Violet marched across the barnyard and retrieved a large red chicken from beneath an empty feed trough. The trough was a single tree trunk about thirty feet long, carved out to resemble a rough, rectangular canoe.
“Time for nighty-night,” Violet said, carrying Brunhilda into the end of the barn that served as the chicken dormitory. The hen made bird-purring noises, and got a good-night hug before being deposited on a straw-lined shelf.
Lucky bird, to be the object of Violet Hughes’s affection.
Elias issued a stern warning to his imagination—Violet Hughes did not need him tucking her in—but who knew a woman cradling a chicken could look both fierce and adorable?
“Are your chores complete for the evening?” Elias asked as the chickens were secured for the night. The evening air smelled different near the barn—earthier, more grain and livestock, not simply cut grass and countryside.
Still fresh, still peaceful.
“I might do a night check,” Violet said. “The shearer has yet to come through, and as the temperatures go up, the sheep drink more. It’s cool enough tonight they should manage.”
The relentlessness of the responsibility she bore reminded Elias of Zebedee, who’d never complained about being head of the family. Cousins, nieces, nephews, in-laws… they hadn’t hesitated to turn to Zeb for help, and Zeb had come through for them. After a time, he’d begun to delegate family matters to Elias, and of family matters, there had never been a shortage.
Which had left the castle in disgraceful condition.
“How about you bring the wine and we can start on the salad?” Violet said as they approached the house. “By the time the table’s set, the bread should be done.”
Full of plans, she was, while Elias’s mind had slowed down to the point of merely registering impressions. Violet’s hair was coming undone, for example. The end of her braid had escaped from her bun.
“You are a natural caretaker,” he said, one of those thoughts that came out of his mouth without benefit of review by his brain. “Don’t you get lonely here, Violet?”
“You work hard enough, you don’t have time for loneliness,” she said, tromping up the porch steps. “This is the busiest time of year, the time when you do the next necessary thing no matter what, because it could rain—or stop raining—next week. The tractor and baler can go on the fritz when you need them most. The sheep will get out right before the shearer comes, and they’ll head straight for the damned burdock patch.”
Oh, so busy, and yet, she was lonely. Elias knew this the same way he knew he was lonely, but had remained blissfully ignorant of his own affliction until that moment.
“The jet lag is threatening to drop me in my tracks,” he said. “Let’s eat, and you can tell me how you came up with the name Brunhilda for a shy hen.”
* * *
Tomorrow was Sunday, though for Violet, it would be a day on the tractor. She’d cut her first fields of hay on Thursday, and once the dew evaporated in the morning, she’d rake what she’d mowed. If the weather remained fair and dry, she could bale her first crop on Monday afternoon, and then—only then—breathe an enormous sigh of relief.
Until the second cutting later in the summer required the same combination of meteorological good luck, backbreaking hard work, and reliably functioning equipment.
Having Elias Brodie for a dinner companion was tiring, but also a comfort. On her own property, Violet was safe, of course, but having Elias at her side made the final chores more of an evening stroll.
The hens had liked him, always an encouraging sign.
“Our timing is good,” Violet said, because the oven clock showed the bread would be done in about five minutes.
“The scent of cooking bread is… How can I be homesick when I can smell fresh bread?” Elias replied.
“You’re homesick?”
“The Scots have a propensity for homesickness. Makes for some excellent weepy ballads. In my lifetime, most of the castle my family considers home hasn’t been habitable, but after I turned eleven, that pile of rocks up the hill from the lodge was what gave me a sense of home.”
That, and the feel of Zebedee Brodie’s welcoming hug. Maybe Elias hadn’t the Brodie charm in any great quantity, but he did have an affectionate nature. If the epidemic of weddings among his cousins was any indication, that was a family trait too.
“Grab the wine,” Violet said, drawing a pair of salad tongs from a drawer. “I’ll get the silverware, and we can put the hurt to the chow.”
