by Bonnie Dee
“Also, sheep don’t ask questions.” Bennet turned his back on Tobin, with his shiny copper hair and sunny disposition, to fork used straw out of another enclosure.
Tobin wouldn’t take a hint and babbled on blithely. “What do you do next? How does a farmer spend his day?”
“I’ll take these ewes and lambs out to rejoin the flock and see if there are any others set to drop.” Time to remind Tobin that he wasn’t a permanent house guest. “Will be heading toward the road, so I’ll see you on your way.”
Tobin leaned on his pitchfork. “Oh. I thought you’d take me to town in your wagon.”
“Only make that trip once a month or so. My old nag is too lame to travel that distance often. And I can’t leave the sheep for most of a day during lambing season.” Bennet shrugged. “You could probably walk there faster yourself, at any rate.”
“My shoes aren’t really made for hiking.” Tobin wrinkled his freckled nose, which set off an unaccountable flicker of desire in Bennet. “To tell the truth, my body’s not conditioned to it either. I’d counted on having the horse I rented to travel around the countryside during my search. This has all turned into quite a bit more adventure than I’d bargained for.”
“Then maybe you should return to London where you belong as soon as you can,” Bennet answered smartly. “Tell whoever’s made the inquiry that you couldn’t find your man.”
“I’m required to bring some proof of life—or death. I can’t return empty-handed.” Tobin stared at him, those clear blue eyes hiding little guile now. Both of them had nearly given up pretense. “Besides, I would think that the missing man, if he is still alive, would wish to put his affairs in order before turning his back on the world.”
Tobin made a good point, but Bennet merely grunted and returned to raking out the pen. It was no big thing to sever all connection to his previous life. All he had to do was sign a paper or two, releasing claim on his holdings. So why was he so stubbornly refusing to do it? Why did he fear setting the persona of Jacob Bennet aside and admitting who he really was?
“This straw is heavier than one would imagine,” Tobin complained after he’d filled his barrow. He propped his pitchfork against the pen and stretched his back, reaching one hand behind himself to rub between his shoulders.
Bennet gazed at him from beneath lowered eyelids. The sleeves of the plain cotton work shirt Bennet had lent Tobin were rolled to the elbow. His forearms and the muscles in his neck flexed as he stretched this way and that. Another stab of lust shot through Bennet. He’d been too long without any physical contact with another man. Four years and a few months with only his own hand to relieve his tension, and that rarely, because masturbation required fantasies, and fantasies led back to his dead lover. Bennet had tried to block off the physical side of himself. Now it appeared to be bleeding through.
He took a deep breath of the pungent odor of sheep, and that helped snap his attention away from admiring Tobin’s lean body.
“Time to move these sheep. You’d best put on your own clothes, and, after the creatures are moved, I’ll see you to the road as I said,” Bennet said curtly.
Tobin didn’t argue, just gave a brief nod and headed toward the house to do as he’d been bid.
As Bennet watched him walk away, a completely irrational swell of loss went through him. It was an insane reaction to feel at the departure of a man he hardly knew, a man he’d only met yesterday. He supposed the feeling must be linked to his unresolved emotions about Jacob. Or maybe it was that Tobin, for all his annoying prying, had been like a ray of sunlight piercing through clouds on an overcast day—hard to look away from. And one couldn’t help feeling disappointed when thick clouds covered that bright ray once more.
Tobin trudged after Bennet across those blasted fields again in clothes so stiff with sweat and mud, they made his skin itch. There’d been no time to wash out his clothing, so it bore all the traces of yesterday’s muddy journey. And here he was heading back to town without accomplishing his mission. Well, maybe half his mission, because at least he knew Jacob Bennet was Daniel Pierce. But he couldn’t get him to admit it and agree to come to London.
Before they reached the road and parted ways, he should simply confront Pierce point-blank about the issue. However, instinct from several years of dealing with similar cases, such as a runaway heiress trying to avoid loveless marriage and a young man gallivanting across Europe and refusing to take up his family’s responsibilities, had taught Tobin that people were delicate and unpredictable creatures. They must be handled with care in order to achieve one’s goal.
