by Betina Krahn
The land was laid out before him like Joseph’s multicolored coat. Planted fields and pastures rolled as far as he could see, rimmed with hedgerows, dotted with old haystacks, and broken up by ponds and acres upon acres of woods. The pastures were populated with cows and sheep, and it looked like most of the cottages were occupied and the barns were in use. Smoke curled from chimneys and barn doors were being thrown open for morning chores.
Near the main house, he saw that fresh planks had replaced weathered siding on the barns. The stables had a new roof and had been freshly painted, complete with window boxes filled with flowers. The pastures and pens contained horses with foals, cows with calves, and goats with kids. There had been an explosion of births on the estate.
He recalled with a wince the way he had wandered through the barns and stables as a young man, oblivious to the empty stalls, the musty smell of moldering hay, and the stench of abandoned pens. Over time, the dairy was closed and the cows were sent for meat. Fewer workers tended fewer and fewer animals, and he hadn’t even noticed. He noticed now . . . the resurgence of life here . . . the pleasure of seeing it coming back to its potential.
He remembered the day that change had begun. It was the day Daisy’s uncle, Redmond Strait, a tough-talking, hard-drinking old Westerner, rode in with a herd of cattle he had purchased to replace some of Betancourt’s missing stock. Clearly, more had been added over time.
While he watched, people began to appear, coming from the far side of the barns. He squinted and moved to another corner to make out the old cottages the farm hands had once used. They had new roofs and glass windows and proper doors to make them secure. People lived there now, and were stirring and heading to work on the estate. He watched them go into the barns, release animals into pastures, and begin shifting milk pails, bags of grain, and barrows of feed for the animals.
As he watched, Sarah exited the house, dressed in a riding habit, and headed to the stable. After a few minutes, she came out again leading a big horse with stunning coloring—dappled white with a flowing black mane and tail. She led the horse to the drive and mounted with that American “hop” he’d seen Daisy use. She set off down the drive and at the end of it, turned in the direction of the village. He watched the sunny river of hair down her back and her perfect seat on her horse until she disappeared beyond the estate gates.
How much of Betancourt’s revival was her doing? How long had she been here, tending to his brother’s holdings? Where was her mother? Where were her sisters? And what the devil had possessed Ash to hand such a massive responsibility to a young girl?
A young woman.
All right, a capable young woman.
The sun warmed his shoulders as it rose in the sky and he sat down in the shade of a chimney stack, his arms dangling across upraised knees. A breeze came up and he lifted his face to it, recalling the last time he’d been on the roof. He had caught Daisy and Ash together, and escaped to the roof to think things over. He shook his head to dispel those dog-eared memories.
He should have written Ash to let him know where he was and how he was. But how could he have written while being held for surety in a raja’s palace, imprisoned in Cairo, shanghaied and forced to work on a ship out of Algiers, or living as a captive scribe for a fiercely acquisitive sea captain?
* * *
How long Arthur stayed on the roof, he had no idea, but the sound of hoofbeats roused him from his reverie. It was Sarah returning, and she was leading his horse. He rose and stood with his hands on his hips, watching as she handed off his mare to a groom and untied his valise, dropping it just outside the stable door. She led her horse into the stable and didn’t reemerge.
With an urgency he didn’t want to examine, he headed for the hatch and the ladder that led down into the attic. He felt his way down two steep flights of stairs, negotiated the upstairs hall, and was soon lumbering across the yard toward the stables.
There he found her with her gloves off and a brush in her hand, giving her fancy mount a thorough grooming. He watched for a moment with the strange sense of having seen that very thing before.
“That must be some piece of horseflesh,” he said, leaning his arm on the top board of the stall, “to rate grooming by a duchess.”
She started and turned, her cheeks reddening. “He’s my horse. Out West you learn to—”
“Take care of your horse and he’ll take care of you,” he finished for her. She stared at him for a moment, clearly surprised by his familiarity with that saying, then went back to currying her horse.
“And just to keep things straight,” she continued, “I’ve never claimed to be a duchess. In fact, duchess is the last thing I want to be.”
“Really?” He couldn’t help the half smile that came over him. “Then you’d be one of only two women in all of England to feel that way . . . the other being the Queen herself.” He looked her over with a hint of skepticism. “Most well-born women covet a life of luxury and prestige.”
“Luxury . . . had it. Prestige . . . more prison than pleasure. Titles . . . not worth handing over your freedom to be called something that’s not your name. Not to mention all the rest . . . cranky old husbands . . . the business of making heirs . . . and putting up with in-laws and their gossipy, condescending friends.” She gave a shudder and went back to brushing her horse.
“That’s quite a list. But ‘methinks the lady protests too much,’” he said. “Look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn’t love to be a duchess.”
“Fine.” She turned to him with a show of conviction. “I would not love to be a duchess.” The tilt of her head spoke of determination, but he noted that she did not quite meet his eyes. “One in the family is quite enough.”
“Ah, yes. Your sister. Married to a duke now.” A thousand questions bubbled up concerning the handover of his former title to his younger brother, but just now he couldn’t find a way to start that inquiry without revealing too much about himself. His gaze fastened on the long, sinuous strokes of her brush and the graceful movement of her hands as she went back to grooming—practically caressing—the beast. Lucky animal.