Her idea of “putting the hurt to the chow” was a quiet meal on the back porch. The fresh salad and ham-and-cheese bread was as good as anything Elias had enjoyed at five-star restaurants, and the white zin, while humble, nevertheless added the mellow glow of the grape to the end of the day. Violet served a vanilla mousse with fresh strawberries for dessert, the perfect complement to an informal meal.
Elias set aside a glazed bowl that had held a quantity of dessert.
“Thank you for a delightful meal, Violet Hughes. I will do my part with the dishes, and then take myself across the road. You’ve made a stranger feel very welcome. Perhaps you’re part Scottish.”
She was a redhead, and the Scots were the most redheaded nation on earth.
His hostess ate the last bite of strawberries and cream, then scraped an additional half a spoonful from the serving bowl. Violet was not shy about satisfying her appetite, and Elias had learned to appreciate a woman who enjoyed a good meal.
“I’m mostly Irish,” she said, “with the occasional German gene for extra stubbornness. My great-grandmother was the wild child from a fine, upstanding Mennonite family that’s still farming closer to the Pennsylvania line. You don’t have to hang around to do dishes. I’ll wrap you up some leftovers, and you can be on your way. If you like, I can pick up some no trespassing signs the next time I’m in town.”
Guarding his farm mattered to her, but then, she might have lost her buildings to arson.
“I doubt I’ll be here long enough to find any miscreants on my property, Violet.” That needed to be said, because the part of Elias that had noticed Violet’s fine shape, that had presumed to put an arm around her shoulders, had also noticed how attractive her hands were.
Those hands would feel lovely stroking over Elias’s bare back. Instincts honed in the company of women from Rome, to Budapest, to Copenhagen, to Edinburgh told Elias that Violet was speculating about his wares too.
Some things were the same, regardless of the continent a man found himself on.
“You have a castle to fix up,” Violet said, rising. “Having a castle must be like owning a farm. The damned place never gives you a moment’s rest, but you love it. You love what it stands for, and that means it owns you, owns your heart, owns everything you have to give.”
Her summary wasn’t far off, but it wasn’t a happy recitation either.
Elias piled the plates and salad bowl in a stack and followed Violet into the kitchen. “I wish I could show you my castle when it’s been put to rights. We use the great hall for weddings and the occasional ceilidh now—the main structure is sound—but the wiring and piping, the interior finish, need updating. The fireplace in the great hall is 27 feet across—takes up the entire north wall and provides radiant heat for the laird’s chamber above it.”
“Sounds like the renovations will cost a fortune.” Violet took the plates from him, and stacked them in the sink.
“While I’m here, one of my cousins back home has started gathering bids from the trades. The project will take years, but I refuse to leave that mess for another Brodie heir to deal with.”
Violet turned on the tap. “That was my father and our barn. Had to have the whole thing repointed and parged, replaced the siding, all the hardware. That man loved his barn. Said a barn was like a church.”
Elias reached around her and shut off the water, then turned her by the shoulders, and put his arms about her. He’d been honest—he was just passing through. If they spent th
e night together, the encounter would be casual, sweet, enjoyable, and a nice memory—a very nice memory.
He had many such memories, he suspected Violet had all too few.
She took her time making up her mind, which suited Elias just fine. For a moment, she simply stood in his embrace, her arms at her sides. A gentleman never rushed a lady, and he never coerced her decision.
“You’re leaving in a few days,” she said, dropping her forehead to his chest.
Elias got his fingers into what remained of her bun, and massaged the muscles above her nape. She was fit, trim, and too tense for a woman who’d just shared a moonlit meal on a fine evening.
“I’ll leave in a few weeks at most. I have matters at home to attend to. You can send me on my way, Violet. In fact, you probably should.”
Her arms stole about his waist. “Why send you on your way? Are you trouble?”
“I’m a good time, I suppose, nothing more—also nothing less.”
