by Linda Banche
“If they have flown away, I will pay for a new pair.”
“No need to speak of that yet. The first thing to do is rid ourselves of this.”
This? The curst man referred to him as a thing? I’ll get you for that! Machiavelli threw himself at the cage bars once more.
He had to escape!
Chapter 9
Robert gestured to the men. “Carry him outside.”
Amid a continuing chorus of honks and hisses, the underkeepers carried the caged goose outside the aviary. With none too much care, they dumped him on the ground. Goose and cage bounced.
Jem bent over the cage and wagged a finger. “Serves ye right, ye devil.”
The goose angled his bill out of the cage and snapped.
“Ow!” Jem jumped back, shaking his hand. “The fiend bit me again!”
Borland pushed the cage farther away. “We should have used the cage that has less space between the bars. Too late for that now.”
A horse neighed and a groom driving the gig pulled up outside the aviary entrance.
The goose snapped and squawked, and, amid more expletives and bitten fingers, the men loaded the cage onto the back of the vehicle.
Robert swung himself up into the equipage and took the reins from the groom. The man jumped down.
The goose stuck his bill between the cage bars and snapped at Robert’s arm.
Robert jerked away. “Curse you, goose!”
Borland dragged the cage father from Robert. He called over his shoulder to an underkeeper. “Fetch some rope.” When the underkeeper returned, Borland secured the cage as far from the driver’s seat as possible. “That should keep him away from you.” He stepped back. “I hope.”
Robert settled in again. “I will be most happy to see the back of this wretched bird.” He scowled at Borland. “Find my ducks.” Then he slapped the reins on the horse’s back. The vehicle rolled away to the accompaniment of the goose’s unceasing hisses, honks and snaps.
Shaw Farm was only a few miles down the road. A mere half hour more in the company of this benighted goose.
Robert blew out a breath. Gads, he was hot, tired and more annoyed than he had been in a long time, and the hour was only a little past noon. Miss Shaw was welcome to her aggravating bird. And he had thought the peafowl were beyond the pale.
Halfway there, he bumped over a large rock in the road. Something cracked and the cage rattled. With an ear-splitting honk, the bird clamped his bill around Robert’s forearm.
“Devil take it!” Robert slapped the bill aside and stopped. The rope securing the cage had broken. Cursing again and dodging the goose’s bill, Robert tied the cage down. Gads, he hadn’t cursed this much in years. This misbegotten bird had much to answer for.
“You are a most perverse fowl. I shudder to think how you act at Shaw Farm.” Robert jerked the knot on the rope securing the cage tighter. “If you belonged to me, I would direct the cook to serve you for Christmas dinner. I might even break your neck myself.”
Another chorus of honks and hisses erupted from the goose.
As if he understood?
“Do not expect any sympathy from me.” Rubbing his sore arm, Robert climbed back into the driver’s seat.
The honks, hisses, snaps and squawks continued unabated, a raucous refrain that set Robert’s teeth on edge. Bad enough he had to visit the neighbors. But this farce with the goose further soured a day that had never promised much sweetness. What he wouldn’t give for a stiff drink.
They drove through the forest, the din from the goose overpowering any woodland sounds, to emerge onto fields, some left to lie fallow, and some plowed, ready for the planting of winter wheat.
He slowed as they pulled up to the bridge spanning the River Len. The river was low, but still running clear. He looked over his shoulder at the goose, now biting the bars again. “Shall I toss you into the water, bird?”
The goose flung him a glare that could slice him in half. And probably would, if he was free.
Robert turned back to the horses. “Unfortunately, or perhaps, fortunately, you belong to another. For which I am most grateful.” They bounced over the bridge, the cage rattling and tumbling. “I hope your ride is uncomfortable, goose. You have certainly made mine so.”
This land belonged to Shaw Farm. In good shape, for the most part, although only a small portion was under cultivation.
He frowned. Too many unplanted fields, and some of the previous wheat crop hadn’t been harvested. Not enough money to pay the laborers? Miss Shaw must be even poorer than he thought.
