Sarah knelt beside Mary Ann and helped her sister sit up, never taking her stare from the horribly fascinating scene before her. She wasn’t sure whom she was more frightened of, the bullying farmer or the cold stranger Lord Ransome had suddenly become.
“You will never treat a lady in such a fashion again, or I will thrash you to within an inch of your life,” Lord Ransome said, his voice low and emotionless. The man gave a choking sound, and Sarah was just wondering if she should somehow intervene when Lord Ransome released the man’s shirtfront and he fell onto the ground. He sucked in a large breath of air, while Lord Ransome watched him dispassionately.
“Do you know who I am?” Lord Ransome said, in that same cold voice.
The man shook his head.
“I am Lord Ransome. You are not a tenant of my land, are you? I have never seen you before.”
“I—no, my lord,” he said hoarsely. All of his bluster had vanished. “I live on the other side of York. My name be White.”
“You are on my property now, and nobody abuses a lady anywhere in my presence. Now, leave before I have you clapped into irons.”
The man scrambled to his feet, and reached for the sack. Mary Ann, despite her pale, shocked expression, gave a protesting cry.
“Leave that,” Lord Ransome ordered brusquely.
The man dropped the sack and scurried away. The workers who had gathered about drifted off, muttering amongst themselves. Sarah, Mary Ann, and Lord Ransome were left alone in their frozen tableau. Sarah put her arm about Mary Ann, holding her close, and Lord Ransome stood with his back to them for a long moment.
Gradually, Sarah was able to breathe again, to hear the sounds of the birds and the stream that flowed around her. She watched Lord Ransome, warily waiting for him to turn and look at them.
Mary Ann drew away to pull the sack toward her. She untied the rope around its opening, and three tiny kittens, all of them bundles of black-and-white fur with bright green eyes, tumbled out onto her lap. They mewed softly, stumbling about on Mary Ann’s muslin skirt in a sweet tangle.
The sounds of them made Lord Ransome turn around. He looked tired and still expressionless, but slowly the mask cracked, and he smiled at them. It was a weary, strained smile, yet it made him seem a little more like the man Sarah had come to know. She relaxed a bit, her shoulders aching with the stiffness she had not realized she was holding there.
“I—apologize, Lady Iverson, Miss Bellweather,” he said. “I should not have behaved in such a way in front of you.”
Mary Ann, cuddling one of the kittens against her shoulder, looked up at him with shining eyes. “You saved me, Lord Ransome! You drove that horrid brute away. These darling babies are alive because of you.”
“I hardly think you needed ‘saving,’ Miss Bellweather,” he answered. “You seemed to be more than holding your own; you are a very brave young lady.”
Mary Ann giggled, and ducked her head to nuzzle the kitten.
“Thank you, Lord Ransome,” Sarah said. “You were indeed very gallant.”
They all fell into silence, the kittens’ mews and the rush of the stream the only sounds, until a voice behind them said, “That was quite a scene, your lordship.”
Sarah looked back to see a man coming down the muddy slope toward them. He wasn’t one of the workers; he was a stranger, as the rough farmer had been. But he looked nothing like the farmer.
He was obviously not very old, though his sun-browned skin and the deep grooves that lined his mouth made him seem older. The jet-black hair that waved back from his face was liberally streaked with silver, and his green eyes looked out wearily onto the world. He limped slightly as he walked.
He was very thin; his cheap clothes hung on him as if made for another man. But he was not at all fearsome, as the strange farmer had been. He looked at them seriously but kindly, with only the hint of a spark of interest when he saw Mary Ann.
Lord Ransome’s eyes widened with surprise, and he took a step forward. “Lieutenant O’Riley? What are you doing here?”
Lieutenant O’Riley laughed, and answered, with a hint of a lilting brogue in his voice, “Well, now, you said if I was ever in need of work I should look for you. Here I am. I should have appeared earlier; I can be a handy man to have around in a brawl.”
Lord Ransome laughed, too. “It was hardly a brawl! But it is good to have you here nonetheless. You look—different than when we last met in London.”
