Heading directly to the stables, Fredrick dismounted and went in search of Quinn. He found the old servant in the tack room enjoying a peaceful smoke.
Not bothering with preliminaries, Fredrick explained precisely what he desired of the man and the various tools that would be needed to accomplish the task.
Quinn listened in silence, with only the lift of his brows revealing that he found Fredrick’s request out of the ordinary.
At last he turned his head to spit. “Drainage ditches, eh?”
Fredrick smiled, leaning against the workbench with his arms folded over his chest. He breathed in deeply of the rich scent of hay and leather and polish. Earthy scents that reminded him that he was far from his London townhouse.
A knowledge that for the moment did not trouble him a whit.
“Unless you prefer mucking about in the mud?” he demanded.
The servant gave a wry grin. “Nay, I can’t say as I do. Still, it seems a mite odd that Mrs. Walker hasn’t spoken of this notion.”
“Not odd at all considering that I have yet to speak with her about it. I thought it would be a pleasant surprise.”
“Oh aye, a surprise.” Rubbing his chin, Quinn narrowed his gaze in a quizzical manner. “Why?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why would a fashionable gent who be just passing through want to be plotting surprises for an innkeeper?”
“If I were truly a fashionable gent I would tell you to mind your own business, you damned old goat,” Fredrick said lightly, his expression carefully bland. “But as it is, I am merely a man of business who cannot halt my compulsion to tinker and fix anything in my path. Including a muddy yard in an obscure inn.” A rueful smile touched his lips. “My friends will assure you that I have yet to be invited to their homes without finding something that needs to be altered.”
Quinn gave a snort at the perfectly logical explanation. “And this has nothing to do with getting Mrs. Walker in yer bed?”
Fredrick swallowed a soft groan at the thought of Portia in his bed. Hell, he would dig a ditch to London if it would mean having her delicate body warm and welcoming beneath him. His rampaging lust, however, was not solely the reason for his desire to teach her that men could offer more than betrayal.
It was all becoming far more complicated.
Complicated enough that he had no desire to actually sort through the strange impulse that compelled him to prove his worth to the aggravating woman.
Aware that Quinn was studying him with that all-too-knowing gaze, Fredrick conjured a small smile.
“I am a man who is perfectly capable of recognizing a beautiful woman when she crosses my path, but I do not force the unwilling.”
“But ye are willing to seduce her with drainage ditches?” Quinn persisted, clearly feeling it his duty to protect the woman who had taken him in when no one else would.
Fredrick did not doubt that the entire staff felt the same protective urges. Which meant that he would have to take care not to give any of them a reason to consider him the enemy.
“For the moment I would be pleased if she could learn that not all gentlemen are created for the sole purpose of making her life miserable.”
The older man pondered for a long moment, debating between bringing Fredrick’s plot to a swift end and allowing him to continue.
“Clever, but I fear yer destined for a nasty set-down,” he at last warned. “Mrs. Walker don’t take kindly to those who interfere. Especially not London gents.”
“She is a woman of sense.” Frederick gave a lift of his shoulder. “Once she realizes that my changes are best for the inn, she will be happy that I offered my expertise.”
Quinn gave a short laugh. “Aye, she might, but then she might just geld ye. Should be interesting to see which it is.”
Fredrick would have found the words a good deal more amusing if there weren’t more than a bit of truth in them. Portia Walker was certainly capable of doing a bit of gelding if the urge should hit her.
“Interesting, indeed,” he said dryly. “So you will assist me?”
“Yer playing with fire.”
“It will not be the first time.”
There was another pause before Quinn gave a wide grin. “Very well, I’ll gather the lads. But do not blame me when you find yerself being hauled like a carcass over the coals.”
By late afternoon, Portia found herself near exhaustion. Her own fault, of course. After overseeing the daily laundry, she had sorted through the linens in search of those that needed darning, spent an hour of haggling with Mr. Patrick, the local butcher, inventoried the cellars, and tackled her account ledgers with grim resolution.
That did not even include the departing and arriving guests who demanded her attention.
Portia rubbed her lower back as she made her way through the back corridor to the kitchen. She had accomplished a great deal over the past few hours, she acknowledged wryly, except the one thing she had hoped to accomplish.
Damn Mr. Fredrick Smith.
She did not want to be plagued by thoughts of those heartbreakingly beautiful features. Or the feel of his clever fingers sliding over her skin. Or the taste of his finely carved lips.
She did not want those whispers in the back of her mind that urged her to forget her sworn promise never to trust another man.
And she most certainly did not want those scandalous daydreams of scented spring nights lying in a pair of warm, strong arms.
Portia muttered beneath her breath as she entered the bustling kitchen. Soon enough Mr. Smith would be on his way and she could put him firmly from her mind. Until then . . . well, until then she would grit her teeth and hope no one noticed her ridiculous distraction.
Crossing the freshly mopped flagstone floor, Portia halted beside her cook.
“Mrs. Cornell, have you seen Tolly?”