The racket from the back petered out and died.
Robert cast another glance over his shoulder. The goose slumped in the cage, his head down. Finally tired out? Pray he was so. The prospect of another fight when they reached the farm appealed about as much as a visit to the tooth drawer. Cowardly as it was, he planned to open the cage and then take to his heels. If he were lucky, the goose would leap out and run far, far away.
Then the villain would be Miss Shaw’s problem. But he would have to ensure the blackguard didn’t show up in his aviary again.
Although how he got in was a mystery. Borland kept the gate latched during the day and locked at night. Had some careless visitor left the gate open? Was that both how the goose entered and his ducks escaped? He gripped the reins tighter. He would direct Borland to lock the gate day and night.
The fields came to an end. Ahead rose the farm buildings, their sad aspect tugging at Robert’s heart. He must do something to help Miss Shaw.
As long as that something didn’t involve the pestiferous goose.
Instead of stopping at the house, he drove toward the barn in the back. He would set the cage down someplace from which the goose couldn’t escape, release the demon, and then flee—er, return—to the house to inform Miss Shaw.
The chicken yard, full of cackling hens that quieted as he approached, was a possibility, but the surrounding fence was the same height as the wood duck’s fence in the aviary. The goose could probably jump or fly over the barrier.
At its side was another pen with a higher fence. That one should work. He pulled up at the second pen.
Silence surrounded him. Suspicious silence. Robert turned.
The goose lifted the latch on the cage and pushed the door open with his bill. He lunged to freedom.
He bit through the twine!
The goose, murder in his eye, launched himself at Robert. Flapping wings battering, he nipped Robert on the shoulder.
Robert threw up his arms to protect his head. “Devil take you, bird!”
The goose disgorged a window-rattling HONK!
***
Julia dropped her brush. The turpentine can beside her tipped, and she lunged to catch the vessel before its contents spilled.
What was that infernal din? Catching up her shawl, she dashed down the stairs and then out through the front door. Winding her shawl around her, she rounded the house and almost slammed into an unfamiliar gig.
The vehicle blocked her view of the goose pen, from which the honking emanated. But no one was there—Machiavelli had run off. She ran around the conveyance and stopped dead.
Machiavelli had returned! Flapping, honking and biting, the flying goose—Machiavelli could fly? She had never before seen him do so—attacked a large, stylishly dressed gentleman.
The man, his arms high to protect his head, flailed at the goose. His back was to her, his upended hat lay in the dirt and white feathers covered his black greatcoat. He swore. Loudly.
Julia’s ears burned. “Do not hurt my goose, sir!”
The man batted at the goose again and turned toward her.
Julia gasped. He was the man on the road a few days ago. His dark eyes blazed, his brown hair was mussed, and his sharp cheekbones had flushed from the effort of warding off Machiavelli.
Her pulse raced. He had looked handsome at a distance. Up close, he was magnificent.
Tingles raced over her skin.
&n
bsp; “This spawn of Satan is your property, madam?” He jerked his head back from Machiavelli’s open bill as the goose dove in for a bite.
“He is, sir, and you will not harm him!” She jumped between the man and Machiavelli.
Machiavelli, breathing heavily, plopped to the ground. Eyes afire, he angled his head around her. He hissed at the man.
“Gracious, what is the matter?” She stroked Machiavelli’s head.
The bird went limp, as if he had been pumped full of air and all the gas suddenly escaped.
She tipped her head back to glare up at the man. Good gracious, he was tall. “He has never acted this way before. What have you done to him?”
The man’s jaw dropped. “I? This feathered blackguard has tried to bite me ever since I saw him. And just now he attacked me.” He scowled at the goose. “If he is your property, you are welcome to him.”
Machiavelli’s eyes narrowed. He heaved himself erect, stalked over to the visitor, and splatted on the man’s pristine Hessians.
The gentleman stifled an oath. “That blasted goose laughed at me.”
Julia bit her lip. The entire situation was comical, especially the last part, although the gentleman probably wouldn’t appreciate her laughter. “I am sorry Machiavelli inconvenienced you. But if you will come to the house, we will clean you up.”
