by Rebecca King
“Barnaby?” she whispered. She waited but heard nothing. “Barnaby?”
Still, nothing.
“Oaf,” she muttered.
“I heard that,” he growled suddenly into her ear.
Rose squealed and spun around. “Don’t scare me like that,” she snapped giving him a heavy whack on the shoulder.
Barnaby grinned. “Missed me?”
“No,” she replied pertly. “What am I supposed to wear now?”
Barnaby lifted his hand and shook some new clothing at her.
“Where did you get those from?” she gasped.
“The farmer. I have left him suitable compensation for his loss,” he explained, aware that she was likely to refuse to wear anything that had been stolen.
Rose accepted the white shirt off him and turned her back while she tugged it over her head. The warmth it brought her was wonderful, and she hastily tied the laces at the front to gain as much protection from the chill as possible. When she turned around though, she glared at the second garment Barnaby held out to her behind his back.
“I am not going to wear those,” she declared in horror as she stared at the tiny breeches he held. She glanced down at the trousers she had been wearing. They were warm and had suited her purposes perfectly but she could smell them even from several feet away. There was no earthly possibility she could wear them now but then she couldn’t wear the breeches either.
Barnaby coughed and fought a grin. “It seems that the farmer is not very big. This is the smallest pair they have. It is either these or you can borrow one of the dresses on the washing line but I warn you now they are meant for a more buxom woman.” He held out a dress that would have dwarfed even Barnaby.
Rose had never wanted to smack someone so much in her entire life. She suspected he was enjoying this a little too much and desperately wanted to wipe that mirth off his face. If it wasn’t bad enough that he had dragged her around the countryside to be rained on in the freezing winds, he now wanted her to dress in breeches of all things. At least the full trousers had covered the length of her legs.
“I have never heard anything so preposterous in my life,” she declared flatly. “Is there nothing else?”
“Nope.”
Barnaby’s grin when he peeked over his shoulder was the final straw. Rose stared at him for a moment before she snatched the breeches off him. Dragging them over her hips she sucked in a breath while she did the catch and stared down in dismay at the tight material that left nothing to the imagination. She could only be thankful it was dark and Barnaby wasn’t able to see her all that well.
“It’s not funny,” she said dourly.
Barnaby coughed to cover his laughter but did nothing to hide his grin.
Embarrassed beyond words, something inside Rose snapped.
“I am done playing this charade, Mr Stephenson,” she began. “While I thank you for your efforts thus far, I am sure nobody would give me even a second glance dressed like this. I am glad you find this situation so funny. However, I don’t. I have been dragged across the country, soaked to the skin, threatened, and shot at in your company, and you are the one who claims to be protecting me. If this is your idea of trying to keep me safe, then I am sure I would be better off by myself. It is now time I took my leave of you. Goodbye.”
Before he could speak, Rose stepped over her soiled clothing and stalked out of the barn. Without any clue as to what lay beyond, she then headed in the direction they would have taken if they had continued on their journey.
“Wha’cha doin’?”
Rose slammed to a halt and squealed at the sound of the voice behind her. She peered through the darkness and watched an aged farmer amble toward her.
“I am sorry, sir,” she replied hesitantly. “I got lost. Could you tell me which way to go to get to Affetton?” She said Affetton because she knew it was the last village before Portsmouth. Once there she could then decide what to do to get back home.
“Affetton?” the farmer warbled in a dialogue that was extremely difficult to understand. He scratched his ear and squinted at her. “You want to go to Affetton now?”
He clearly thought she had lost her mind.
“That’s why I asked,” Rose sighed, aware that Barnaby – the coward – hadn’t come out of the barn to join them. “Which way is it?”
The farmer pointed at her and shook his head as though disbelieving that anybody could be so stupid. “Are you going to go alone?”
“Can you tell me which way to Affetton?”
The farmer ran his gaze over her. “You wanna go dressed like that?”