Pierce had become Jacob Bennet and gone into seclusion for a reason. If Tobin got him to admit what was at the heart of his disappearance, he’d be much more likely to agree to face his past and wrap up loose ends. A little more time was what Tobin needed.
The sun shone down suddenly strong, and he blinked at the glorious sight of a patchwork of fields, hedgerows and stone walls laid out below them.
He began to walk again, but the lambs he was leading like dogs on leashes began to struggle and dig their feet in, bleating piteously at his horrendous abuse. Their mother, who was following along, grew alarmed and started bawling too. The lambs refused to walk, let their legs buckle, and dropped to the ground so Tobin was dragging them along.
He stopped to give them a pep talk. “Now, boys, buck up. We’re nearly there. You’ll get to meet all sorts of new friends today.”
Bennet, who had his hands full with another pair of lambs, snorted and shook his head.
“Come on now,” Tobin encouraged, tugging gently on the leads. “Up and at ’em, lads.”
“You do realize those lambs are female,” Bennet said dryly. “Drag them if they refuse to walk. That’s how it’s done to get the ewes to follow.”
“But it seems so cruel,” Tobin called after him, since Bennet was several yards ahead now.
“The moment they’re with the flock, they’ll be running and leaping about as if nothing ever happened.”
Once again that broad back in the ripped jumper disappeared over a low rise, leaving Tobin behind. He tugged harder on the leads, and the lambs got up and moving again, their mother trotting alongside.
The sound of many bleating sheep floated through the air from up ahead. After cresting another slope, Tobin huffing and puffing behind Bennet, the flock was spread across the pasture before them.
The border collies keeping the flock in order came racing over to greet them. Bennet stooped and rubbed the dogs’ heads. “Aye, Jip, you’re a good lad. Good girl, Penny. Now we’ve our work cut out for us, bringing these little ones into the fold.”
Tobin crouched and talked to his charges, patting their cute little heads and explaining what was going to happen.
Meanwhile, Bennet called out to Dickon, who was lounging on a rock farther up the hill. “Over here. We could use some help.”
The boy got up as slowly as an old man and sauntered toward them. One of the laziest employees Tobin had ever seen, the boy should’ve been out on his ear, but apparently Bennet had a soft spot for him—or found it too much trouble to interview other prospects. Or perhaps there were no other prospects.
Over the next half hour, they worked on getting the other sheep to accept the newcomers. Most seemed fairly uninterested, but a big one eyed the little ones with suspicion.
“What’s that?” He pointed at the baleful-looking animal.
“A wether.”
“That’s a funny sort of a name.”
“It describes what he is. A castrated male.”
Tobin winced. The wether trotted near a lamb and lowered his head, looking ready to butt. The ewe got between them, and it seemed a scuffle was about to ensue, but an angry mum was far more determined than the usual sort of a sheep. She soon sorted the other fellow out.
“Not one big happy family, are they?” Tobin said
.
“About like most families, I reckon.”
The man’s dry sense of humor amused Tobin. He liked this strange, prickly, isolated man and was insanely desperate to know more about him. Tobin didn’t want to leave, and it wasn’t because he dreaded the eight-mile walk to town or because he didn’t have his proof of life yet. He could always return later, make the visit more official, and insist on getting what he needed. But that wasn’t what he wanted to do. Rather like coaxing a wild animal, he wanted Bennet to open up to him all on his own.
Bennet stopped beside Tobin, and together they watched the lambs nursing or frisking about, chasing after one another or their mothers. Satisfaction gleamed in Bennet’s eyes as he stood with his arms folded over his chest. As Tobin took in his stolid stance, the wide shoulders, the braced legs, all he could think of was what Bennet might look like underneath those shapeless clothes. Much bulkier than the young lad in the photos, Tobin was sure of that. Wrestling with sheep had built up Bennet’s—Pierce’s muscles.