The man bowed. He shot visual daggers at the smug-looking Machiavelli as he shook muck off his now-filthy boots. “Machiavelli, is it? An appropriate name for the scheming beast. He tried everything he could to elude me. He even flew. With his prodigious bulk, I am surprised he was able to lift off the ground.”
The goose ruffled his feathers, stuck his neck out straight and hissed at the gentleman.
A chill slid over Julia’s skin. Almost as if he understood the man’s insult.
The gentleman brushed feathers off his greatcoat. “He obviously did not wish to come back.”
Julia crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “Bad goose.”
Machiavelli nuzzled her side.
She melted. Whatever mischief he caused, she never could stay angry at him.
***
Lightning raced along Robert’s nerves. Was this Julia Shaw?
The lady was short and slim, with lustrous black hair that caught and captured the light. A few glossy strands had come loose from her untidy topknot, and framed her creamy complexion. Vivid blue eyes sparkled like sunlight on a lake. Those eyes flashed when she spoke to him, but softened as she petted that rapscallion of a goose. A shawl wound around her shoulders, and a loose smock spattered with paint covered her shabby brown dress, but didn’t hide the compact yet curvaceous, form beneath.
Heat rushed over his skin as if summer had descended in the midst of December. He unbuttoned his greatcoat.
“Where have you been?” Her musical voice crooned to that miserable goose.
Robert swallowed. Pity he hadn’t knocked on her front door when he drove home. Then he would have met this enchanting creature sooner. “Over at my aviary. And he did not want to come back.”
She glowered at him before turning back to the goose. “We worried about you.”
Robert snorted. “No need to worry about that fiend. He would survive a crowd of starving gypsies bearing hatchets.” He bent to scoop up his hat.
“Thank you for returning Machiavelli.” She gathered up the goose, who lay his head on her breast. With a stiff gait, she marched to the pen. “I promise he will never bother you again.”
Robert hurried to swing the gate open. Any excuse to be near her.
She stepped inside the pen and halted. “Gracious, who are you?”
Robert turned. Before him sat his wood ducks. “They, madam, are my property.” He followed her into the pen and shut the gate behind them. Then he squatted beside the ducks. “So, you were safe here. I am glad.” They let him run a gentle finger over their heads. “When I found you gone from the aviary, I had terrible visions of a fox making a meal of you.”
The lady gently set Machiavelli on the ground.
Too gently by far. Robert would have dumped him on his fat head.
She slowly moved closer to the ducks. “They are ducks, are they not? I have never seen their like. How beautiful.”
He rose to his feet. “I would be surprised if you had seen any like them before. They are North American Wood ducks. I purchased them from a farmer when I was in the United States. The hen’s wing had broken, and the farmer had her on the chopping block, ready to cut off her head. Her mate dove at the farmer over and over in an effort to stop him. I then took the hen to a surgeon. No easy task to find one who would set a duck’s wing.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I could ask how they got here. I doubt they came of their own accord.”
Her eyes snapped blue fire. What a lovely sight. “Do you accuse me of stealing them?” Smiling she was beautiful, angry she was stunning. “I have never seen those ducks before.” Her creamy skin flushed. “And you, how did you come to have Machiavelli? He has been gone since yesterday. Did you kidnap, er, goose-nap my bird?”
What a glorious creature. And he didn’t mean the goose. “I beg your pardon, madam. I was very angry to find my ducks gone and this white pestilence in their place.” He glared again at Machiavelli, who innocently pecked at the ground. “I want absolutely nothing to do with him. But I think I know how he escaped here. I saw him lift the latch on his cage. If he can do that, he can leave this pen, and also enter my aviary, which has a latch, too. I suggest you put a lock on the gate.”
Her eyes widened, and her stiffness eased. “I had no idea.” Her lips pursed. “I know you are talented, Machiavelli, but I had no idea you were that talented.”
Robert crossed his arms over his chest. “Sly is probably a better word. For all I know, he might have brought my ducks here.”