“Ah, well, I cleaned up a bit before I came here.” Lieutenant O’Riley glanced at Sarah and Mary Ann.
“Forgive me,” Lord Ransome said, turning to them. “Lady Iverson, Miss Bellweather, this is Lieutenant O’Riley. We met some months ago in Town.”
Sarah rose to her feet, and drew Mary Ann with her. Mary Ann now held all the kittens in her arms, but she managed to give him a pretty smile over their fur.
“How do you do, Lieutenant O’Riley?” Sarah said. “I am Lady Iverson. I work on the Viking village just over the slope. And this is my younger sister, Miss Bellweather.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you. But it’s just plain Mr. O’Riley now—I left the Army behind long ago.”
Sarah nodded. She wondered just what Lieutenant—Mr. O’Riley had been in Lord Ransome’s military life, and what his coming here meant. Perhaps he was the former soldier who was going to turn her village into a farm.
She wasn’t sure she quite liked the way Mary Ann was looking at the Irish soldier, either. She took Mary Ann’s arm, kittens and all, and said, “We should be going home now. It’s muddy and hot here, and I’m sure Mary Ann is tired.”
“I need to make the kittens a bed, and find them some milk,” Mary Ann said.
“Let us walk back with you, then,” Lord Ransome suggested. “Just in case our new friend the kittendrowner decides to return.”
“Thank you,” Sarah said. “That is most kind of you.”
Sarah was glad of the men’s company and strength on the walk back to the hunting box. But, in reality, she was not sure which was more dangerous—kitten-hating farmers, or Lord Ransome himself.
Chapter Twelve
That night, Sarah sat at her desk in the drawing room of the hunting box, ostensibly working on her notes from that day’s dig. Her papers and books were spread out, but her pen lay idle in her hand.
She watched Mary Ann, where she sat playing with the kittens beside the fire, and thought about their very strange afternoon. If Mary Ann had not shouted out when she had, what would Lord Ransome have said to her? Would he have given her a time when she must be off Ransome land? And what would she, could she, have said to that?
There would have been no choice for her but to acquiesce.
Sarah looked down at her notes, half finished on the page—just like her work. She laid down the pen, and closed her eyes.
In the darkness of her mind, she saw Lord Ransome, not as he usually was, kind and open, but as he had been today when he threatened Mary Ann’s assailant. She would not have imagined there could be such violent intent on his handsome face—he had been so very deeply angry with the man. He had been unaware of anything around him but that cold anger. Sarah imagined that was what he must have been like in a battle.
She herself had been angry with the horrid farmer, and would have knocked him to the ground if she had been capable. But she was also taken aback by the new side of Lord Ransome she was seeing.
Taken aback—and maybe just a little frightened. And something else, some dark excitement she could not, or would not, name.
“Sarah?” she heard Mary Ann say. “Are you quite all right?”
Sarah opened her eyes to look at her sister, still sitting on the floor with all the kittens asleep on her lap. Mary Ann frowned in concern.
“Oh, yes,” Sarah answered, trying to smile reassuringly. “I just have a bit of a headache.”
“Poor Sarah! That is hardly surprising after the long day we have passed.” Mary Ann looked down at the jumble of downy kitten bodies o
n her lap, and rubbed one’s head with her fingertip. “I think you ought to marry Lord Ransome.”
Unlike her usual outrageous pronouncements on gentlemen, Lord Ransome in particular, this statement was made quietly, hopefully, almost wistfully.
“He was so heroic today, rescuing me and these babies from that horrible man,” Mary Ann went on. “Just like a knight in a book. He would be worthy of you, would look after you always. I am sure he would look after all of us, even Mother and Kitty.”
Sarah watched Mary Ann in surprise. Mary Ann had been so young when their father died, just an infant really, and she had grown up in a family of only women. But Sarah had not realized she so wanted male influence—not romantic influence, but fatherly or brotherly—until now.
She tried to laugh. “Oh, Mary Ann! A lady can hardly marry a man who has not made her an offer. Nor is he likely to.”