She relaxed against him, though Elias could still feel her mental gears whirring. “I haven’t had a good time since Hector was a pup. I’m not that kind of woman.”
Oh, that was just societal judgment, foolishness, and fatigue talking, also a lack of confidence Elias found intolerable in a woman as competent and passionate as Violet Hughes.
No sense arguing gender politics though.
He gathered her close and kissed her.
Chapter Four
* * *
Farmers developed a sense of time rooted in the seasons and the progress of the sun across the sky. Not for them, the arbitrary movement of hands around a clock face, not when ripening crops and shifting temperatures marked the passing days according to the rhythms of creation.
Elias Brodie’s kisses held a hundred generations worth of patience, centuries of tenderness, and eternities of passion. Violet might have been an exotic garden, one Elias explored as if every nuance of her kisses—her sighs, the texture of her hair, the exact contour of her eyebrows and jaw—fascinated him.
He made it easy to be fascinated in return. Elias was built on beautiful physical proportions that Violet measured in caresses and embraces. He offered her gentle, relentless overtures and counterpointed them with an obvious and unapologetic rising of desire.
So this was seduction … This was what it felt like to be coaxed closer and closer to pleasure, and lured away from lists, schedules, and oughts.
“You’re good at this,” Violet said, as her braid went slipping down the center of her back.
“I’m enthusiastic about shared pleasures. You are too.”
His smile said he approved of Violet for enjoying his kisses, he applauded her accepting the challenge he offered.
“I’m not… I don’t get out much, Elias,” she said, drawing back. “A farmer needs every available hour of sleep, every spare dime, every free moment to keep the land happy and prospering. I’m a fifth-generation farmer. I don’t socialize often.”
Elias let her go, and damned if he didn’t start doing the dishes. “You’re also a woman, Violet. I’m not proposing a three-day bacchanal, and I don’t kiss and tell.”
That he’d exercise a little discretion mattered to her, though she wasn’t likely to cross paths with him ever again—another reason to indulge in what he offered. Violet unwrapped the dish towel from the wine bottle and accepted a clean plate from Elias.
“I doubt I’m your type,” she said.
He used his thumbnail to scrape a spot of cheese from the second plate. “You should be more concerned with whether I’m your type, assuming you have a type for a friendly encounter. These plates look hand-made.”
He did a thorough job washing dishes, not merely a rinse and a promise.
“My mother made them. I have only the two left.” Blue and white glaze with a flower-and-vine pattern around the rim. The plates were heavy, and didn’t really go with anything else Violet owned. “She made them the year I was born. Took a class when she got too pregnant to do much manual labor. I’ll sleep with you, Elias, but don’t expect much.”
He tackled the mousse bowls next. “Why will you sleep with me?”
Violet’s decision had been made in those moments when Elias had simply held her. He’d offered her time to consider options, and given her excellent reasons to trust him. He didn’t push. He didn’t wheedle. He didn’t bargain or make false promises.
“You respect me,” Violet said, the words effecting a sort of sunrise where her flagging energy had been. “And you want me. Both.”
She felt as if she’d solved a riddle, though maybe ten years later than she should have.
“I respect the hell out of you,” Elias said, passing her a squeaky clean bowl. “You work hard, take your responsibilities seriously, and genuinely care for your property. Respect is not the only reason I’m attracted to you.”
This foreplay without touching was enjoyable, but also more serious than it should have been. “I went to college, Elias. Had my share of rodeos. You don’t have to draw me pictures.”
“Will you dry that bowl or rub the glaze off? What is your degree in?”
Violet set the bowl in the cupboard. “Sociology, undergrad and a master’s. What about you?”
And why else did he want to spend the night in her bed? Thank God she’d changed the sheets earlier in the day.
Thank God the bed was made for once.
“I studied business at uni, and am considered well informed regarding the organization and operation of charitable establishments. I detect the patter of little paws on your back porch.”
“Good Lord, I nearly forgot to feed the pups. Silverware can go in the drain rack. Guys, I’m coming!”
