. A pond and Miss Emmaline Farnum, naked and sleek as an otter, then Miss Farnum, mouth open, still naked…
He pushed the sheets aside and began to stroke himself lazily, content to enjoy the simple fact of arousal, not even intending any pleasure beyond that. But his body, too long indifferent to any source of erotic inspiration, had found its rhythm, and so he continued, letting the arousal build and build as he thought of Emmaline Farnum’s nape, of the soft swell of her breasts, the lovely pink delicacy of her nipples, wet and ruched as she lifted her hands to her hair.
His breathing deepened, and he recalled the wet nest of her pubic hair, slightly darker than the mane she tucked into such a deceptively demur bun. Pleasure bore down on him as his mind’s eye flashed on her buttocks slipping beneath the water in a perfect, sweet pair of curves.
On a soft groan, he came, a lovely, voluptuous experience of intense satisfaction that left him relaxed, pleased, and so profoundly relieved he felt his throat constricting with gratitude. Some losses were so personal they could not be discussed, but they could be contemplated at grim and miserable length while a man tried to tell himself they didn’t matter.
Whatever else had been taken from him, it seemed the simple sexual pleasure of being male was no longer on that list. Joy welled up to join with relief, and the earl prayed the day would become unbearably hot, just so he could again picture Emmaline Farnum at her bath.
He got up to wash, dress, and start his day wondering if Emmie was already pothering about in his kitchen.
How did he reconcile that cheerful, brisk woman with the wood nymph to whom he owed such a glorious sunrise? The same woman, he realized as he dragged a brush through his hair, who would be sleeping under his roof that very night?
Ah, well, he concluded as he descended the steps in charity with the world, there were worse problems than how to behave around a luscious woman.
***
By ten o’clock in the morning, St. Just was convinced every problem imaginable had chosen that day to visit itself upon him. Douglas had brought up the idea that Winnie needed an adult escort into town if she wasn’t to be tempted to wander there on her own. Caesar looked to be starting on an abscess, making the earl regret his impromptu steeplechase home from church the previous day. His work crews had appeared, but Holderman for some reason was nowhere to be found, and breakfast had been again nothing but the damnable scones and butter.
He was mad enough to spit nails when Emmaline Farnum appeared at the large house cistern, a tray of mugs and a plate of cookies in her hands.
“I do not mean to disturb you.” She smiled at him as he scowled in her direction. “The heat is building quickly today, and I thought lemonade would not go amiss.”
“Lemonade.” As if lemonade would loc
ate his steward. He reached for a mug then gestured for his two assistants to do the same. “We can enjoy the drink while puzzling out the whereabouts of both Timmens, who was to repair the fountain, and Holderman, my steward, using the term loosely.”
“Holderman’s gone back to his uncle,” Mortimer, the older of the earl’s assistants, volunteered. “Or summat like.”
“He’s scarpered.” The other fellow grinned. “My sister’s husband’s brother works for old Holderman, and the nepphie’s dog lazy, by him.”
The earl’s temper threatened to seize the day, and he shifted his gaze to the blue heavens. “It appears I am without a steward, without a mechanic, and without the means to replace either.”
“You are not without resources,” Miss Farnum said, collecting empty mugs. “Perhaps you’d walk me back to the kitchens while the gentlemen enjoy a few minutes in the shade, my lord?”
He had the presence of mind not to explode when his laborers were within earshot, but once they’d rounded the corner of the house, he stopped and glared at Miss Farnum.
“Are you humoring me, madam?”
“Good heavens.” She tossed a glance up at him. “Why would I bother to do that?”
“Because,” he ground out, forced to move his feet because she was moving hers, “I am almost angry enough to fire the lot of them, pack up my horses, and ride back down to London.”
“If you think that’s what you should do, no one can stop you. I can, however, offer you something to eat before you go.”
“What?” He blinked, feeling like a bear who’d just realized he was charging in the wrong direction. “Food?”
“If you wouldn’t mind?” Miss Farnum, carrying the tray, gestured with her chin toward the kitchen door. She stepped back so he could hold it for her before following her into the cool interior of the big kitchen.
“Hello, Rosecroft.” Winnie, wearing a heavily floured pinafore, beamed at him from where she stood on a chair at the big wooden worktable. “I’m rolling the pie dough.”
“And doing an excellent job,” Miss Farnum piped up before turning her gaze on the earl. “Sit you down, milord, and we’ll plot your campaign.”
“You are humoring me.” But his disgust was laced with reluctant humor.
“I am feeding you,” she corrected him, setting a plate down before him with two fat pastries on it and more cookies. “Eat, and all will look better. Cider or lemonade?”
“Either.” He bit into a pastry only to find it was filled with ham, eggs, a little bacon, and some seasonings that made it a considerable improvement over its previous incarnation—and worlds beyond a mean old scone.
“Better?” Miss Farnum asked, plunking down a tankard of lemonade before him.
“Much,” he said around a mouthful of culinary heaven. “The pastries, that is. They are much improved.”
“You will be, too.” She flashed him a grin. “Not so much flour, wee Winnie, and don’t forget a dash of cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, and allspice.”
“You are making apple tarts?” The earl’s nose fairly twitched with anticipation.
“We are,” Winnie said, “but you get dessert only if you eat your vegetables.”
“I will eat my vegetables. I’d also best be on my way back to the ongoing debacle that is my fountain.”
“Why not send Stevens off to collect Timmens from his fishing instead, as it appears you won’t need Stevens in the stables for the present?” Miss Farnum suggested from where she was watching Winnie roll out dough. “And as for Holderman’s disappearance, good riddance, I’d say. My guess is you could call upon Lord Amery to serve at least temporarily and see a great deal more accomplished.”