Busy shelling peas, the older woman gave a nod of her head toward the back door.
“Aye, he’s outside helping that London gent.”
Portia frowned. London gent? That could only mean Fredrick. But what the devil could he want with young Tolly?
“Thank you,” she murmured, moving swiftly out of the inn and into the back garden.
Absently frowning as she realized that Tolly was nowhere in sight, she paused long enough to pet the ecstatic Puck, who danced about her feet before heading toward the stable yard.
She rounded the corner of the inn, coming to a sudden halt at the sight of her entire male staff busily digging along the edges of the yard.
Picking up her skirts to keep the wool from being stained, she hurried to where Quinn was filling one of the ditches with a mixture of gravel and sand.
“Quinn?”
The older man straightened, an odd glint of humor in his eyes. “Aye?”
“Whatever are you doing?”
“Ye had best ask yer guest.” He nodded his head toward the stables where Fredrick was using a hoe to mark lines in the mud. “He was the one who decided yer yard was in need of drainage.”
Portia’s heart gave a startled jerk as she studied the slender, honey-haired man. He had stripped down to no more than tight breeches and a fine lawn shirt. Not nearly enough to hide the smooth muscles that rippled with a predatory grace, or the glimpse of pale golden skin that was exposed by the open buttons.
Holy heavens. Her mouth went dry even as her palms began to sweat in the most peculiar manner.
It was no wonder that custom dictated that a man remain properly attired in the presence of a lady. At least a man who could make a poor woman gape and gawk at his sheer male beauty.
It was indecent.
Nearly as indecent as the heat curling through the pit of her stomach.
With a shake of her head, Portia forced her attention back to the man at her side.
“I do not care if he decided my inn needed wings so it might fly, he has no right to interfere. And you had no business giving into his ridiculous commands,” she added tartly.
“Pleased?” She gave a click of her tongue. “The man dares to treat my property as if it were his own, and he believes I will be pleased?”
“Well, ye must admit that the yard does get a boggy mess when it rains, and the man seems to know a thing or two about these ditches. Why toss away a fine gift jest because ye have no liking for the ribbon?”
Portia rolled her eyes. “Mr. Smith has caused quite enough chaos at the Queen’s Arms. I will not tolerate any more.”
Spinning on her heel, Portia marched across the muddy ground to the stables. Fredrick Smith might be the most beautiful man she had ever encountered, but he was also the most annoying.
A dangerous combination to her normally even temperament.
Halting directly before the aggravating man, Portia planted her hands on her hips and conjured her most commanding expression.
“Mr. Smith.”
Without even bothering to glance up, Fredrick continued to pull his hoe through the mud.
“I thought we had agreed to Fredrick,” he murmured softly.
A shaft of anger shot through Portia even as she shivered at the sight of his half-naked form. Gads, it was even more disturbing up close.
Despite the cool air, the linen shirt was damp enough to cling with loving precision to the width of his chest and the scent of warm male skin reached out to tease at her nose.
Her entire body tingled with a sharp, delicious tension that threatened to distract her from the reason she had approached him in the first place.
It was hard to be furious when her thoughts were consumed with the picture of ripping that shirt from his body and running her hands over that hard chest.
Snapping her teeth together, she grimly thrust aside the treacherous sensations.
“Mr. Smith, please put my hoe down and attend me.”
“My name is Fredrick.”
She glared at the top of his honey curls as he continued with his self-imposed task.
“Fredrick,” she forced herself to grit.
Slowly straightening, Fredrick allowed the hoe to drop and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe at his hands.
“Yes, Portia?”
“Would you mind telling me just what the devil you think you are about?”
Tucking away the handkerchief, Fredrick at last allowed his gaze to meet her cold glare.
“I would not mind at all,” he said with a faint smile. “I am offering you the benefit of my expertise. I assure you that many pay a fortune for my skills.”
“And if I had desire of your skills then I would willingly pay you such a fortune,” she informed him in icy tones. “As it is I would prefer that you reserve your expertise for those who request it.”
“Why?”
“Because I do not appreciate your interference.”
A chiseled brow arched as he studied her with an unnerving intensity. “And how am I interfering?”
“You know very well that you have taken my servants away from their duties and have them wasting their time digging in the mud instead of tending to my guests.”
He shrugged, the simple movement causing the muscles of his chest to ripple in a fascinating manner.
“Actually what they are doing is providing proper drainage so your yard will not become a treacherous swamp whenever it rains,” he said, as if it were all perfectly logical. “I assure you that your guests will be delighted to avoid ruining their footwear. And you will have far more carriages willing to halt if they need not fear becoming stuck in the mire.”
He was right, of course. She had been meaning to have the yard properly repaired for the past year. That knowledge, however, did nothing to ease her smoldering frustration.
She did not want any man interfering in her life. Especially not this man. It was aggravating enough that he set her senses aflame just by being near. Did he have to thrust his way into her business as well?
“That is not the point.”
“Then what is the point?” he pressed.
