by Jill Barnett
She met his gaze unflinchingly. She started to say something, but for the life of her she couldn’t think of anything to say.
He swung a leg over the front of his saddle and slid to the ground with a horseman’s ease. He closed the distance between them and stood there looking down at her.
She thought for one crazy minute that he might just grab her and kiss her. And for that same crazy minute she wanted him to.
“You’ll freeze to death out here dressed like that.”
She shook her head. “I like the bite in the air. It’s a relief.”
He smiled then, one of those smiles that should have warned her. “Are things getting too hot for you around here, George?”
“Hardly,” she lied.
He just laughed, then braced a boot on a rock and rested his arms on his knee as he stared out at the bridge and the pond. After a moment he looked around, then said, “It’ll freeze over soon. The winter’s coming early this year.”
She didn’t respond, there was nothing to respond to. She didn’t really care about the weather, never had to unless it kept her from doing something she wanted to do. She stood there next to him and wondered what he was thinking. What he thought when he looked at her. What he thought when he looked at his children. “Tell me something.”
“What?”
“What do you do all day while you pay me to take care of your children?”
“What do I do?”
“Yes.”
“I work.”
She nodded and waited for him to explain. When he didn’t she asked, “What do you do, MacOaf?”
“I breed and raise horses. Like Jack, there.” He straightened and clucked his tongue twice and the horse walked over to stand next to him. He stroked Jack’s muzzle, then turned to her. “He’s sired four colts this year.”
“Four?”
“Aye.”
She nodded. “I see. And who takes care of the colts?”
“I do. And when they’re here, Will and Fergus help me in the stable. Why?”
She took a deep breath. Someone was going to have to hit him over the head to make him see what he was doing to his children. “I think if I told you, you still wouldn’t understand.”
He gave her an odd look, then just shrugged it off. He straightened and grasped the reins. In one incredibly graceful movement he swung up into the saddle. “It’s getting late and cold.” He held out his hand. “Here. I’ll give you a ride back to the house.”
She just stared at his hand.
He turned his foot. “Step on my boot and I’ll pull you up.”
She hobbled around for a second, then managed to get her foot on his. A second later she was behind him on the horse.
“Put your arms around my waist.”
She slid them around him and locked her fingers together. Her wrists pressed against his stomach, which was solid and hard.
He cast a quick glance over his shoulder. “Hang on, George!” And they took off like the wind.
Chapter 49
A whisper in the silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Georgina tied a bow in the blue silk ribbon on her only nightdress, then turned around, stiffly. Her backside and the insides of her thighs felt like someone had beaten them. She had only been off that white beast of a horse for a little while and she was already sore. Tomorrow would be unbearable.
“I’ll give you a ride back to the house,” she mimicked in a snotty voice as she limped across the room. “I’d like to give him something,” she muttered and punched a fist into the palm of her hand.
But deep inside she knew what she wanted to give Eachann. And it wasn’t a good sock.
Her shoulders dropped and she just stood there, feeling sorry for herself. Try as she might to ignore him, to tell herself he was an oaf, she couldn’t ignore one thing—he fascinated her. He did so in a way that no man had.
From that first night in the garden he had made her feel all those girlish dreamlike things she had told herself she would never feel. She didn’t want to feel them, but she did.
He was a good opponent; he didn’t give an inch. She liked that about him, because she knew she was one of those people who would push an inch into a yard if given the opportunity.
She almost wished she were less moral, then perhaps she could just march into his room, seduce him passionately until she became tired of him, then she could get on with her life. Whatever that life was going to be.
She glanced around her. If this room was any indication of what her future would be, she might as well give up now. The room was so small and still smelled musty even though she’d kept the window open.
She shuffled over to close the window, but stopped and looked outside. She took a deep breath and then blew it out. Fresh air was supposed to be good for what ails you.
She leaned against the window frame and looked out. The moon was still high and no clouds had blown in to hide the stars. They were everywhere tonight.
She started to close the window and changed her mind. She looked up at the sky again. Chewed on her lowered lip for a second, then quickly picked a star and made a wish.
She slammed the window shut and felt her cheeks flush because she was embarrassed, which was as silly as her making that wish, because no one could possibly know. She was all alone.
She shuffled back over to the bed and pulled back the covers. She leaned over and turned down the lamp. She got under the covers and wiggled this way and that, trying to get comfortable in the small bed.
She punched her pillow a couple of times. She missed those down pillows she used to have, then flopped her head back down and pulled the sheet and blankets all tightly around her chin.
Then, as she closed her eyes, a handsome, grinning, and too-arrogant face swam before her. She sighed and slowly turned her lips toward her pillow, pressing her mouth to it slowly and tenderly.
