“I can do it, my lord,” Mary Mike stated without equivocation. “I’ve been working with your sheep and stable foremen for years. They just call me Mike or Malcolm. To put it bluntly, we’ve developed an excellent breeding program. They trust me.”
Gerard considered pounding his skull against a wall. Breeding program. The woman had said breeding program. And no one gasped. He had to remember Wystan was another planet, one run by abnormal women.
“But it’s the apples and wheat that need attention now,” he reminded her. “We bring in men who don’t know you.”
“If you’ll allow, they won’t know I’m a woman,” she said in satisfaction. “I can ride those fields better than Avery ever did.”
Gerard remembered why he avoided his estate three-hundred-sixty days of the year. The women were insane and did their best to drive him down the same path.
“She can do it, my lord,” Winifred said firmly. “You won’t know it’s her when she rides out.”
They were effectively telling him that a woman—a lady—could be as good as a man in an all-male terrain. He couldn’t see it. The men were crude and frequently aggressive. They needed someone who spoke their language. Even he was at a disadvantage. It required a man in the middle who could speak to both classes—like Avery, dammit.
“Women are very adaptable,” Iona said with confidence. “We have to be. You’ll be here part of the time. Watch and see.”
He could imagine the little countess now, walking the fields of the north country after her mother’s death, beating sheep into submission through sheer strength of will. He threw back his whisky, swallowed his doubts, and nodded. “Let’s test it then. I make no promises. If the men get drunk at noon or drive sheep over a cliff, that will be the end of the experiment, understood?”
Mary Mike held out her hand like a man. “I’m honored. Thank you, my lord.”
He shook, as if she were a man. He could almost sense a collective sigh of relief.
“Ceridwen says you’re one of us,” Simone said with satisfaction. “Is dinner ready yet? After all this tension, I’m quite famished.”
The bell rang as if her words had yanked the ropes. Or maybe the ghostly Ceridwen.
Before the beekeeper could vanish, Gerard caught her arm and all but dragged her into dinner.
If he wasn’t careful, he’d make her his countess, just to handle the residents of his castle. But she was an impoverished, managing Malcolm, and the very last kind of wife he needed. He would try not to want her too much.
* * *
As the soup was served, Iona waited for the earl to scold her for her interfering ways. When she had corrected her stepfather, he’d usually shouted and stomped off, leaving her or Isobel to manage what needed to be done. The earl retained his diplomatic façade, as always, but he was steaming. Even over the heady scent of the chicken broth, she could sense his fury and confusion.
And integrity. She hadn’t smelled integrity often, so she’d been unable to identify the scent at first. It was much like being unable to judge the taste of a spice by its smell. But now she recognized that it complemented the clean fresh odor of honesty well.
She savored the soup but still the earl didn’t speak except when spoken to. He could hold his raging temper—nice.
Hers wasn’t a retiring nature. She’d simply learned to disappear in self-defense. But the earl knew her story, most of it, anyway. If she didn’t mean to hide while she was here, she might as well shake off the rest of her invisibility and try to remember who she was.
“You are perfectly free to scold for my managing ways,” she offered. “I’ve been locked in my room, threatened with a whip, and had feces flung at me. I will assume you’ll be more polite. And since I have to leave anyway, you can even throw me out, if it will make you feel better. But I must say, you dealt with the ladies beautifully this evening.”
The earl’s jaw muscles tightened over aristocratically high cheekbones and his midnight eyes glared. “You are not at fault for Avery’s theft.”
“But you were perfectly content to let him go his own way until I interfered.” She needled him just a little to deflate the steam.
“I would have been perfectly content on the way to bankruptcy,” he retorted in a low voice so Grace on his other side could not hear. Politely, he turned to Grace and asked a question about her loom.
“Mary Mike will make an excellent steward,” Iona suggested when he turned back to her. “She is better educated than Avery and already knows your property.”
“She can wear what she likes, but she is not a man,” he said through clenched teeth. “I cannot single-handedly change the world. The men need to respect the person giving orders.”
“Thank you for letting her try,” Iona said demurely, now that he seemed to be calming down. “I’ve seen her work with your grooms. I’m not sure they realize she’s a woman any longer.”
The earl rubbed a tic in his cheek. “This is not suitable dinner conversation. I cannot even imagine the scandal if word goes out that I have a woman masquerading as a man running my estate, and it will. She won’t be able to negotiate or sign contracts with banks or others.”
Iona winced. She had no answer for that. She was relieved when he turned his attention elsewhere.
He glanced down the table. “Mrs. Merriweather, do you know if there has ever been a discovery of Roman ruins or artifacts hereabouts?”
As the Malcolm Librarian, the slight, older lady held a paying position even higher than Avery’s had been. She was the only woman currently on the premises addressed with formality. She wrinkled up her eyes in thought, then shook her gray curls. “Not that I recollect, but I’ll ask the books this evening, shall I?”
“I would appreciate that, thank you.” He turned to Mary Mike. “In your wandering, have you noticed anything that might be the remains of an old keep?”