“This is my property.”
“And?”
Her fingers clenched into tight fists. He was being deliberately obtuse. And worse, she did not know if she wanted to throttle him or rip off that shirt and kiss her way down his gorgeous chest.
Portia sucked in a deep breath, deliberately jutting out her chin. “And you have no right to make decisions here.”
“Even if they are good decisions?” he demanded.
“They are mine to make,” she gritted.
Without warning he had reached out to grasp her hand and tugged her into the nearby stables. Portia stumbled behind, too startled to put up a proper fight.
Or at least that was what she told herself. Otherwise it would mean a secret part of her actually wanted to be alone with the man in the shadowed stables.
Pulling until they were out of sight of the servants, Fredrick at last halted and regarded her with a narrowed gaze.
“I admire your independence, poppet, but surely a gentleman can offer you a gift without threatening it?”
She gave a jerk on her hand, attempting to free herself from his grasp. When it was obvious he would not loosen his grip without a futile struggle, Portia was forced to content herself with an aloof expression.
“You consider this a gift?”
That charming grin curved his lips. “You did not seem the sort of woman who desired the traditional posies or pretty trinkets.”
Her heart slammed against her chest as she felt his thumb lightly caress the skin of her inner wrist. Her eyes widened as they clashed with the shimmering gray gaze.
Oh . . . mercy.
Concentrate, Portia. Just . . . concentrate.
“Why would you offer me any gifts?”
“To please you, of course.”
A sharp fear arrowed down her spine. “No, Fredrick, do not . . .”
Her words stuttered to a halt as he stepped closer, his hands lightly running up her arms to grasp her shoulders. His touch was soft, but it sent a shock of heat to the tips of her toes.
“I am asking nothing of you, Portia,” he said, his tone low and as smooth as honey. “And I do have an ulterior motive.”
“What is that?” The words came out strangely hoarse.
“I have already ruined one pair of boots.” The silver eyes danced with amusement. “If I ruin my last pair I shall be forced to go about in my stockings.”
She lowered her gaze, unable to think clearly when he was so near. “Please do not jest.”
“Portia—”
“This is not just a business to me,” she interrupted, far too conscious of his proximity. It would be so easy to reach out and touch that beautiful face. To run her fingers through his tangled curls. Gads, it was actually painful to resist. “This inn is my . . . security. So long as it is in my charge I know that I need never fear for my future.”
“I understand, poppet,” he murmured. “I truly do.”
With a sharp movement she had pulled from his distracting touch. “You could not possibly understand.”
The elegant features hardened as he caught and held her wary gaze. “Portia, I was born a bastard. There is no one in the world who better understands what it is to be completely alone in the world. My mother died when I was born, and until the age of eight, I was forced to live with an elderly widow in Winchester who took great delight in beating me with her cane. I had no friends, no one who cared if I cried myself to sleep at night.” His lips twisted in a humorless smile. “Not even my beloved father who did not even acknowledge me as his bastard until I was sent to school in London.”
She bit her bottom lip, touched in spite of herself by his stark words. “I am sorry.”
“I did not reveal my sordid past for your pity,” his features softened. “I only want you to know that I understand your need to feel that you are in control of your life. When one is forced to endure
uncertainty and constant upheaval, it is inevitable to crave a need for security.”
He did understand. Perhaps more than she wanted.
This man had felt the terror of being helpless against the whimsy of fate. Of knowing that he had no one but himself to depend on if he was to survive.
Which in some ways only made it worse, she acknowledged. If he would just primp and prance and flutter about like any decent dandy she could freeze him with one slaying glare.
But a kindred spirit?
That she did not know how to battle.
Portia wrapped her arms about her waist as she regarded him with a wary frown.
“If you understand, then why are you so determined to meddle where you do not belong?”
The grey eyes became misty as he allowed pleasant memories to overtake him.
“Because I was fortunate enough to be given into the care of a very wise man who taught me that being strong and independent did not mean a person cannot appreciate the kindness offered by others. In fact, it is in sharing our lives with others that brings a richness to our days.”
“I share my life with many people,” she protested. “The people who work for me are more than mere servants, they are my family.”
“And dependent on you for their livelihood.”
Portia stiffened, oddly stung by his words. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Slowly he stepped toward her, his gaze deliberately lowering to her mouth.
“They are no threat to you, poppet,” he whispered.
“And you are?”
A wicked fire abruptly sparked to life in the silver eyes. “Perhaps.”
She resisted the urge to lick her lips. That breathless tension was swirling between them. A near tangible heat that brushed over her skin and made her breath unsteady. The slightest movement and she would be in his arms.
Where she wanted to be.
“I need to return to the inn,” she husked.
He gave a soft chuckle, as if amused by her less-than-subtle need to flee. Then he slowly bent his head toward her.
Portia instinctively prepared herself to battle his kiss, but she was unprepared when he tilted his head and pressed his face in the curve of her neck. He drew in a deep breath, inhaling her scent.
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