Mary Ann shook her head. “I am sure he wants to.”
Sarah left her desk, and went to sit on the floor beside her sister. She took one of the sleeping kittens onto her own lap, and it sank down into her skirts with a mew and a stretch. “Oh, Mary Ann. We cannot know what he wants. We can only go about our lives the best we can. I have my work, and it makes me happy. One day, you will see that things cannot be as they are in books, but that life can be just as good—or better. You will meet someone, and fall in love, and build a real life with him. A good one, all your own.”
Mary Ann looked up at her, tears sparkling in her brown eyes. “Do you think so?”
“Of course. Just be certain that you marry someone you do love, not just someone that our mother thinks would be suitable.”
“Oh, never!” Mary Ann said with a laugh. “You cannot imagine the truly horrid men Mother thinks are suitable.”
Sarah thought she could; they were probably the same men their mother had once tried to foist onto her. But she was confident that Mary Ann would not let herself be bullied into an unhappy match, and hopefully her search for her own true love would distract her from Sarah’s romantic life, or lack thereof.
There was a knock at the drawing room door, and Rose, Mary Ann’s maid, came in. She held a square of expensive-looking vellum on a tray.
“Excuse me, my lady,” she said, “but this just came for you by messenger.”
“Thank you, Rose.” Sarah stood up, and took the letter, breaking the wax seal with her fingernail.
“What is it?” Mary Ann asked worriedly, as Sarah read in silence. “Bad news?”
“Oh, no.” Sarah turned to look at her sister. “We are invited, along with the Hamiltons, to dine at Ransome Hall tomorrow evening. So then we may thank Lord Ransome in person for his gallant rescue today, can’t we, Mary Ann?”
“Of course.” Mary Ann hugged one of the kittens close to her. “Do you suppose that that handsome Mr. O’Riley will be there?”
“It is good to see you again, Lieutenant—Mr. O’Riley,” Miles said. He poured out a generous measure of brandy and handed it to his guest.
Mr. O’Riley laughed. “Call me Patrick, please, my lord. I feel all stiff and formal enough in your grand house without looking about for my father or my uncle every time someone says ‘Mr. O’Riley.’ ”
“Patrick it is, if there will be no more ‘my lording.’ I am Miles.” He poured his own brandy, and sat down in the chair across from Patrick’s. The library around them was dark and quiet in the after-supper lull, and, indeed, very grand. “I am glad you are here, but I would have looked for you several weeks ago. I thought perhaps you did not mean to take me up on my offer of a job. I take it you have not mended things with your family in Ireland.”
Patrick shrugged, and took a deep, appreciative swallow of his drink. “There is little chance of that, I fear, though it’s a pity. That estate was my father’s home, as well as his older brother’s, my uncle’s. And I could not afford to come to the country, until now. I got work, though, building a grand house for some earl or such, despite my bad leg. Then I got this cough. The apothecary I saw told me I should go the country, find work on a farm where there’s good, clean air. I remembered your offer, and I had heard one of the earl’s friends say you had inherited this place, so here I am.” He looked solemnly at Miles. “I wasn’t sure you would even remember me.”
“Of course, I remember you. You helped me a great deal.”
Patrick’s dark brows arched in surprise. “I helped you, Lord—Miles? How could that be? We only met so briefly.”
“I was quite lost when I came home to England,” Miles answered. “I felt useless, with no direction in this new life. A purpose was what I needed, and when I met you, I saw what that purpose could be. I could help men who had returned from brave service in the war only to find poverty and hardship.”
“A noble goal.”
Miles shook his head. “Hardly noble. It is only a tiny drop in the sea of trouble I have seen here. But when I inherited this title and estate, I saw a way that I could make some of those aspirations a reality. Ransome Hall is vast, and fertile.”
“And not used as it should be,” Patrick said. “I saw many fields that lay fallow.”
“You are quite right. I have been working with the bailiff to develop a plan, one which will call for many more workers.”