Iona cut into her fish and wondered what was on his mind. And why he’d set her at his right if he didn’t want to shout at her. Smelling integrity didn’t answer her curiosity.
“There are outcroppings of rocks all over the fells but none that appear to be more than a shepherd’s hut,” Mary Mike acknowledged. “The plowmen occasionally turn up a coin or two but nothing of significance.”
Iona eyed the earl with interest but didn’t speak up again. If she wanted him to help her, she shouldn’t push him too far. He didn’t need to remind her that she was small and weak. Sitting next to a muscular man like the earl reminded her of all she was not. Her wits were her best defense.
As the last of the dessert plates were carried away, the earl bent toward Iona again. “May I have a word with you without everyone watching?”
A tingle ran up her spine, and she was pretty certain it wasn’t of fear. Ives was extremely handsome, after all, and she wasn’t immune to masculine interest.
“You should probably ask Mike to linger over port,” she said, lips twitching as his steam level rose again. “I usually check on my queen at this hour. While you talk to your new steward, I’ll sit with the ladies a little before going out.”
“You go out in the orchard at night alone?” His voice rose.
“Talk to Mike.” Iona stood up with the other ladies and left him simmering.
Yes, she was a managing, interfering female, but the earl wouldn’t have to put up with her for much longer.
And a good thing, too. She was enjoying her brief freedom entirely too much. Not having to watch her tongue or mind her back gave her time to think about what she actually wanted.
She wasn’t certain what she wanted in the long term, but right now, she wanted her sister and her hive safe, and she’d like to kiss the Earl of Ives and Wystan, at least once. Before she could have anything, she had to pry Mortimer out of her life.
Once her stepfather held no threat over her, she’d be able to think clearly again—because wanting an English earl with little more money than she had made no sense at all.
Eleven
&
nbsp; Leaving the castle and striding for the orchard, Gerard longed to be anywhere but Wystan. He’d not been able to concentrate on his conversation with Mary Mike while he worried over the damnable countess out here alone. This might not be the city, but foxes, poachers, and other rogues all roamed the night. Did she plan to hex them?
He found Iona just where she’d said—communicating with her queen. She’d wrapped a cloak around her against the cool night wind. With the hood up, she looked the part of witch. But when she heard him coming, she dropped the hood, and moonlight caught her corona of golden hair, and it was like watching the sun rise. He could almost believe in magic.
Treasure comes with danger, the medallion said grumpily.
“You wished a word with me, my lord?” she asked politely as he approached.
Why did he have the impression that he could have been a monster, and she would have faced him equally coolly?
“I simply wanted to assure myself that you weren’t planning on doing anything hare-brained like running away.” Now that he’d said it, he felt a right fool, but he’d needed this moment with her alone, just to settle his temper.
No one ever stripped away his polished veneer the way this diminutive female could. That was a problem. Next, he’d be telling her about the voice in his head crying Danger, and he’d be a laughingstock within weeks.
Although once his friends learned about Mary Mike, that would happen anyway.
The countess shrugged. “First, I need to determine if the Queen is at Balmoral yet or still at Holyrood. I assume she might have left staff at Holyrood, so Edinburgh would be simpler. Then I’ll run.”
She dimpled up at him, apparently recognizing that she was only raking the coals of his ire. The damned female was a manipulator par none. How did she do that?
Then remembering his mother’s dangerously sensitive abilities and Iona’s mention of smelling his lust, Gerard wished he’d never requested this meeting. He should be riding the hell out of here before the beekeeper had him turned inside out so she could examine his innards. Wrapping himself in a cloak of ennui wouldn’t deceive her perceptivity. He already felt raw and exposed.
“You cannot directly petition the queen for your title,” he told her, hoping to nip this inanity in the bud. “It has to go through proper channels, and that will most likely include a parliamentary committee and more red tape. It is not a simple matter.”
“The queen can make it simple, if she wishes. Is your father on her right or wrong side these days?”
She may as well have smacked him, inquiring about the marquess’s aid as if Gerard were naught more than a stepping stone. He understood why men might threaten to horsewhip her. “Politically, they’re at odds. Personally, Vicki likes looking at him. He occasionally gets away with metaphorical murder. And I am not applying to my father on a matter of no concern to him. He has enough to do.”
She nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll ask the ladies at the School of Malcolms. I need to go to Edinburgh. Would you be interested in helping me to do that?”
“Why?” he demanded. “So you can sell yourself to the American, then run away again?”
It would be just like the damned noble countess to sacrifice herself for her sister.
“I have given our discussion some thought. I have never been particularly interested in marriage or children. I want a freedom that women aren’t permitted. I’m not like Mary Mike. I have no desire to be a man. But I would like to have the ability to improve my estate, experiment with my bees, travel to London. . . all things I cannot do now. As a married woman with wealth, I could do a great deal more.”
She gave him one of her enigmatic molten-honey looks. “What I need is a good negotiator. I thought your father might be a possibility. Mr. Winter would probably genuflect to a marquess. But the ladies will know someone.”
