clearly furious. “ You own this lopsided pile? Says what? A
two hundred year old piece of parchment?” The girl snorted, unlocked the gate,
and began to pull a reluctant pig through it. “The Honeywells built this
lopsided pile with their bare hands in the year of our lord 996. And the
Montfords have attempted to steal it from us since the Invasion. Lying, bloody
thieving Norman upstarts!” she scoffed contemptuously, marching past him. “Just
because my ancestor couldn’t keep it in his breeches and had to have your ancestor for a wife –
tainting our pristine Saxon bloodlines, by the by – I will be triple damned if we lose our home to the
likes of you .”
Montford was further disoriented by the redhead’s outburst.
She was dressed like a stable hand, had the perfect diction of a blue blood,
and cursed like a sailor.
She was, of course, a Honeywell.
“Are you A.
Honeywell, then?”
“I am an A.
Honeywell,” she said cryptically, stopping in front of him and glancing up at
his face challengingly.
In that moment, several things happened. He realized why
she made him dizzy, he found Stevenage, and the pig decided to start moving.
Really moving.
She made him dizzy because, as he stared down at her face
from this short distance, he could better see her eyes, which were large, rimmed
with soot-colored lashes, and…
Two different colors .
One was brown and the other was blue, sky blue.
He had to clench his hands at his sides in order not to
reach out and try to erase such a glaring imperfection. Logic told him he could
not do so merely by shaking her shoulders, but he was tempted to try.
Before he could do so, the door to the barn across the yard
swung open, and a couple spilled out of it, laughing and stumbling in the muck.
He couldn’t manage to turn away from the redhead’s uncanny countenance, but out
of the corner of his eye, he noted a rather buxom woman, breasts spilling out
the top of her dress, straw colored hair pinned loosely back from a middle-aged
but pleasant-looking face, laughing and tugging on the arm of a man.
The man, dressed like a peasant, was chuckling, attempting
to steal a kiss from the woman, and weaving slightly on his feet, hiccoughing
with every other step. But something about the man’s wiry frame, steel gray
hair and spectacles, which were sitting slightly askew his beakish nose,
distracted Montford from the redhead’s unearthly eyes.
It was …
No, it couldn’t be.
Could it?
“Stevenage?” he called out, his voice mirroring his inner
turmoil.
The man froze, looked up from the woman’s bosom, and turned
as white as a sheet.
“Your – hic – Grace – hic ?” Stevenage
attempted a courtly bow, but staggered back and fell on his rump.
Montford turned back to the redhead. “What have you done to
my man-of-affairs?” he roared.
But before she could answer, the pig grew impatient and
began running across the yard, yanking the rope from the redhead’s hands.
And as the pig passed by Montford, it decided to bash its
hock against his legs, causing him to stumble backwards and land with a thwack
in a puddle of mud that reached his navel.
Montford was too shocked to do anything other than sit
there, staring around the stable yard and wondering if he had fallen into his
worst nightmare.
Or the seventh circle of hell.
Chapter
Four
IN WHICH
THE DUKE TAKES UP RESIDENCE IN A LOPSIDED CASTLE
ALL
HELL had broken loose in the yard. Petunia took off at a gallop, knocking the
Duke of Montford into the biggest mudslick in the county, Art and Ant burst out
of the shrubbery, chanting in Greek and hitting each other with their makeshift
swords, Alice and Aunt Anabel appeared at the door to the kitchens, and two men
Astrid didn’t recognize – one large and muscled and dressed in
travelstained livery, the other thin and consumptive and dressed like a peacock
– burst from the stables, chased by Charlie and Mick, the stable hands,
who were wielding, respectively,
two hundred year old piece of parchment?” The girl snorted, unlocked the gate,
and began to pull a reluctant pig through it. “The Honeywells built this
lopsided pile with their bare hands in the year of our lord 996. And the
Montfords have attempted to steal it from us since the Invasion. Lying, bloody
thieving Norman upstarts!” she scoffed contemptuously, marching past him. “Just
because my ancestor couldn’t keep it in his breeches and had to have your ancestor for a wife –
tainting our pristine Saxon bloodlines, by the by – I will be triple damned if we lose our home to the
likes of you .”
Montford was further disoriented by the redhead’s outburst.
She was dressed like a stable hand, had the perfect diction of a blue blood,
and cursed like a sailor.
She was, of course, a Honeywell.
“Are you A.
Honeywell, then?”
“I am an A.
Honeywell,” she said cryptically, stopping in front of him and glancing up at
his face challengingly.
In that moment, several things happened. He realized why
she made him dizzy, he found Stevenage, and the pig decided to start moving.
Really moving.
She made him dizzy because, as he stared down at her face
from this short distance, he could better see her eyes, which were large, rimmed
with soot-colored lashes, and…
Two different colors .
One was brown and the other was blue, sky blue.
He had to clench his hands at his sides in order not to
reach out and try to erase such a glaring imperfection. Logic told him he could
not do so merely by shaking her shoulders, but he was tempted to try.
Before he could do so, the door to the barn across the yard
swung open, and a couple spilled out of it, laughing and stumbling in the muck.
He couldn’t manage to turn away from the redhead’s uncanny countenance, but out
of the corner of his eye, he noted a rather buxom woman, breasts spilling out
the top of her dress, straw colored hair pinned loosely back from a middle-aged
but pleasant-looking face, laughing and tugging on the arm of a man.
The man, dressed like a peasant, was chuckling, attempting
to steal a kiss from the woman, and weaving slightly on his feet, hiccoughing
with every other step. But something about the man’s wiry frame, steel gray
hair and spectacles, which were sitting slightly askew his beakish nose,
distracted Montford from the redhead’s unearthly eyes.
It was …
No, it couldn’t be.
Could it?
“Stevenage?” he called out, his voice mirroring his inner
turmoil.
The man froze, looked up from the woman’s bosom, and turned
as white as a sheet.
“Your – hic – Grace – hic ?” Stevenage
attempted a courtly bow, but staggered back and fell on his rump.
Montford turned back to the redhead. “What have you done to
my man-of-affairs?” he roared.
But before she could answer, the pig grew impatient and
began running across the yard, yanking the rope from the redhead’s hands.
And as the pig passed by Montford, it decided to bash its
hock against his legs, causing him to stumble backwards and land with a thwack
in a puddle of mud that reached his navel.
Montford was too shocked to do anything other than sit
there, staring around the stable yard and wondering if he had fallen into his
worst nightmare.
Or the seventh circle of hell.
Chapter
Four
IN WHICH
THE DUKE TAKES UP RESIDENCE IN A LOPSIDED CASTLE
ALL
HELL had broken loose in the yard. Petunia took off at a gallop, knocking the
Duke of Montford into the biggest mudslick in the county, Art and Ant burst out
of the shrubbery, chanting in Greek and hitting each other with their makeshift
swords, Alice and Aunt Anabel appeared at the door to the kitchens, and two men
Astrid didn’t recognize – one large and muscled and dressed in
travelstained livery, the other thin and consumptive and dressed like a peacock
– burst from the stables, chased by Charlie and Mick, the stable hands,
who were wielding, respectively,
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