“Well, yes,” Rose snapped, wondering if he was a little dense. “I wanna – want – to go to Affetton dressed like this. Now which way do I go, do you know?”
“Aye, I knows,” the farmer replied bemusedly. “Corse, you ain’t gonna like to go that way dressin’ like that, like.”
“Why?” She began to wonder if the man was deliberately stalling her.
“Er-”
Determined not to have any kind of quarrel with the dim-witted farmer, Rose interrupted him. “Which way is Affretton?”
“Why, it’s that way?” the farmer replied pointing a grubby finger to the fields behind her. “But I wouldna-”
“Thank you,” Rose snapped.
She didn’t bother to wait for the man to ramble on any further. At least she had the answer she needed. With a nod of thanks she spun around and marched across the yard. It was difficult to climb the gate beside the stables with such tight breeches on but she eventually managed it and jumped into the field with a huff. Thankfully, dawn had started to rise and afforded her with enough light to be able to see where she was going.
At first, she didn’t realise that she wasn’t alone. She sensed someone watching her, but mistook it for Barnaby. She didn’t want to get into another argument with him so didn’t slow down or bother to look around. She was so lost in thoughts of the best way to avoid him that at first the distant drumming sound she heard didn’t register on her senses. Her frown was deep as she contemplated this latest turn of events, but that quickly turned to a deep scowl of confusion when the strange rumbling noise grew louder. Her stomach dipped.
“Something is wrong,” she murmured aloud.
Was Barnaby racing after her on his horse?
If he is then he can just continue running because I shall not be going with him, she thought piously. Tipping her chin higher, she pinned her gaze on the gate up ahead and continued to march, until a strangled shout from the farmer made her glance behind her.
“Oh my God,” she gasped.
Her eyes widened when her gaze locked with the narrow, beady eyes of the outraged bull trotting steadily after her. She began to increase her pace, hoping to get to the gate before it reached her. To her horror, the beast increased its pace as well and continued to narrow the distance between them with arrogant bovine determination.
“Go away,” she called, frantically waving it away. She didn’t like the avaricious look in the bull’s narrowed eyes. “Go and find your farmer person.”
The bull found this aggravating and dipped his head with a snort and an angry stomp of a hoof. Rose eyed the spite in the bovine’s eyes and knew she was in trouble. Spinning on her heel she took off, determined to get to the gate before she lost whatever dignity she had left by being tossed into the field next door at the end of the bull’s horns. The snort of disgust behind her was enough to propel her faster, but her shorter legs were no match for the bull’s, and the heavy pounding of his hooves grew worryingly louder.
“Get away from me you monster,” Rose screeched. She dodged through the boggy quagmire which at one time could have been a pond, and slid through numerous cow-pats, which slowed her pace considerably. Eventually, she found the courage to look behind her and began to pray when she saw the whites of the animal’s hate-filled eyes above widened nostrils closing in on her.
“Run!” The farmer yelled helpfully.
&nbs
p; “What else do you expect me to do you fool?” she gasped beneath her breath.
Later, she would cogitate over how the bull didn’t seem affected by running over his own excrement, but right now she had bigger problems on her hands. For each foot she ran, the beast seemed to run two more. She felt the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck, she would swear to it, but didn’t want her final moments to be staring into the eyes of an enraged chunk of steak. Locking her gaze on the fence up ahead, she felt sweat break out on her brow but continued to run until she felt as though her lungs were going to burst. The beast still didn’t seem to want to stop.
“Run!” The farmer yelled again in a voice that was full of mirth.
Rose uncharacteristically cursed. She didn’t need to see the oaf of a farmer to know he was laughing just as hard as Barnaby had been earlier. In that moment she hated them both with all of her might. If the stupid farmer had just told her the field was occupied she would never have entered it.
Suddenly, the world went black.