“Do you do that, Machiavelli? Bad goose.” She scolded the bird, but her voice lacked conviction. Trust that schemer to get on her good side.
“Yes, bad goose.” Robert loomed over the bird. “Perhaps you can pull the wool over some people’s eyes, but not mine. I will watch out for you from now on.”
The goose tossed his head, as if he didn’t care.
Robert blew out a breath. Threatening a goose was a waste of time. Besides, with such a glorious lady beside him, why should he care about a goose? “By the way, I should introduce myself. I am Robert Tyndall.” He bowed.
“And I am Miss Julia Shaw.” She thawed, and offered her hand.
Would that she would melt into his arms.
He brought her dainty fingers to his lips, and a whiff of her perfume drifted to him. He wrinkled his nose. Turpentine. Did she come from painting her kitchen?
“We heard you had returned, your lordship.” Her cheeks flushed a delicate rose. She waved at the ducks, although her gaze never left him. “Do they have names?”
The magic she spun wove about him with the softest of threads, a binding to which he willingly succumbed.
He swallowed. “I call the drake Woodie. Not very original, but that is a nickname for Wood ducks. As for the hen, I have not named—” He frowned. “Julia. Her name is Julia.” Where had that come from?
“What a coincidence. My name is Julia, too.” She laughed and curtsied to the hen. “I am pleased to meet you, Julia.”
He also laughed. Her enchantment wove tighter about him and he exulted in his capture. “I am sorry if I distressed you, Miss Shaw.”
“Quite all right, sir. A satisfactory ending for all. We each have our birds back.”
Her company had transformed this sourest of days into the sweetest time of his life. So what if he had goose droppings on his new boots? If that was the price to meet such a delicious creature, he was more than willing to pay.
***
“You lied to us!” Woodie raised his wings and advanced on Machiavelli.
Machiavelli hissed. “Nonsense.”
“Stop your blustering. Julian sent the song birds to tell us that you we
re in our pen. He also told us he found out The Cook wanted to eat you for dinner! So you thought to take our place at the aviary and leave us here as your replacement!” Woodie squeaked. “Party, my web. Bald-faced lie.”
“Now, now, no need to become angry. I thought to give you a treat by introducing you to the delights of the farm.”
“Delights?” Woodie snorted. “We spent the night on the chicken coop roof because a fox invaded the chicken yard. Even worse, we might have wound up as dinner if His Lordship hadn’t brought you back where you belong! Good thing he’s smart.”
An evil gleam entered the goose’s eye. “But you are still here and will remain so. I will not lead you back.”
“As if we couldn’t leave whenever we wished.” Woodie leaped into the air and pecked Machiavelli on the head. He deserved worse.
Machiavelli squawked.
“We don’t need you.” Woodie fluttered down beside Julia. Then they both flew to perch on His Lordship’s vehicle.
Machiavelli’s jaw dropped. “Your lady can fly!”
“Yes.” Woodie sneered. “We knew better than to be completely honest with a scoundrel like you.”
“You lied!”
Woodie spat. “No quarter given to a deceiver.”
“Good riddance to you.” Julia stretched her wings. “Alas, Woodie, I would have liked to attend a party. But, we did see the farm. And that hut was comfortable, during the little time we spent there. Although our tree hole is better.” She raised up on her toes, flapping her wings slightly for balance. “We ate all your corn, Machiavelli. I hope you starve.”
The goose’s jaw hardened. He ran to his home and stuck his head inside. He turned, hissed and stamped. His aspect thunderous, he flapped his wings, but rose only a few inches from the ground.
“Serves you right.” Woodie got a better footing on his perch and turned toward his mate. “All has ended well, my dear. His Lordship’s arrival means we won’t have to fly back.”
“That’s good news. But look at the Humans. I didn’t know His Lordship had a mate.”
Woodie frowned. “Looks like a fight to me.”
“Sometimes courtship masquerades as fighting.” Julia preened a wing feather. “I can tell they’re mates because the hen isn’t afraid of him. You know the drakes become emotional at this time of year.”