As if feeling Tobin’s eyes on him, Bennet looked over sharply. “Getting late. If you’re to make it to town before dark, I’d best set you on your way.”
Tobin squinted up at the sun, which looked to be squarely at midday, although he wasn’t certain, since he’d forgotten to wind his watch and it had run down. “I believe we’ve left it too late. I’m not a fast walker. Doubt I could make the distance before sunset. And these hills all look alike to me. I might get lost. What if I were to stay one more night? It seems you could do with some help in the lambing pens, and I hope I’ve proven I can be of assistance there. I don’t mean to impose on you, but surely one more night won’t be too much of an inconvenience.”
What was that expression that flitted across Bennet’s face quicker than lightning before his customary deadpan mask slipped back into place? It had almost looked like pleasure, a very slight upturn of the corners of his mouth if one were studying him closely, which Tobin was.
“’Spose that’d be all right. But tomorrow at the crack of dawn…” Bennet warned.
Tobin clapped a hand to his chest and held up the other as if taking a vow. “Tomorrow, first thing, I’ll be ready to go.”
The farmer turned to lead the way back home, always in front, always leaving Tobin lagging a little behind him. But that was all right. It was a good view from back here.
Tomorrow was many hours away. What might Tobin accomplish between now and then? Was it possible he could at last see Bennet out of those baggy clothes? If he could find the right words, give Bennet the right longing look or casual touch, would Tobin be able to seduce him?
Daydreaming about physical contact with a man who was part of a case made his lust even more forbidden, and yet that wrongness of it only made Tobin crave Bennet more. Before the day and night were through, he would get Bennet to confide in him, and, more than that, he would have some sort of physical contact with the man—even if it was as brief as the touch of a hand.
But he hoped to Christ it would be a great deal more than that.
Chapter Eight
Bennet’s back had a pricking sensation that grew even as he squatted over the newborn and pushed his fingers through the unbroken membrane to help it to take its first breath. Its brother had been born dead, and he didn’t have much hope for this one.
Behind him, he could hear an urgent whisper. “Come on. Come on.”
Bennet had already told Tobin to expect more loss—it was part of lambing season—but Tobin seemed to take to heart the two lambs born dead so far. The man’s sentimentality and Bennet’s feeling that he was being stalked by a hungry hunter lent the barn a strange atmosphere, which was not helped by Bennet’s lack of sleep.
The mother turned and sniffed the lamb, and then walked away from it.
“Come back here,” Bennet said. “It’s alive, ye awd bag of fleece.” He wanted her to wash the newborn so they’d bond, but a draft blew through the barn, and the little thing might get chilled. He rose to his feet, shifted from foot to foot, then dropped back into a crouch. The lamb was alive and showing signs of increasing strength. He picked up a handful of straw and began to rub at the damp baby.
He sensed movement to the side and looked up to see Tobin had climbed over the bales to the front of the ewe. Tobin pushed at her angrily. “Get to work,” he demanded. “You have responsibilities, damn it. You can’t just walk away from them.”
Another pointed remark about Pierce’s return to the world? Bennet was thoroughly tired of those comments. But no, Tobin’s focused gaze on the mother held a fiery urgency—odd such a seemingly genial man could get so worked up about sheep. But in their few hours together, Bennet had noticed the man was unafraid of expressing emotion, even those that other men might mock.
As they worked at trying to get the ewe to take the lamb Bennet saw signs that another ewe was about to give birth. He climbed out of the jug and walked across to her.
“I’ll convince this mother to do her job,” Tobin called.
“I suspect you will,” Bennet said. As he leaned against the hay barrier to watch the birth, he listened to Tobin’s soothing and cajoling voice weaving through the familiar sounds of the barn.
“Ha! That’s the ticket, girlie, just nose the little blighter a bit. Yes, yes!” His crow of happiness made Bennet smile.
