by Jen Turano
“For what it’s worth, I think you might want to wait until Mrs. Delmont is up and about before you make any decisions. Once she’s out of her room, you’ll be able to judge for yourself whether she’s qualified for taking on the responsibilities needed here at the farm. Although I’m still not convinced we truly need the services of a housekeeper.”
“If you want to offer the children a permanent home, a housekeeper is nonnegotiable.”
Aunt Birdie waved that aside. “We’ll see, but tell me this, how are matters with the farm hands?”
Since there was little point in continuing with a conversation his aunt had no desire to continue, Ian took a bite of his apple, then washed it down with a glass of milk his aunt had poured for him from the pitcher on the table. “I told you that Uncle Amos chased off three men yesterday, accusing them of being responsible for letting the chickens free the other day. That leaves only Hank to help with the animals. But there’s no need to fret that we’ll be short-handed for long. I rode into town early this morning and managed to hire on two new hands. They’ll be here tomorrow.”
Aunt Birdie opened her mouth but was interrupted from whatever she’d been about to say when another bout of clanging rang out, this time more insistent than the last bout.
“Perhaps you should check on her,” Aunt Birdie said once the clanging stopped. “The children were keeping her company this morning, but they ran outside about thirty minutes ago, saying something about going off to name some chickens. They’ve been very attentive to Mrs. Delmont’s bell ringing, which means they might abandon the fun of naming chickens if they think she needs them. That would be a shame because I don’t believe the children have experienced much fun in their short lives.”
Ian pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “I’m ashamed to admit I’ve not found much time to spend with the children yet. Uncle Amos has had me riding along the fence line checking for damage. It took me hours yesterday and a few more today to repair some damage we did find. Even so, I well recall how it feels to land in a foreign world, and it’s not well done of me to neglect the children simply because I’m buried in work.”
“The children have been fine without your attention, dear. They’ve been spending the past few days getting to know me, as well as exploring the house and barns. They’ve also been spending quite a bit of time with Mrs. Delmont, whom they’ve taken to addressing as Izzie.” Aunt Birdie’s eyes softened. “Poor little Daisy was having a hard time saying ‘Mrs. Delmont.’ And even with me finding something peculiar about the woman who has barricaded herself upstairs, I must say that it speaks well of her that she was so quick to offer the children the use of her first name.”
“Do you think it wise for the children to spend time with Mrs. Delmont since it’s yet to be decided if she’ll be remaining here after her poison ivy clears up? I would hate for them to become too attached to her and then have her abandon them.”
“I fear they’ve already become attached to her, at least the girls. Primrose is especially drawn to her.”
“Primrose is the eldest child?”
Aunt Birdie nodded. “Primrose is nine, but I must say she’s old for her years. Then there’s Henry at seven, and I do believe he is a bit of a scamp. Violet is five, but she’s not warmed up to me yet and barely speaks. And then there’s Daisy, who is three and seems to have adjusted to Glory Manor better than any of her siblings.”
Ian raked a hand through his hair. “I didn’t even think to ask if the children have everything they need, such as clothing or toys.”
“I was intending to propose a shopping trip with you at some point. But Reverend Davis was with the children and the woman from the orphanage when they first traveled to Glory Manor. He later sent around numerous articles of clothing for the little ones. And while the clothing was from the donation box at the church, it’ll do until we can get the children to the store, which I hope can happen soon.”
“I’ll make a note of it and find time to take them or have whomever I might hire as our new housekeeper take them,” he said as yet another clang rang out, which had Aunt Birdie sending him a pointed look.
He held up his hands. “I’m going, I’m going, although Mrs. Delmont probably only wants a cup of tea or . . .”
A shrill shriek suddenly interrupted him, followed by a thump, which had him immediately abandoning the kitchen and racing for the stairs.
Chapter 10
Chickens, Isadora was convinced, were horrid creatures, especially the one that had just tried to attack her. That was why she was currently standing on top of a chair, wielding a book as a weapon in one hand, while ringing the cowbell every other minute because the clanging seemed to be holding the chicken at bay.
Being careful to keep her lips pressed together because the chicken had a tendency to rush forward whenever anything resembling a shriek passed Isadora’s lips, she eyed the distance to the door, wondering if she was fast enough to get to it without suffering a chicken attack in the process.
Tightening her grip on the bell while considering if she should try throwing a book at the chicken to distract it, even though the first book she’d thrown hadn’t distracted it in the least, she couldn’t help but question how her life had turned so peculiar.
If anyone had told her two weeks prior that she’d be trundling off to the wilds of Pennsylvania because of a deranged duke, or that she’d have to run for her life from an elderly man sporting a rifle with no bullets, she would have thought they’d gone mad. Add in the additional troubling events of tumbling into more than one poison ivy patch, being dumped unceremoniously into a pond by a man who was by far the most attractive man she’d ever met, and almost drowning in that very pond after attempting to rescue an adorable imp, it did seem as if her life was never going to return to normal again.