Murphy woofed softly. And the next few minutes were absorbed with more of the odd domesticity she’d been sharing with Elias throughout the evening. He put away the leftovers while she fixed the dogs their dinners—some wet, some dry, some leftovers—and took their bowls to the fenced side yard off the sun room.
When she got back to the kitchen, Elias was checking his phone.
“Everything OK?”
“It’s the middle of the night back home. I was just scrolling through my email, of which there is plenty, but it can all wait until morning. Shall we to bed, my dear?”
With his burr, he could carry off that question—quaint, vintage, old-fashioned—and still make Violet’s insides dance.
“C’mon,” she said, taking his hand. “There are two bathrooms upstairs.”
Elias grabbed his backpack and came along peaceably. “I could do with a shower.”
The image of him wet, naked, and slick with soap had Violet nearly jogging up the steps. “Separate showers, I think. Quick showers. Three minutes, tops.”
Elias came to a halt outside the bedroom door. “Are you nervous, Violet?” The idea seemed to genuinely puzzle him.
“A little, but mostly…I don’t want to lose my nerve. A friendly encounter, you called it. A roll in the hay by any other name. A part of me still thinks I ought to know a guy better before I—”
Elias kissed her, a little smacker that let him snatch the conversation ball. “A friendly encounter can be memorable, and you’ll know me a whole lot better by morning.”
She wanted to know him better, which was stupid. He’d be back in Scotland before strawberry season was over, and then she’d miss him, which was stupider still.
“Bathroom is down the hall to the left, help yourself to anything. Last one in bed’s a rotten egg.”
He sauntered off, backpack hanging off one shoulder. Violet took a minute to admire the view, then darted into her room, and shucked out of her clothes. The shower she took was more than three minutes, but not much more, and because she owned exactly one summer nightgown, her what-to-wear debate lasted only a moment.
Elias knocked on her door—she really would miss this guy—which gave Violet time to grab her hair brush and take up a place sitting cross-legged against the bed’s headboard. He wore his jeans, nothing
else.
Not even a smile.
“I can brush out your hair for you,” he said, hanging his backpack on the bedpost.
“I have other jobs in mind for you. What do we do about protection?”
He rummaged in his knapsack then tossed a box of condoms on the night table. “And yes, they’re well within their expiry date. Any other questions, because if not, I have a few for you.”
Gracious days, he was a fine specimen. Broad shoulders, clean musculature, just the right dusting of hair across his chest. Oh, yes, Violet would miss him for a long, long time.
“We’re not talking about tabs and slots,” Violet said, unraveling her braid and angling her head to shield her face. “Parts is parts, Mr. Brodie. Please lock the door.”
This was why college students got drunk, because conversation under these circumstances was an exercise in inanity.
Violet finger-combed her hair free of the plait she’d put in sixteen hours earlier. The shower had left her hair damp enough to brush out without creating that oh-so-stylish porcupine-meets-light-socket coiffure.
“Who or what am I locking in or out?” Elias asked.
Violet hit a snarl as the sound of jeans being unzipped ripped across her composure. She wanted to look, and she wanted to dive under the covers.
I ’m being an idiot. “The dogs sometimes come in here, especially if there’s a thunderstorm.”
Elias prowled closer, his fly undone. He sat on the bed at Violet’s hip, brushed her hair back over her shoulder, and leaned in for a sweet, soft, nearly chaste kiss.
“The dogs are outside at their dinners,” he said. “Should I let them in?”
What dogs? “Please.”
“Violet?”
The kissing part was so easy, so lovely. Violet left off indulging herself to pull back an entire inch. “Elias?”
“I have a suggestion,” he said, fingering the neckline of her nightgown and scattering her last coherent thought. “I’ll tend to the dogs, and you can turn out the lights and scoot under the covers. You might consider taking off this fetching bit of pup tent, but you should know one thing about me first.”
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