It wasn’t just Tobin’s constant presence and his free-flowing emotion that had Bennet too aware of the man. His own responses muddled him. Desire had begun to course through him like one of the streams trickling to life, thawing after a long winter.
The other birth moved along easily. He stood by to watch and didn’t have to help at all.
He checked to make sure the ewe’s teat worked, stripping out the wax—he’d heard it called—then scrambled to his feet and stretched and yawned. That prickling… Yes, Tobin watched him.
Their eyes met, and his breath caught. It had been years since he’d spent so much time in the company of another person, and he certainly hadn’t been around anyone who paid such careful attention to him. He’d forgotten the rather exhilarating sensation of another person’s scrutiny. It should have made him nervous, he supposed. When he thought about what Tobin represented—a return to the world—it made him almost sick with nerves. Ha, and he thought the other man anxious and emotional.
“You’re smiling,” Tobin said. He took a step closer. “But you don’t look very pleased.”
“You do not need to interpret every shadow of an expression that passes over my face.”
“But I want to. That’s my new occupation—understanding you. That and building strong sheep families. Mum has taken on junior back there.” He cocked a thumb in the direction of the jug but didn’t take his attention off Bennet. The words seemed to flow easily, but that stare—it was hard and not at all casual.
Bennet considered running away, going back out to the main herd with the excuse that he must check on those lambs. But he felt trapped by that gaze, because if he looked away, Tobin might pounce on him, or worse, he might lose interest and wander away.
Tobin rubbed his arms—he’d taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. The light from the door caught the glint of the fair hair on his arms. He’d have that hair all over his body. That body would have soft parts, just as Bennet had had before he’d wrestled a thousand sheep. Soft parts covered with silken skin. And then there’d be the firm bits—the very firm, rigid parts.
The lawyer hid nothing, and the greed shone from his face when he looked at Bennet. He resembled a hungry boy staring at teacakes.
Bennet said, “You’re going to get into some serious trouble if you look at other men that way.”
“Oh, I don’t. I’m not a fool. But I’ve figured you out, Jacob Bennet.”
God above. The emphasis on the first name. He knew. How much did he know about the dead man? Bennet swallowed. Should he continue this conversa
tion? Ask him what he meant? He had forgotten how to steer words.
“By the by, thank you for your help,” he tried. “You really do seem to have a way with the animals.”
“They’re not so very different from some of my clients.” Tobin pushed his hands into his trouser pockets and strolled toward Bennet, who refused to back away.
Tobin smiled at him, a knowing, intimate closemouthed quirk of the lips this time—the man had more smiles than Bennet had sheep. He’d been something of the clown when he’d first appeared, shrieking, in Bennet’s life. Only yesterday.
But at this moment, Tobin, even with that sunny nature, was a force to be reckoned with. He stood almost too close now. If Bennet kissed him, if he did more—explored that pale body—what would it mean? No obligations to the man or his mission, no promises made. Some comfort, some relief, and then they could go back to their lives. It would only take a step or two for Bennet to move so close that his interest would be clear.
He watched Tobin’s chest rise and fall, quickly, as if he was out of breath and felt the same sudden constriction in his own body as desire made him dizzy. So close to another body’s promise of warmth and pleasure.
Alas. Bennet knew himself. He wasn’t like other men he’d met with the penchant for the male body. Every touch and kiss came with a price for him. Or perhaps it was the other way around—he could only stroke or suck if… He had to lock his faltering knees at the image of himself on his knees before Tobin.
No. If there was not enough regard for the other person’s spirit, he would not allow himself the pleasure of the flesh. He must love, or it was an empty act. Bennet might be a deviant invert with his lust, but he seemed to have the same need for love as normal men—or women.
Perhaps you like this one enough? whispered something inside him, that part of him that craved heat, kisses and skin.
No, he had to imagine a life with the man he touched. Such a ridiculous notion, but he knew himself too goddamn well. This man wasn’t his enemy, but he was hardly a friend.