It certainly wasn’t normal that her daydreams had turned from dwelling on heroes found on the pages of her favorite novels to dreams of one Ian MacKenzie. Frankly, her life of late seemed to be turning into an honest-to-goodness plot twist found in some of the romances she enjoyed, a plot complete with the hero pressing his lips to the heroine’s after only a few pages had passed.
It wasn’t that she’d never felt a man’s lips on hers before, but the chaste kisses she’d received in the past had always been followed by fervent apologies and requests to speak to her father . . . although Ian hadn’t actually kissed her but had merely been pressing his lips against hers in a desperate attempt to breathe life back into her lifeless, breathless body.
Isadora used the edge of the book to scratch an itch on her nose right as a perfectly reasonable explanation regarding why she’d taken to dreaming about Ian sprang to mind.
He was the first person to ever rush in and save her from the jaws of death. That meant it was completely normal for him to occupy her dreams, although she did need to nip those dreams in the bud before she took to mooning over a man she barely—
The door to her bedchamber suddenly burst open as the object of her dreams rushed into the room, which had the chicken letting out a fierce squawk as it took to ruffling its feathers.
“What’s wrong?” Ian demanded, his gaze jumping from her to the chicken and then back to her.
For the briefest of moments, she found herself unable to speak because her mouth had gone remarkably dry at the mere sight of the man, and her knees went all sorts of wobbly, although that might have been because she was standing on a less-than-sturdy chair.
Her reaction to the man was troubling because she couldn’t pinpoint what it was about him that intrigued her. He certainly wasn’t dressed in a manner that usually appealed to her, considering he was wearing a shirt that had a large tear running down the front of it, as if he’d gotten caught on something while he’d been doing whatever it was that farmers did. That he’d not bothered to change his shirt suggested he was a man not overly concerned by his appearance. That idea was further proven when she glanced at his trousers and found them smudged with dirt.
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Lifting her gaze, she settled it on his hair, frowning when she realized that he didn’t have merely brown hair as she’d first thought, but more along the lines of a brown mixed with auburn. That hair was currently tousled and curling over the collar of his torn shirt, looking quite as if he’d forgotten to comb it after he’d gotten up that day. He also was in desperate need of a shave, although the lack of a shave did seem to lend him a rather rakish air, and . . .
“Mrs. Delmont. You’re going to have to tell me what’s wrong if I’m to know how to assist you. You might also want to explain why you have a chicken in your room.”
Wondering who Mrs. Delmont was until she suddenly recalled she was supposed to be Mrs. Delmont, Isadora wobbled a bit on the chair, giving the cowbell a wave a second later when the wobbling set the chicken into a frenzy.
To her dismay, the cowbell did nothing to stop the frenzy since the chicken was now darting back and forth through the rungs of her chair, squawking louder than ever. A second later, it jumped on the chair she was standing on, and a second after that, it was underneath her dress, pecking at her legs and beating at them with its wings.
Forgetting that the chicken didn’t seem to be fond of shrieking, Isadora opened her mouth and began screaming at the top of her lungs, her screams coming to a rapid end when she suddenly found herself scooped straight off the chair and into Ian’s strong arms.
Turning, he strode with her toward the door, leaving the chicken behind.
Finding herself held yet again in his well-muscled arms, Isadora found it rather difficult to breathe, a troubling circumstance if there ever was one. Knowing a distraction from those well-muscled arms was in order if she wanted air to return to her lungs, she struggled for something else to think about—that something turning into a contemplation of the man carrying her.
He had an easy stride that brought to mind memories of the magnificent cats she’d seen on one of her trips around the world. Those large cats were captivatingly graceful when they were at their ease, but when they moved into motion, there was no denying the power they possessed—a power that suggested they were dangerous in the extreme.
Ian MacKenzie possessed that same sense of power, and if she wasn’t much mistaken, he was a man who could turn dangerous in a split second. She’d never been around such a dangerous man before, but for some reason, she wasn’t bothered by the danger that fairly radiated from him and found it rather . . .
“This is going to be a slightly tight squeeze up the stairs, Mrs. Delmont, but I think, given the fright you just suffered, it might be for the best if we put an entire floor between you and the chicken.”
Shaking aside all thoughts of dangerous men and how attractive she apparently found them, even though she’d never considered herself a lady drawn to men who possessed such an air, Isadora finally noticed that Ian was carrying her up a very steep flight of stairs. Having no idea where those stairs led, and only then remembering that it was hardly acceptable to be carried off to some remote part of the house in the arms of a gentleman, she opened her mouth to protest but found that protest dying on her tongue when he reached the top of the stairs.
As he set her on her feet, all thoughts of adhering to the strict proprieties she’d always embraced disappeared in a trice as a sense of anticipation flowed through her.
Chapter 11
“It’s a library,” Isadora exclaimed, her gaze traveling around a room that had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stuffed to the gills with books.
“I imagine you weren’t expecting to find a library in the attic,” Ian said with a grin, which caused a dimple to pop out on his cheek, one that . . .