A second later she screamed so loudly she woke up the swans.
Chapter 50
My arms around her taper waist
Her lovely form I pressed,
Her beauteous face reclining
Upon my manly chest.
I kissed her twice upon the lips,
I wish I’d done it thrice.
I whispered, Oh it’s so naughty,
She said, it’s oh so nice.
—Anonymous
By the time Eachann ran into her room, Georgina was hopping around the room on one foot, hollering and yelling because she had a lobster hanging from the other foot.
“Get it off me! Get it off!” She hopped all over the place. “Get it off!”
“Hold still! I can’t get it if I can’t catch you!”
“Don’t you yell at me! This is all your fault!” She plopped down on the bed and rocked back and forth. “Ouch-ouch-ouch-ouch! Get it off. Please.”
Eachann knelt in front of her and tried to pry the lobster’s claw loose. “Strong little bastard,” he muttered.
She screamed again.
“Oops. Sorry about that, George. It slipped.”
She kicked her foot a few times, but the lobster just hung on, flopping back and forth as she flung her foot all over the place.
Eachann grabbed her by the waist, picked her up kicking and hollering, and dropped her on the bed, then straddled her, sitting on her fanny and facing her kicking feet.
“Get off me!”
“Hold still, dammit!” He grabbed her foot and pried the lobster loose. “There! Got it.”
He raised to his knees and then slid off her. They faced each other on the bed and he held up the lobster. “See?”
She held her toes in one hand and rocked on the bed. “That was so mean.”
“How the hell else was I suppose to get it off?”
“Not you! Your children!”
“Oh. They are a handful.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Yes, they do. Your children hate me!”
“Now, George. Don’t cry.” He patted her gently on the back.
“I’m not crying.” She turned and wailed into his chest.
“Okay . . . okay. You’re not crying.” He slid his arms around her and held her. He just held her like that for a long time.
She lay her head against him. Her toe hurt like the very dickens, but her pride and her feelings hurt more.
After a minute or so more of his rubbing her back he took a knuckle and tilted her chin up so she had to look at him.
His voice was little more than a rasp. “I like you, George.”
She blinked, trying to believe that he’d really said what she thought he’d said.
“You do?” she whispered.
“Aye. And I wanted to do this by the bridge tonight.” His mouth came down on hers. It wasn’t a hard kiss, but it was a passionate one. His hands slid to her head and held her there while his tongue wedged between her lips. He filled her mouth, then slid one hand down her back and pulled her flush against him.
She kissed him back, kissed him with all the passion she had been hiding for so long. Her hands went up into his hair.
His hands slid to her breasts.
She stilled, suddenly frightened of what was happening and happening too fast. She broke off the kiss, shaking her head. “No.”
He watched her closely for a moment and she had the feeling he was trying to gauge if she really and truly wanted him to stop.
“Please, not now.”
He nodded, his expression a little frustrated. The moment grew awkward.
“I need to get to bed,” she said in the way of an explanation. It was all she could think of at the moment. “I need every moment of rest to keep up with your children.”
He walked to the door, then, just before he left, he turned and said, “You’re a good sport, George.”
And she was a good sport. Until two mornings later when she woke up and discovered that his children had painted her face blue.
Chapter 51
If you unthinkingly set up a tack in another boy’s seat, you ought never to laugh when he sits down on it—unless you can’t “hold in.”
—Mark Twain
Georgina marched over the meadow and down the trail that led to Eachann’s stables, where she could see horses turned out in the neighboring field. The wind had come up from the northeast and was strong and cold, the kind that blew in sharp gusts that flattened her dress to her legs and yanked long strands of her hair free.
She shoved the hair from her blue face and stormed on, not even missing a step. She threw open one of the stable doors and stood there in the entrance while the wind whipped past her and spun the straw around.
Fergus and Will were busy mucking out the stalls.
She slammed the door and threw the bolt, then turned and stood there, her hands hanging at her sides in white-knuckled fists.
The men both turned around at the same time.
Will’s eyes grew huge and he swallowed hard.
But Fergus just stood there as if he had grown roots. He squinted at her, then muttered, “Those wee devils.”
Will’s mouth quivered and began to tilt up into what looked like a smile.
Georgina raised her finger and pointed at them. “One laugh, one smile out of either of you, and you’re both dead.” She looked around. “Where is Eachann?”
“In the field with the horses.”
She spun around and threw open the latch, then stormed out the door, heading for the grassy field beyond.
Some colts cantered playfully in a wide circle around the fencing and a small herd stood huddled together the way horses did whenever the weather took a sudden change. She could see Eachann’s blond head on the other side of the herd.
