throat.
Whatever it was, he’d have to be trussed and chained before he’d leave solid ground again. He’d risked his life when he decided to return here, and he hoped he could eke out a simple existence. For this was surely the last, and only, opportunity he would ever be given on a platter.
He felt a sudden relief from the worries that had weighed on his mind for more than a decade and a half. He was finally in a place where he didn’t have to spend half the day or night in the blasting heat of a furnace, while also trying to work and protect his meager strip of land from starving British or colonial troops bent on raiding. Trading his hardscrabble life for the risk of discovery in the dales between Derbyshire and Yorkshire seemed more than fair.
Methodically, Michael’s mind ran through the rest of the chores that would have to be seen to today. Chickens, eggs, more milking, evening watering and feeding. And then, of course, there was the question of the mysterious, elegant lady inhabiting his new residence. He began to hum as he brushed out his horse’s tail and thought about the strangely haunting beauty in Sam’s manor.
It was painfully easy to sense she was hiding or running from something. He should know. She was as skittish as an unbroken yearling, and as prim as the spinster schoolmarm in the village nearest his tiny farm in Virginia. It was a good thing, too. He could not afford to dally with a woman of consequence, or really with any woman here, if he was honest with himself. It was just too damned dangerous. It would up the risk of exposure and might ruin his chance for a better life.
He lifted one of Sioux’s forelegs, cleaned the hoof and examined the frog for rot. Satisfied, he started on the next hoof. He felt her warm muzzle nudge his backside and he smiled. Yes, the only females he was going to concern himself with, as soon as he could help the countess on her way, were the ones with four legs. This new home of his was not to include any sort of golden-haired beauty wearing pearls that were worth more than any property he would own.
His mare snorted with something that sounded remarkably like disapproval.
Michael stomped his snow-covered boots inside the side entry to the house and Timmy followed suit. The storm showed not a single sign of letting up. It was but a moment before the unmistakable scent of burnt stew assailed his nostrils.
He stayed Timmy’s progress and set a finger to his own lips. “I trust you’ll grin and bear it?”
The boy wrinkled his nose, shrugged, and nodded.
An alarmed protestation sounded from the kitchen, followed by the clatter of crockery. He made his way down the hallway.
Huge blue eyes flew to his as he paused at the doorway with Timmy. An enormous apron splattered with numerous stains was wrapped twice around her tiny waist, and flour dusted her arms and face.
“Mrs. Sheffey, allow me to present one of the best stable hands in the North Country, Mr. Timmy Lattimer. Timmy, Mrs. Sheffey.” He had no intention of revealing her stature in society to anyone. There was too much at stake and he had no intention of tarnishing her reputation just because two people of differing sexes were forcibly stranded together for a short period.
Timmy tugged on his forelock and looked everywhere but the countess’s face. “Ma’am.”
“Mmmm,” Michael murmured. “What is that delicious scent? I should warn you we’re as hungry as two bears after a long winter.”
She bit her soft lower lip and drew a fallen strand of hair away from her face. “Of course.” Her voice held the beguiling, cultured musicality of an angel’s.
“Come along, Timmy. Let’s help Mrs. Sheffey by setting out the table goods.” He filled Timmy’s outstretched hands with dishes and cutlery and then loaded his own with a wheel of cheese and a large loaf of bread he spied, with relief.
He called out, “I hear tell that Yorkshire cheese is a delicacy not to be missed. Shall I toast a
Whatever it was, he’d have to be trussed and chained before he’d leave solid ground again. He’d risked his life when he decided to return here, and he hoped he could eke out a simple existence. For this was surely the last, and only, opportunity he would ever be given on a platter.
He felt a sudden relief from the worries that had weighed on his mind for more than a decade and a half. He was finally in a place where he didn’t have to spend half the day or night in the blasting heat of a furnace, while also trying to work and protect his meager strip of land from starving British or colonial troops bent on raiding. Trading his hardscrabble life for the risk of discovery in the dales between Derbyshire and Yorkshire seemed more than fair.
Methodically, Michael’s mind ran through the rest of the chores that would have to be seen to today. Chickens, eggs, more milking, evening watering and feeding. And then, of course, there was the question of the mysterious, elegant lady inhabiting his new residence. He began to hum as he brushed out his horse’s tail and thought about the strangely haunting beauty in Sam’s manor.
It was painfully easy to sense she was hiding or running from something. He should know. She was as skittish as an unbroken yearling, and as prim as the spinster schoolmarm in the village nearest his tiny farm in Virginia. It was a good thing, too. He could not afford to dally with a woman of consequence, or really with any woman here, if he was honest with himself. It was just too damned dangerous. It would up the risk of exposure and might ruin his chance for a better life.
He lifted one of Sioux’s forelegs, cleaned the hoof and examined the frog for rot. Satisfied, he started on the next hoof. He felt her warm muzzle nudge his backside and he smiled. Yes, the only females he was going to concern himself with, as soon as he could help the countess on her way, were the ones with four legs. This new home of his was not to include any sort of golden-haired beauty wearing pearls that were worth more than any property he would own.
His mare snorted with something that sounded remarkably like disapproval.
Michael stomped his snow-covered boots inside the side entry to the house and Timmy followed suit. The storm showed not a single sign of letting up. It was but a moment before the unmistakable scent of burnt stew assailed his nostrils.
He stayed Timmy’s progress and set a finger to his own lips. “I trust you’ll grin and bear it?”
The boy wrinkled his nose, shrugged, and nodded.
An alarmed protestation sounded from the kitchen, followed by the clatter of crockery. He made his way down the hallway.
Huge blue eyes flew to his as he paused at the doorway with Timmy. An enormous apron splattered with numerous stains was wrapped twice around her tiny waist, and flour dusted her arms and face.
“Mrs. Sheffey, allow me to present one of the best stable hands in the North Country, Mr. Timmy Lattimer. Timmy, Mrs. Sheffey.” He had no intention of revealing her stature in society to anyone. There was too much at stake and he had no intention of tarnishing her reputation just because two people of differing sexes were forcibly stranded together for a short period.
Timmy tugged on his forelock and looked everywhere but the countess’s face. “Ma’am.”
“Mmmm,” Michael murmured. “What is that delicious scent? I should warn you we’re as hungry as two bears after a long winter.”
She bit her soft lower lip and drew a fallen strand of hair away from her face. “Of course.” Her voice held the beguiling, cultured musicality of an angel’s.
“Come along, Timmy. Let’s help Mrs. Sheffey by setting out the table goods.” He filled Timmy’s outstretched hands with dishes and cutlery and then loaded his own with a wheel of cheese and a large loaf of bread he spied, with relief.
He called out, “I hear tell that Yorkshire cheese is a delicacy not to be missed. Shall I toast a
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