Annoyed, he shifted his train of thought.
“What are you doing here, Sarah Bumgarten? You’re wealthy, I presume . . . young and spry . . . and . . . reasonably attractive.”
She turned to him with narrowed eyes. “Goodness. I can die a happy woman now, knowing I have achieved spry and reasonably attractive.”
He swallowed a chuckle. She had a few feminine sensibilities after all. “From what I hear, you’re well-read and not afraid to get your hands dirty.” When she looked confused, he explained. “Mazie said you worked like a fiend to revive the butterfly garden.”
“Listening to servant talk, are you? Be careful. Some of what you hear may be totally false.”
“So you didn’t dig and replant and weed on your knees so much that you had to have the old girl rub you down with liniment?”
She paused for a moment, looking truly annoyed.
“It had gone to seed. I simply put it back to the way it was.” She turned fully to him, fingering the curry brush, looking as if she were deciding how much to reveal. “And I wanted to do it myself. There is pleasure to be had in setting things right with your own hands and getting things to grow and thrive. A satisfaction not permitted to duchesses. Dirty hands?” She gave a haughty, duchess-worthy imitation. “Horrors.”
He grinned.
“Is that why you’re here? Indulging in forbidden pleasures?”
She considered her response as she returned to her work.
“I am here at the duke’s request, overseeing the estate. A good thing, too. The house needed securing from the elements; the stables, barns, and outbuildings were falling apart; and the staff had dwindled to nothing.”
“And are you responsible for the amazing fertility around the place as well? I noticed a number of offspring . . . foals, calves, kids . . .”
She tossed the brush into a bucket hanging on
the side of the stall, and crossed her arms, fixing him with a look.
“Surely a man as well-traveled as yourself knows that animals manage all the time to produce offspring without help from humans.”
“Of course, but . . . there are often obstacles of location and opportunity. To mate, animals must be in close proximity. That is something we humans can and do affect.” He stepped into the stall and edged toward her. “Proximity.” His voice lowered as he approached her and she didn’t move. When she looked up he felt himself drawn into those beautiful sea-green eyes. Proximity indeed. His voice softened to a whisper. “Opportunity.”
He could have sworn her eyes were darkening, pupils reacting.
“It started with Daisy’s horse,” she said, matching his whisper. “Dancer was something of a . . . ladies’ man. His offspring are pure black, like him. Three generations later . . . his bloodline is . . . still . . . visible.”
A hot blast of air hit his ear and he looked up to find her horse mere inches from his head. The beast’s nose was twitching as it inhaled his scent, and after a moment, he could have sworn its lip curled in judgment.
“We have a few mares and newborns here in the stable, but you really should see the horses at pasture,” she said, slipping away from both him and her inquisitive horse to head into the stable alley. “This way.”
He hesitated a moment, staring at the handsome beast that seemed to be glaring at him.
“You and I,” he said, pointing between them, “have to come to an understanding.”
She led him out of the stable and down the lane to the pasture where horses grazed and foals gamboled. He watched the sway of her skirt and the way the breeze teased her hair. Her hem was raised enough for him to see her riding boots and it took him a moment to realize her skirt was split to allow her to ride astride. He pictured her on her horse, body moving, thighs gripping—he swallowed hard. He shouldn’t be having such thoughts about her. She was more than ten years younger than he was, and she was Daisy’s—
He scowled as he watched her climb up onto a whitewashed fence board and clap her hands. He felt a strange stirring deep in his core . . . something akin to sexual desire, but different in a way he couldn’t quite define. This was something he’d never felt around Daisy or any of the other women he’d known. This was different, and he wasn’t sure he liked that it was occurring just now and with her. He’d almost kissed her again, back there in the stable, and he was fairly sure she would have kissed him back.
What would getting romantic with her do, besides set him up for disappointment later, when she found out who he was . . . what he was?
“You see that?” she said as he came to lean on the fence beside her. “All of those coal-black foals, yearlings, and three- and four-year-olds are Midnight Dancer’s line. Twelve, as of a few days ago. Still breeding true.” Moments later, she climbed over the fence and dropped into the middle of some young horses that had come to greet her. They stretched their noses to her and she gave each a pet and a small piece of carrot.
He watched her walk out into the pasture, her arms draped across the younger foals while the older ones trailed behind. The mature horses gravitated to her and nuzzled and greeted her as if they knew her. He climbed the fence himself and followed her at a distance, watching her talk to the horses as if they were people. Some shook their heads, nodded, or pawed the ground in response. Most were patient, waiting their turn with her, though some of the youngest foals butted through to demand attention. They were quickly nipped and turned aside by their older “aunties.” She laughed at that lesson in manners and hugged and stroked the mares. He had never seen anything like it.
That, he soon learned, was just the beginning. From there, they went to the dairy barn where the cows were being milked, and then the pen where the calves waited for their mothers. Here, too, her touch seemed golden. Half a dozen calves gathered around her, clamoring for affection, and as she petted the smallest one she gave it two of her fingers. The calf sucked on them for a minute and she laughed. “Here—give her your fingers,” she ordered, seizing his hand.
