her leg. She jerked back a step, crowding against the carriage.
“What’s that?” she asked.
He scowled down at the thing. “That seems to be a pig.”
“What’s it doing here?” she asked, but she knew what it was doing. It was rutting around under her skirts, smacking her bare skin. “Holy damn!” she swore, and leapt back onto the carriage step, but at that moment she found that he was laughing at her.
“You won’t think it’s so all-fired funny when he ruins the fancy clothes you give me.”
“I can get you another gown, lass,” he said, still chuckling as he glanced to his left. She followed his gaze.
A boy of ten or twelve years was racing across the snow toward them, his battered coat flapping with his speed, but he skidded to a halt not five feet away, breathing hard and gazing up at them as if they’d just arrived from the moon.
“Is this your pig?” Nicol asked.
The lad nodded, then bent and snatched up the animal. It squealed as if bitten and scrambled wildly, but he pulled it to his chest with it squirming like an eel.
“What’s your name, lad?”
“Brady,” he said. “Master Brady Barnes.” He cut his round eyes toward Megan, and she gave him a smile. There was something about his unruly cowlick and smudged cheeks that made him look impishly innocent.
“Well, Brady, perhaps you should inform your mother that we have arrived,” Nicol said.
The boy nodded once, backed away a few steps, and sped for the house. Megan watched him go, craning her neck to see past the carriage, over the livestock fences, and on to the house beyond. It was an old wattle-and-daub cottage, boasting a thatched roof and square-paned windows. Megan slid her gaze away, over the snow-white hills and barren trees to the horizon. She licked her lips and remained calm. “What are we doing ’ere?” she asked.
“I didn’t think we needed the distractions of Newburn Halljust now. We will begin your lessons here where we’ll have more privacy.”
Damn right they’d have privacy. Privacy for him to perform all kinds of atrocities if he had a mind to. She’d just have to keep an open mind about that escaping idea, but she shrugged, not sharing her thoughts. “I ain’t never been on a farm before.”
She thought he would correct her grammar, but he didn’t. Instead, he had a word with the nearly invisible driver, then ushered her toward the house. The door opened long before they reached it, and a woman emerged. She was plump, middle-aged, and homey.
“My lord,” she greeted, reddened hands busy drying in her apron. “Welcome to Woodlea.”
They stepped onto the single stone stair and through the arched doorway. Kitchen smells tickled Megan’s nostrils. Roast goose and sugared yams. No. Wait. There was a tangy scent to the air. She closed her eyes to ascertain the source, but there were too many evocative smells to sort them all out. Her taste buds ached.
“You must be Mistress Barnes,” the viscount said, and Megan dragged her attention back to the woman. Her round cheeks were dimpled and nearly as red as her hands.
“I am that, my lord, and this…” She motioned to the left and a young woman sidled shyly up to her side. “This is me daughter Deirdre.” The girl was not more than sixteen years of age, dark of hair, clear of eye, and as bonny as a spring morning. Megan almost smiled. If this girl couldn’t distract the viscount, no one could. “She’ll be helping her ladyship with her hair and all.”
It took a moment for Megan to realize the woman was referring to herself, a moment longer to understand that she was still rambling off names and duties.
“And me wee lad is round about somewheres,” she added, glancing over their heads. “He’ll be fetchin’ your firewood and helpin’ out where he can. Come in now,” she said, and waved a dimpled hand as she led the way into the house’s interior.
Megan glanced about. She had seen bigger houses in Portshaven. In fact, she had
“What’s that?” she asked.
He scowled down at the thing. “That seems to be a pig.”
“What’s it doing here?” she asked, but she knew what it was doing. It was rutting around under her skirts, smacking her bare skin. “Holy damn!” she swore, and leapt back onto the carriage step, but at that moment she found that he was laughing at her.
“You won’t think it’s so all-fired funny when he ruins the fancy clothes you give me.”
“I can get you another gown, lass,” he said, still chuckling as he glanced to his left. She followed his gaze.
A boy of ten or twelve years was racing across the snow toward them, his battered coat flapping with his speed, but he skidded to a halt not five feet away, breathing hard and gazing up at them as if they’d just arrived from the moon.
“Is this your pig?” Nicol asked.
The lad nodded, then bent and snatched up the animal. It squealed as if bitten and scrambled wildly, but he pulled it to his chest with it squirming like an eel.
“What’s your name, lad?”
“Brady,” he said. “Master Brady Barnes.” He cut his round eyes toward Megan, and she gave him a smile. There was something about his unruly cowlick and smudged cheeks that made him look impishly innocent.
“Well, Brady, perhaps you should inform your mother that we have arrived,” Nicol said.
The boy nodded once, backed away a few steps, and sped for the house. Megan watched him go, craning her neck to see past the carriage, over the livestock fences, and on to the house beyond. It was an old wattle-and-daub cottage, boasting a thatched roof and square-paned windows. Megan slid her gaze away, over the snow-white hills and barren trees to the horizon. She licked her lips and remained calm. “What are we doing ’ere?” she asked.
“I didn’t think we needed the distractions of Newburn Halljust now. We will begin your lessons here where we’ll have more privacy.”
Damn right they’d have privacy. Privacy for him to perform all kinds of atrocities if he had a mind to. She’d just have to keep an open mind about that escaping idea, but she shrugged, not sharing her thoughts. “I ain’t never been on a farm before.”
She thought he would correct her grammar, but he didn’t. Instead, he had a word with the nearly invisible driver, then ushered her toward the house. The door opened long before they reached it, and a woman emerged. She was plump, middle-aged, and homey.
“My lord,” she greeted, reddened hands busy drying in her apron. “Welcome to Woodlea.”
They stepped onto the single stone stair and through the arched doorway. Kitchen smells tickled Megan’s nostrils. Roast goose and sugared yams. No. Wait. There was a tangy scent to the air. She closed her eyes to ascertain the source, but there were too many evocative smells to sort them all out. Her taste buds ached.
“You must be Mistress Barnes,” the viscount said, and Megan dragged her attention back to the woman. Her round cheeks were dimpled and nearly as red as her hands.
“I am that, my lord, and this…” She motioned to the left and a young woman sidled shyly up to her side. “This is me daughter Deirdre.” The girl was not more than sixteen years of age, dark of hair, clear of eye, and as bonny as a spring morning. Megan almost smiled. If this girl couldn’t distract the viscount, no one could. “She’ll be helping her ladyship with her hair and all.”
It took a moment for Megan to realize the woman was referring to herself, a moment longer to understand that she was still rambling off names and duties.
“And me wee lad is round about somewheres,” she added, glancing over their heads. “He’ll be fetchin’ your firewood and helpin’ out where he can. Come in now,” she said, and waved a dimpled hand as she led the way into the house’s interior.
Megan glanced about. She had seen bigger houses in Portshaven. In fact, she had
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