“Oomph.” In spite of the fierce aching in her lungs, Rose daren’t breathe in. The stench alone was enough to kill her. Wiping her eyes, she knew death was upon her when the hoof beats grew incredibly loud and began to make the floor upon which she lay vibrate alarmingly.
Suddenly, the banging of a bucket drew silence; absolute, blessed silence. She remained still while she took stock of her condition. Thankfully, her body was still dry. However, her face was now covered in the bull’s best endeavour. Pushing manure out of her eyes, she blew out her cheeks angrily, and slowly peeled a thick strand of manure infested hair off her cheek. Seconds ticked by. As it did, her outrage grew.
“How dare he leave a beast like that loose?” she growled as she tried to get up.
As she pushed herself off all fours and onto her feet, the sound of tearing fabric rent the air. A gush of cold air immediately swept over her backside.
“Oh, no,” she moaned. She closed her eyes in horror as she clapped a hand over the hole in her breeches and felt bare flesh beneath.
Slowly turning around, Rose glared accusingly at the farmer who grinned proudly at her over the top of the animal’s head. The beast, it seemed, had forgotten all about her now that a bucket of food was on offer. Beside them stood Barnaby, bent over at the waist, practically howling with laughter.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mortified, Rose stared at him for a moment before she slowly, and far too calmly, turned around and left the field. Once safely out of the bull’s space she contemplated which route to take before she set out, clutching the torn material of her breeches as she went.
“Damned lunatic,” Rose snarled.
“Problem?”
She closed her eyes as another wave of mortification swept through her. She had thought that her day couldn’t get any worse, but she was wrong. It had just grown considerably worse; dismal in fact, and was about to become even more miserable given that she now had to face him.
“Nope. I am fine thank you,” she replied with as much dignity as she could muster. She sniffed, but realised then just how bad an idea that was, and inelegantly wiped her soiled nose with the back of her equally dirty hand. Not once did she deign to look at Barnaby.
“I think you need to borrow a pair of the farmer’s breeches,” Barnaby mused in a friendly tone.
“Go to Hell,” she bit out.
He suspected that she wasn’t going to cool down for a while, especially now that walking was a trial for her. During her flight she had lost a boot which was now lost in a sea of mud half-way down the field. He glanced at the farmer who lifted his hand to indicate that all was well, and shook his head in disbelief at the docile nature of the beast now that he was being fed. Then he turned back to Rose. It was then that he caught sight of a pink patch of bared, extremely curvy, and delightfully feminine backside that she couldn’t quite hide.
Rose’s knew he had seen. Cheeks aflame, she battled tears but marched resolutely onward. She was incensed; outraged; appalled; humiliated; and horrified that not only had she been horribly arrogant with the helpful farmer, but Barnaby had seen her ultimate downfall from grace. It was inevitable that someone as smooth and as sophisticated as Barnaby would consider this a feminine characteristic that was more of a weakness than a benefit to anyone, and it made her want to cry.
Of course he will you fool. You are covered in poo. You are a liability to yourself, Rose; a shocking liability.
Quickly closing the annoying voice out, Rose eyed the fence now before her in consternation. She couldn’t climb it while holding on to her modesty. Nor could she stop in the field.
“Need a hand?” Barnaby offered helpfully. He knew her dilemma and waited to see how she would handle climbing over the obstruction with what was left of her dignity.
“No, thank you,” she replied stiffly.
“Oh,” Barnaby said calmly. When she didn’t speak, he drew his horse alongside the fence and made it clear that he had no intention of going anywhere until she had left the field.
Rose eyed the height of the fence and turned around until her back was away from Barnaby’s mirth-filled gaze. Releasing her hold on her breeches she clambered awkwardly over the fence and jumped down on the other side.
“Mornin’”
Rose squealed and spun round. Her horrified gaze stared in shock at the young man, not much more than fifteen, walking toward her out of the early morning gloom with a huge grin on his face.
Oh no, not you too, she groaned. It was then that she realised she had her bare backside on display to Barnaby.