Forcing her attention away from Ian and his evidently far-too-intriguing dimple, Isadora strode over to one of the shelves. “I must admit I wasn’t, at least not such an extensive library.” She dipped her head so she wouldn’t bump into the sloping attic ceiling, reaching out to touch the spine of a tattered copy of The Taming of the Shrew. Turning, she smiled at Ian, who’d moved up to join her. “This is the one book by Shakespeare I never cared for.”
“Because you fear you share some of Katherina’s traits?”
For a second, Isadora found herself impressed that he could recall the heroine’s name in the story until she realized what he’d said. “What do you mean by that?”
Ian smiled a charming smile, which did absolutely nothing to defray the bit of temper that was causing heat to settle on her cheeks. “Surely you must know that you’re a slightly demanding woman, quite like Katherina.”
Her temper edged up a notch. “You find me demanding?”
“When you use that particular tone of voice, certainly, and you have been applying yourself rather diligently to the cowbell.”
An argument immediately rose to the tip of her tongue, one she swallowed when she realized Ian might have just made a sound argument. Walking across the attic because his nearness made it difficult to think, she stopped in front of an open window that was allowing a warm breeze to flow into the room. Shifting aside the curtain, she looked out over the farm, trying to collect her thoughts.
No one in her entire life had ever had the audacity to call her demanding, but . . . she could not avoid the truth of Ian’s statement, and, in all honesty, she probably did possess a few traits that were very similar to Katherina in The Taming of the Shrew.
She’d grown up in the lap of luxury, spoiled by her parents and raised with the expectation that her every whim would be met by people paid to see to her creature comforts. She’d never once considered that her demands cast her in a less-than-pleasant light, but now, after having that brought to her attention, and rather matter-of-factly at that, she really had no choice but to agree that she, Isadora Delafield, was a demanding woman, which then suggested that she might not be very . . . likeable.
Something unpleasant settled in her stomach.
She didn’t want to be unlikeable, nor did she, for a reason she wouldn’t allow herself to contemplate too closely, want Ian MacKenzie to conclude she was nothing more than a demanding shrew.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Delmont. I fear I’ve just delivered you a crushing insult when I simply meant to be amusing.”
Drawing in a breath, Isadora turned from the window. “There’s no need for you to apologize, Mr. MacKenzie, for you’ve spoken nothing less than the truth. I have been demanding and have abused your hospitality most egregiously by being far too liberal with the cowbell. I owe you an apology, not the other way around.”
Ian surprised her when he merely smiled. “Apology accepted. And in your defense, you’ve been laid low because of poison ivy and were, at least a short time ago, only being overly diligent with ringing the cowbell because you apparently had some type of altercation with a chicken.”
“I’m afraid Elmer was the clear winner in our altercation.”
“Elmer?”
Isadora grimaced. “The chicken. He took an intense dislike of me from the moment the girls left him in my room, mistakenly believing I’d enjoy Elmer’s company while they went off to name more chickens, and . . .” She frowned. “Perhaps Elmer is a very astute chicken, and after concluding I’m a demanding sort, he decided to put me in my place.”
“I’m fairly certain that was not the case since chickens aren’t known for being all that intelligent, which might make it difficult for a chicken to reason out that a person possesses a demanding nature.” He caught her eye as his lips began to curve. “Tell me this, though, why are you calling the chicken Elmer?”
“The girls thought it would be a treat for me if I got to name it.” She shuddered. “Uncle Amos apparently realized that not all of his chickens had names, and he enlisted the help of the children to rectify that situation.” She shuddered again. “Elmer began stalking me the second the children left the room. And not that I’m trying to excuse my excessive ringing of the cowbell, but it was the only thing that seemed to hold off Elmer’s advances.”
“You could have merely run from the room,
” Ian pointed out.
“And risk the chance of spreading my poison ivy around the house where anyone might catch it? I think not.”
“Is that why you’ve confined yourself to your room and the spare bathing chamber?”
Isadora gave a bob of her head. “Certainly. But why did you think I’d confined myself to my room?”
“It might be for the best if that question remains unanswered,” Ian muttered before he was once again smiling his charming smile at her.
“Do not tell me that you thought I was staying in my room because I was being difficult, did you?”
Ian winced. “Will you be overly annoyed with me if I admit I thought you’d barricaded yourself in your room because you were embarrassed by the state of your face?”
“I haven’t seen the state of my face in over two days.”
“And for good reason since the last time you saw your face, well, there’s no need for us to revisit that disturbing scene.”
“Am I to understand that my face looks no better than it did when it was swollen and oozing unpleasantly?”
“Hard to say with any certainty since you have soda paste smeared all over you, some of which has gotten on your spectacles, which has to make it somewhat difficult to see.” Ian took a step closer to her, reached out, placed his hand on her chin, and tilted it up, looking at her closely. “From what little I can tell through the paste, though, I would imagine your rash is drying up nicely.”
“Comforting words indeed, but again, I wasn’t staying in my room because I was self-conscious about my appearance.”
“My apologies, then, Mrs. Delmont. It appears I was mistaken regarding your actions, and it was very commendable of you to maintain your distance from everyone, even if it was unnecessary because poison ivy isn’t contagious.”
“What?”
“It’s not passed from person to person. You have to touch the plant to get it.”