She called his name, but the sound was swallowed by a gust of wind. She looked for a gate, saw none, so she crawled through the fence and stormed toward him.
A nearby horse looked at her, threw its head up, and rolled its eyes. A second later it bolted as if it had just seen the devil himself.
She cursed under her breath and stomped across the field, her feet sinking in soft damp spots that were hidden by the thick grass. She stumbled twice and had to throw out her arms to help catch her balance.
One of the colts must have thought she was a playmate, because it pranced over with its tail and head high; it circled her a few times, nudging her straight back with its muzzle and playing with her hand.
At the best of times, she had little patience. Now she had none. She chased the colt away. She’d been plaything enough for one day.
When she was midfield, just near the herd, a gray stallion flattened its ears and bit another, even larger, and stockier horse. The gray kept bullying the other, nipping at its flanks.
She might be a sound sleeper. She might have a blue face because of it, but she wasn’t stupid. She could see the fight between those horses coming.
Before she knew what happened, Eachann threw her over a shoulder like a sack of oats and all but tossed her through the fence.
“Stay there!” he ordered, crossing the field toward the horses. He approached the gray and it backed away, then lowered its head.
Eachann didn’t appear the least intimidated. He just kept walking right straight toward it. The wind carried back his soft words, murmurs and whispers, easy talk that seemed to calm even the gusting air.
With an eerie suddenness, the horse quieted. By the time Eachann stood next to it, the animal was poking its muzzle in his chest and acting like a faithful old hound. The other stallion stood nearby, completely contented to just eat the grass and swish its long tail.
Eachann stroked the horse, then he was coming toward her. He stopped at the fence and watched her with a look of someone who knows exactly what he’s going to hear.
“I’ve had it!”
“Now, George.”
“Don’t you ‘Now, George’ me! Look at this!” She pointed at her face.
“Why would they paint your face blue?”
“To make me look like a Pict! What in God’s name is a Pict?”
“The old tribes of Scotland. They painted their faces blue when they went to battle.” He squinted and searched her face. “What did they use?”
“I don’t know. But it doesn’t wash off!”
He looked away, and just stood there, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. He glanced up at her. His eyes were beginning to crinkle at the ends and he looked like he was chewing on a belly laugh.
“Don’t do it!” She poked her finger in his chest. “I’ll tell you what I told Fergus and Will. Not one smile out of you.”
He lifted his hands in mock surrender.
“This is not funny, Eachann.”
He managed to compose himself and looked at her with a serious expression. “Come inside. Let’s see if we can find something to take it off.”
She was inside the stable before him, but followed him into a boxy room with bridles and halters, saddles and ropes, and other tack scattered everywhere.
“Watch where you step.” He pulled a bowl off of a shelf, then pointed to a bench with two saddles on it. “Sit here.” He left for a few minutes while she sat on a saddle with her blue chin resting in one hand.
He came back inside and hunkered down in front of her. “Close your eyes, George.”
He began to clean her face. After a while he said, “It’s not as bad as you think.”
“That’s because it’s not your face that’s blue.”
He stood and set the bowl down.
“Well?” she asked hopefully. “Is it any better?”
He was silently studyin
g her.
“Eachann . . . How does it look?”
He didn’t answer right away. Finally he said, “It matches your eyes.”
She stood up, snatched a halter off the bench, and threw it at him, then slammed out of the stable to the sound of his laughter.
Chapter 52
“If seven maids with seven mops,
Swept for a half a year,
Do you suppose,” the Walrus said,
“That they could get it clear?”
“I doubt it,” said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
—Lewis Carroll
Eachann’s children were smart. For the next few days they stayed in their rooms doing their lessons and behaving like perfect angels.
However, Georgina declared war like the blue-faced warriors of old on Eachann’s side of the house. She’d had enough. She couldn’t take the clutter any longer.
The blue on her face was slowly disappearing. If she kept busy, she wasn’t prone to look in the mirror, which was safest for everyone concerned, particularly Eachann MacLachlan and his children.
She attacked the rooms with a vengeance. In the main room she swept up enough walnut shells to fill Eachann’s bed—and that’s where she put them. She spent one whole afternoon just stacking horsemanship journals and papers. The man didn’t throw anything out. She found three-year-old newspapers and two more riding crops, one boot—she never did find the match—shirts, socks, saddle soap, and currying combs.
In one corner of the drawing room there was a wooden crate filled with nuts, bolts, nails and wooden pegs, wire, and some metal things that looked like huge belt buckles. There were strips of leather and metal, five stirrups, something that looked like a wood plane, two spoons—one slotted—a rasp, a hammer, five horseshoes, a piece of silver metal that looked like the grate door on a woodstove, and three doorknobs and some pipe.