“I cannot impose on a guest, Miss Farnum.”
“Why can’t you?” The voice was masculine and slightly amused. Douglas sauntered in, hands in his pockets, cuffs turned back. “I was prepared to ride out with you this morning but found you were not at the stables and not expected to ride before luncheon.”
“Caesar’s lame, and I cannot impose on you to serve as my land steward in Holderman’s absence.”
“Is the man ill?” Douglas reached for a cinnamon cookie, closed his eyes, and sniffed at it before taking a bite. “Wonderful.” He gestured with the remaining cookie. “My compliments.”
“I’m making the pie dough.” Winnie waved her rolling pin for emphasis.
“Miss Winnie, good morning.” Douglas bent down and planted a loud smacker on her cheek. “You are going to abandon me for the charms of pie dough?”
“Only for today.”
“I am desolated, but I can be revived by ample doses of cinnamon cookie. St. Just, how can I be of service?”
The earl blew out a breath and scrubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “The steward has departed for the comforts of his uncle’s estate, and I have two crews, one of which is idling by the cistern; the other is supposedly mending wall, but I can’t be sure of that, and the roofing fellows are supposed to be on grounds this morning, as well. Then, too, you reminded me I’ve yet to inspect my own home farm, and while I’ve ridden some of the paths in the wood, I can’t say I’ve taken note of the deadfall… for starters.”
Douglas looked like he was concentrating on something in the distance for a mere instant, then nodded his head.
“I can toddle by the stonemasons,” he suggested, “then saddle up Regis and nip past the home farm, perhaps take a peek at the wood on the way. But what about the haying?”
“Damned haying.” The earl closed his eyes in exasperation. “I don’t know what kind of storage we have on the property, and I haven’t seen a team of anything big enough to pull a hay wagon.”
Miss Farnum glanced from the earl to the viscount. “The hay barn stands empty between the home farm and pastures, and Mr. Mortimer can bring a wagon and team tomorrow if you ask him. He might be able to scare up two, in fact, and some more crew, because his wife’s people have their own small holding just up the river.”
“Mortimer’s the one with the nose?” the earl asked, snagging two more cookies.
“The one with the smile. Where shall I serve lunch, and did you expect the men to bring their own?”
“I did, or I told Holderman those were my terms. You can bring it…” He glanced up at the clock and saw the morning was half gone. “I’ll come back to the house.”
“And I can do likewise,” Douglas chimed in. “Winnie, I will pine for the sight of you until then.”
“’Bye, Lord Amery.” She waved a floured paw but didn’t look up from her dough.
“He will pine,” the earl growled at Douglas’s retreating back. “Winnie, you must learn to make a fellow work for your attention.”
“I must?” Winnie did look up and blinked at him in disarming confusion. “But I like Lord Amery.”
“I know.” The earl made one last foray at the cookies. “And you want to borrow him for your temporary papa, you little traitor. I should have you court-martialed for treason.”
“Treason?”
“High treason.” The earl nodded then dipped his head to blow a rude noise against her neck. “Until luncheon.”
Emmie watched him disappear, letting the back door bang loudly in his wake, while Winnie’s squeals of delighted indignation faded to a huge, bashful smile.
“So, Bronwyn, what shall we feed your admirers for lunch on this glorious summer day?”
“They like sweet things,” Winnie observed, frowning at her pie dough. “Especially the earl. He ate a lot of cookies, Miss Emmie.”
“He did, but he is a big, strong, hungry fellow, and this is his kitchen. He does like sweets, however, on that you are absolutely correct.”
He liked sweetness, and if Winnie’s conquest of him was any indication, he liked innocence, as well—two qualities Emmaline Farnum had not called her own for a good long, lonely, miserable while.
She cast her mind back to the previous day, to the sight of the earl half naked, sweating, his muscles bulging wit
h exertion as he hefted rocks Emmie could never have budged. She ought to have been scandalized, but she’d been… fascinated. And then he’d asked her about his wall, standing so close to her she could feel the heat of him, feel his breath on her neck as he’d spoken virtually in her ear.
Indecent thoughts. A man who liked sweetness and innocence would be appalled to know how Emmie was recalling him, how she’d wanted him to turn his head just a fraction and put his mouth on her flesh. Emmie ought to be appalled herself.
She really ought to be.
Four
The earl glanced around his dinner table and felt a soothing sense of sweetness. The day had started well, then veered temporarily toward frustration, but soon righted itself. He was in good company, had consumed a wonderful meal, and felt a pleasant sense of accomplishment.
“If you gentlemen want to linger over your port, I can absent myself,” Emmie volunteered. “The day has been very, very long, and my bed is calling me.”
“You are adequately settled in?” the earl asked, rising as she gained her feet.
“I am. So I will bid you both a good night.”
Douglas rose, as well, and wished her good night, but sat back down and nodded when the earl gestured with the decanter.
“She is such a lovely woman,” Douglas observed. “I think the child owes much to her care.”
“I don’t know how much care she was able to take of Winnie.” The earl frowned as he poured their drinks. “She is lovely. She does a better job with my apple tart recipe than I do, and I can promise you, Douglas, it won’t be just stale scones for breakfast tomorrow.”
They got out the cribbage board and whiled away another hour until they’d both won two games. As they ambled up the stairs, thunder rumbled in the distance and Douglas turned to survey his host.
“Will you be able to sleep?”
“Are you offering to read me a bedtime story, Amery?”
Douglas eyed him dispassionately. “I hired a fellow for my stables who served under you on the Peninsula. I have to warn him any time I plan to discharge a firearm, and thunderstorms unnerved him completely for the first six months of his employ. He hid in the wine cellars to get away from them. Flat reduced him to tears.”
The Soldier Page 7