Would he be a gentleman and not mention it? She waited. And waited.
“I take it you don’t spend much time in the country then,” Barnaby mused making no attempt to hide his grin.
“No, I don’t,” she replied waspishly.
“Nice view,” Barnaby chortled. He forced his face straight and nodded toward the vista before them quite seriously when she glared at him.
“Yes it is,” she replied.
With as much dignity as she could muster, Rose covered her backside as best she could and stalked away. Thankfully, Barnaby was still inside the field. Being on the opposite side of the fence gave her an advantage of being able to put some distance between them, and she wasn’t afraid to use it. Unfortunately, that distance didn’t last long.
“Here, put these on,” Barnaby murmured when he drew alongside her a few moments later. “You can ignore me all you like but you are stuck with me, Rose. I am not going anywhere.”
She ignored him. He waited a few moments and then tried again.
“It is going to be a long walk if you keep going, especially with one boot on and one boot off. Of course, you can go and see if the farmer’s son has another pair of his breeches if you like? Assuming that Rufus doesn’t mind.”
“Rufus,” Rose muttered unsure if he was talking about the boy or the bull.
“Your bovine friend,” Barnaby coughed.
“He is not my friend,” Rose replied.
“He seemed to like you,” Barnaby choked out, covering his guffaw with his hand.
Rose slammed to a stop and glared at him, daring him to laugh aloud. She eyed the horses’ backside and wondered if a good slap was in order. In the end she sucked in a huge breath, clenched her teeth, and continued to march – all without saying a word.
Barnaby watched her go and took the opportunity to stare appreciatively at her rounded backside. He gave her a few minutes to vent her fury and tried again.
“It is going to start to rain soon,” Barnaby said conversationally when he caught up with her.
“Oh, good, as if there hasn’t been enough hilarity already.” She glared at him and tried her level best to hate him, but she just couldn’t. Her conscience wouldn’t allow her to blame anybody but herself for what happened. If she had just listened to the farmer then none of this would have happened. As it was, she had desperately made a break for freedom only for Mother Nature to stand in the wa
y. That couldn’t be Barnaby’s fault or even Rufus’ really. It was purely her own.
He eased the horse into walk alongside a tiring Rose who, unbeknown to her, had already started to slow her pace. He wasn’t sure whether to be proud or horrified that she didn’t seem willing to admit that she was way out of her depth. She just continued to plough on regardless with her uneven gait, her backside flashing with each step she took, and her chin tipped up against the world. He was impressed, but felt as though he was committing some kind of cardinal sin by approving of someone so stubbornly determined to fly in the face of reason. He pitied whoever she ended up married to. The poor sap wouldn’t have a moment’s rest. Barnaby didn’t doubt that any husband of Rose’s would be grey within the first year, and would spend his entire life hauling his darling harridan out of one scrape after another. One thing was for certain, it wasn’t going to be him. In spite of the surge of jealousy that swept through him at the thought of Rose being the wife of someone else, Barnaby knew he was going to rest easier at night knowing she was no longer his burden. All he had to do was keep her out of Chadwick’s clutches and hand her over to one of his colleagues, like Reg. It was easy – or should be.
Maybe Reg would be better at keeping her safe, he mused as he rode alongside her.
Reg was just as reckless and gung-ho as Rose was. They would make a great couple, and could help each other out of the scrapes they got themselves into. Although it sounded like a good idea, Barnaby vetoed that idea as ludicrous because Reg was reckless about everything in his life. He worked hard, fought hard, and played just as hard. Reg was even more averse to matrimony that he was, and that was saying something. There was no way he could countenance an association between those two. Rose deserved better.
Whoa there, who said you have to countenance any romantic entanglements Rose got herself into? It is nothing to do with you he thought, shying away from the prospect of having any further contact with Rose when this was all over.
As soon as they reached Portsmouth, he was going to go after Chadwick, it was as simple as that. Not even his attraction to Rose was going to stop him.