Gerard clenched fists, molars, and lips to prevent steam from escaping. Inhaling carefully, he managed not to shout. “You are doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Couldn’t you simply ask me to take you to Edinburgh and negotiate with Winter? Why torture me?”
Her eyes widened just a little. “I don’t know why my choosing my future would be torture for you. And I have no idea if you’re a good negotiator.”
No one had any idea what he could do, including himself. He’d never really been given the opportunity. But his cranium held encyclopedias of knowledge—and apparently the voice of a Roman soldier who chuckled.
“You don’t need a good negotiator, you need a magician,” Gerard told her callously. “There is no way on heaven, earth, or hell that Parliament will allow an American to be an earl. You can petition for your letters patent, if you like, so you can claim the title, lands, and vote. But he will never be allowed to be anything more than Lord Arthur, your consort.”
“He doesn’t know that, though, does he?” she asked, looking thoughtful. “If I’m given letters patent, then I can vote? That would be singularly amusing. I think Isobel would enjoy it more than I would though.”
“You mean your sister is even more of a managing female than you?” he asked, unable to quell the horror in his voice.
The lady laughed. “My sister is much quieter and more devious. She likes managing books and leaves people to me. I’ve often thought that together, we might make one whole person. I’m not certain either of us has what it takes to be a parliamentarian, but she’d listen to speeches more patiently.”
Treasure, claim her! shouted the insane voice in his head.
Gerard was quite clear that he wasn’t insane. He knew he only had to take the medallion out of his pocket to have peace and quiet again. He had a table full of artifacts to prove that. He might be stupid for listening to the voice though.
But honestly, the soldier wasn’t saying anything that Gerard wasn’t thinking. Except he couldn’t claim a lady without marriage. One did not lure virgins to bed without expectations.
“You have the determination to make a most excellent countess,” he told her, before he knew what he meant to say.
She gazed up at him in astonishment, her long lashes trapping him like a bee in a flower. If this might be his only chance to simply hold her. . .
Gerard circled Iona’s slender waist, bent down, and kissed her luscious lips, just to see if they tasted like honey. They did.
For moments out of time, she clung to him, allowing him to savor her sweetness, giving him access when he pressed for more. The instant his hand roamed below her waist, she shoved away, panting hard and keeping her distance, glaring warily.
Had the beekeeper not been an impoverished Malcolm, he’d be proposing marriage right now. He wanted her, any way he could have her.
All right, that might be insane.
Without apology, Gerard dropped the medallion in the grass and ground it into the earth with his boot. “So it’s agreed—you’ll stay here while I ride out to do interviews and sell property and learn what I can of this reward being offered?”
She brushed herself off as if they hadn’t just shared the deepest, most soul-wrenching kiss he’d ever experienced. She was giving him a taste of what other people might feel when confronted with his indifference. It twisted his gut.
“I have no say in what you do, my lord, any more than you can dictate what I do. Cast me out if that bothers you. I need to write Isobel to let her know I’m safe for now. Good evening.” She bobbed a very small curtsy and strode off, revealing dainty shoes instead of boots.
He had the brains, wealth, and power of two men. She admitted she was a halfwit without her sister and lacked so much as a farthing to her name. And after she’d kissed him as if she meant it, she’d cut him off at the knees.
There was a lesson to be learned from this, but he’d be damned if he knew what it was.
Grabbing the medallion from the earth, he shoved it in his pocket. The soldier grumbled and muttered all the way back to the castle.
* * *
“I answered a few questions about bees,” Iona said, hand
ing her missive over to Mrs. Merriweather the next morning. “Would you be so kind as to post this to Calder Castle?”
“Of course, dear.” The librarian slid the folded sheet into an envelope. “Should we have told the earl that Calder’s steward is female? Would that make him feel better?”
Knowing that the librarian had recognized her relationship to said steward, Iona fought her concern and allowed herself a small smile. “No, let the earl think he’s being persecuted. It’s good for his soul.”
She’d been a fool to let him kiss her last night, but she’d wanted it so very badly. . . She was still a little giddy at being held and desired, if only for just a few minutes. But now she had to adjust her thinking back to normal. “The earl has had everything his way all his life, hasn’t he?”
Mrs. Merriweather considered that for a moment. “In a way, I suppose. But Gerard has had to prove himself to much older half-brothers who didn’t inherit the title or estate. Worse yet, the marquess has lived with tragedy all his life, including the loss of his first legitimate son and heir. Gerard was a late arrival, after the family had despaired of having another son. The marquess places rather large expectations on him in consequence. He’s never really been allowed to sow wild oats.”
Iona wagered he’d sowed a few. A man didn’t kiss like that without knowing what he was doing. Then she remembered Lady Alice and grimaced. She wouldn’t be another notch on his bedpost.
“Why didn’t his half-brothers inherit?” Iona knew better than to express interest, but now that she’d quit hiding, she was trying to find herself again. Her real self was dangerously inquisitive.
“The marquess wasn’t married to their mother, dear,” Miss Merriweather said with a twinkle in her eye. “She was an actress, I believe, and her sons are twins. Twins tend to run in the Ives family.”
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