“No, no—really—that’s just—” The oddest sensation he had ever experienced, having the calf suck his fingers. Though the beast had teeth, it was careful not to bite. It just felt—strangely—Good God! He pulled his hand back and stared at his tingling fingers in horror.
“Never in all my years—” He halted before saying something daft.
She laughed. “So, Michael Grant, world traveler, seagoing warrior, self-taught naturalist . . . you’ve never had your fingers suckled by a calf ? Your people didn’t have animals?”
“Not many. And I was never involved with the ones we had.”
There was something in his expression, a shock, a blunt admission of inexperience that seemed out of character for a man who—until this very moment—had seemed so worldly and confident.
As he strode out of the pen, the little calf went running off and jumped and kicked happily, as if she’d just been blessed by Mother Nature herself.
“Sixteen cows fresh, now,” she called as she exited and closed the gate behind her. “So much milk we’re having to make cheese.”
“What kind of cheese?” he asked.
“Cheddar, of course.” Her laugh was pure music. Saucy thing, she was enjoying his discomfort. “What else would good English cows make?”
He could think of several other kinds, but decided against listing them.
The goats were next and he had to admit, the kids were adorable. They came to greet her and investigate him while jumping around like they had springs in their legs. She dragged him over to a wooden crate they apparently loved to climb on and gave it a pat. The little things scrambled up on it, competing for space on the top and some even putting their hooves up on her in a bid for attention. One by one, she introduced him to them.
“Posey, this is Michael, a guest at Betancourt.” Then she leaned her head toward him and spoke out of the side of her mouth as if she didn’t want Posey to hear: “She eats fast, finishes first, then snatches the others’ food right out from under their noses.”
“Thus, the bulging sides,” he said, copying her confidential air.
She nodded. “We have to feed her separately.”
Posey sniffed him, made a bleating sound, then hopped down to continue jumping and playing around his feet.
“I think she likes you,” she said, and then picked up a little brown and white goat, sharing another confidence as she handed the kid off to Michael. “This is Violet. She’s shy around people.”
Little Violet snuggled against him, sniffed, and promptly bit his shirt—right above a nipple on his chest. “The hell she’s shy.” Before he could pull her away, she took a more serious nibble and caught a sensitive bit of skin in the process.
“Aghhh!” He thrust the little beast out to arm’s length and plopped her back into Sarah’s hands. A moment later, he was striding through the gate, red-faced and stunned by his own reaction. You’d think he was . . . he was . . . the old Arthur . . . easily embarrassed, and achingly aware of his inexperience with anything that didn’t have six legs.
These were farm animals, for God’s sake. Simple creatures doing what came naturally. Not a malicious bone in their bodies. He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm.
Sarah appeared at his side with a worried look.
“Are you all right? She didn’t hurt you?” She made to touch the wet circle Violet had left on his shirt and he fended her off like a nervous virgin.
“No, no . . . she just surprised me.” He straightened and smoothed his shirt. “Danged goats will eat—” He changed direction and pinned her with a look. “Do you know every blessed animal on the place by name?”
“Only the special ones. But you can see that they’re all well-tended and well-fed.” She studied him with concern. “I think you’ve seen enough of Betancourt for this morning. You should probably rest before luncheon. And we need to change the dressing on your
shoulder. You know, your face is a bit red.” She reached up to feel his cheek and forehead with the back of her hand. “You feel warm.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” he said, collecting the scraps of his dignity.
At that moment, a commotion arose from between the cow barn and the dairy. The sound of wings flapping, and quacking and honking, announced a mixed flock of ducks and geese being driven by three young girls with switches. The ducks seemed content to rush along under their escorts’ guidance, but the geese clearly took exception to being ordered about by three undersized humans. They honked, flapped wings at their minders, and generally made quite a fuss . . . until they spotted Sarah.
“Good God,” he muttered as the flock turned toward her, and—since he stood beside her—toward him. Soon they were engulfed by geese and ducks quacking and flapping wings and nipping at their boots.
“Stop that.” Sarah waved her arms to keep them back, and then told the goose girls, “Run to the kitchen and get some old bread from Cook.”
Arthur stood like a statue, dismayed by the throng of agitated fowl flogging his feet. Sarah intervened, stooping by the birds and speaking calmly to those closest to her. She stroked feathery heads and sleek necks and cooed, telling them how pretty and how special they were. The geese’s down and feathers made the softest pillows and warmest featherbeds, she told them, and the ducks’ babies were so cute and were the best swimmers in the county. The ones within her reach quieted and stood watching, listening to her voice. After a few moments she began to hum, then sing.
“Oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’, Clementine . . . you are lost and gone forever . . . dreadful sorrr-ry, Clementine . . .”
The remaining goose girl grinned and joined in. The fractious geese were the last to succumb to Sarah’s winsome spell, but soon, even they quit contending with each other to listen. She rose and began to sway, extending her movements with her arms, and to his astonishment, the birds’ heads seemed to move with her. She laughed and sang a bit louder, motioning him to join in the serenade.