“The portion that that lady antiquarian—what was her name? Lady Iverson?—is using is a large one. The soil looks rich.”
“Indeed, it is.” Miles did not want to think of it, did not want to imagine what the scene would be when he asked Lady Iverson to abandon her village. But he knew that the day was coming, and coming soon.
Seeing Patrick O’Riley, remembering what had set him on this course in the first place, only affirmed his conviction that he had to do what was right.
“I hope to have it under cultivation by the spring,” he said.
Patrick’s green Irish gaze was shrewd. “And what does Lady Iverson say about this plan?”
Miles laughed ruefully. “Well, the truth is I have not yet had a chance to speak to her about it. I have invited her and her party to supper tomorrow evening, and I will make an appointment to speak to her then.”
“Ah. I see.” Patrick swallowed the last of his brandy, and put the snifter down on a nearby table. “Lady Iverson is very pretty, is she not? And her sister, too. Many people would say they are wasting their charms in digging about in the dirt all day long. Is that not so?”
“Some might say that. Lady Iverson is an attractive lady, and her sister a pretty young girl.” Miles felt an irrational surge of protectiveness toward Lady Iverson and her family. It made absolutely no sense, as he was the one who would send them away from their work soon.
“Young—and not for a poor Irish ex-lieutenant,” Patrick said with a grimace. “And quite right you are. But that does not mean I can’t admire her fine dark eyes, eh?”
Miles laughed. “I would say not.”
“Well, I am off to my bed. I fear your butler was quite shocked when you told him I was not to be housed in the servants’ quarters, but in a guest chamber.”
“The servants are not yet used to my changes. They think everything should continue as they were in my uncle’s time. But we are coming to terms. You are my friend, not a servant, and thus should stay in a guest chamber.”
“That is most kind of you, Lord—Miles,” Patrick said. “But I insist on working for my keep, friend or no.”
“Oh, never fear about that! Tomorrow, I will show you the plans for the farm, and I’d like your opinion on them.”
“Of course. Good night.”
“Good night, Patrick.”
Long after Patrick had gone, and the butler cleared away the brandy tray, Miles sat in the library. He stared into the crumbling sparks of the fire, remembering the day just past.
He had been completely taken by surprise at the force of his fury toward that farmer today. It was true that wanton cruelty, even against animals, always angered him, but this was something more. When he saw the man push Lady Iver
son’s sister, and the shock and pain in Lady Iverson’s eyes, a feeling sharply akin to the rage he had felt in battle rose up in him. He could very well have killed the man, if the ladies had not been watching. Certainly, he would have delivered the thrashing that the bully so richly deserved.
He had thought all that was left far behind him on the battlefield. What could have made it come upon him today, in the safe light of an English day?
He feared that he already knew the answer to that. It was a primitive male drive to protect his woman—one that no doubt the Viking men who had once lived in Lady Iverson’s village would understand.
What the devil was he going to do about it?
Chapter Thirteen
Sarah sat before her dressing table, staring at her reflection, yet not really seeing herself there. Her maid had already dressed her hair, and helped her into her evening gown of smoky lavender silk. Now all she had to do was choose her jewelry from the open case, and she would be ready to go to supper at Ransome Hall.
A shiver of anticipation danced up her spine. She wanted to see Lord Ransome again, so much that it frightened her. But something deep inside her dreaded this evening even more. Dreaded what might happen—what might be said.
Running away from troubles solved nothing, she knew that very well. Tonight, though, she would gladly run away, take a ship all the way to Norway. But she could never do something so wild—her life was here, come what may, and she had to stay and face it.
She reached into her jewel case and took out a pair of Viking silver hair ornaments. They had been a gift from her husband when they married, and she loved them, loved their intricate etchings of strange beasts and unreadable runes. Wearing them always gave her confidence, made her feel closer to the history she had devoted her life to. She slid the ornaments into her upswept curls, and reached into the case again to find her earrings. There was a knock at her bedchamber door, and, thinking it was her maid returning or Mary Ann, she called, “Come in.”
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