for the sea chanteys he’d sung with his crew, he doubted his voice would calm wilder beasts.
“Tumbledown Dick, I think you’re all bluster.” Nick reached to scratch the glossy curls between the bull’s eyes.
The animal blinked, stretching his powerful neck closer, obviously enjoying the attention.
“Let’s be off,” Nick shouted, coaxing the animal to move forward.
The bull ignored him, rubbing his head among the wildflowers, chewing contentedly.
Nick moved to within a foot of the animal’s ear. Glancing over his shoulder, Nick felt exceedingly foolish. But no one was around, he reminded himself.
He surveyed the pasture and the woods one more time, in case someone might be watching. Finally, convinced that no one was about, Nick knelt on one knee. In a soft baritone, he sang a sea chantey as though it were a lullaby to a babe.
Heave-o-ho, me mates. Heave-o-ho.
Hang yer gib on a crow-o.
Heave-o-ho, me mates. Heave-o-ho.
Immediately, the bull tossed his head and glanced about. As Nick continued to sing, the bull stepped forward and plodded alongside Nick’s limping gait as they made their way through the fields.
A few minutes later, Nick couldn’t help but laugh out loud, despite the pain in his wounded leg. He was filled with a sense of triumph he hadn’t known for the longest time. How he’d relish Keane’s surprised expression when he brought the bull to where the men were loading stones.
For the first time, Nick noticed the brute’s excellent conformation. Surprised at such quality, Nick made a mental note to check the account ledgers to see what breed the animal was. Indeed, this beast would bring a handsome fee for stud. He wondered again who was in charge of the manor’s account books.
By the time Nick and the bull had reached the lower valley, the sound of horse’s hooves broke the afternoon silence. He turned to see Becky ride along the ridge toward them. Nick smiled at the look of absolute astonishment on her face when she came up alongside him a few minutes later.
“How did you get Sir Richard out from under the tree?” she asked, reining the mare to a walk beside Nick. Although her mouth held suspicion, reluctant admiration shone from her eyes.
For an instant she looked so appealing, flushed from her ride, that Nick almost forgot his thoughts. “Keane told me his name is Tumbledown—”
“The bull’s registered name is Sir Richard. Keane has a singular wit, I’m afraid. He doesn’t like the animal and insists upon the insulting name.”
Becky had no idea how Sinclair had made her pet bull obey, but she knew it must have been with kindness. Sinclair was cocksure proud of himself, too. How she longed to ask him why he would masquerade as Ben Twaddle on his own property. And she still wasn’t certain if she’d been glad or sad, just a short while ago, to have found the real Ben Twaddle, taken to bed with a sprained back, with Molly and Nelda happily taking care of him, just as Hazel Willoughby had said.
Ben Twaddle had told the same story as Hazel Willoughby—that he’d accidentally fallen from a cliff while running from the devil.
Becky couldn’t help wondering if the mysterious Nicholas Sinclair had something to do with it, but at least Molly and Nelda were happy that Ben was finally home. And when they promised to keep secret Ben’s accident, for a few more days, Becky was relieved. She needed as much time as possible if she was to convince Sinclair that she was a capable manager who could run the estate for him after he returned to sea.
She glanced down at the intriguing man who limped beside the bull. Suddenly Hazel Willoughby’s words came to her mind:
Sir Nicholas Sinclair is a wounded war hero.
A touch of sympathy caught her unaware as she remembered the physical chores he had performed that day. He must be in excruciating pain, but he gave no hint of it, other than his limp. Why would he toil like a peasant when he could be languishing at the Willoughby estate, being pampered as his position dictated? Why, indeed?
To spy on her, of course. A surge of anxiety welled up inside her at the truth of it. The tax officials might have reported the estate’s long history of meager earnings to King Charles. Maybe Sinclair was sent here to gather evidence against her that she was skimming profits that were rightfully the crown’s. What other reason could there be?
Nick noticed the blood drain from her face, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on the reason. “Are you unwell, mistress?”
Becky blinked. “I—I’m…” She hesitated, then forced a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m quite well.” She glanced back toward the bull. Then, as though changing the subject, she said, “I see animals take to you, Twaddle.”
“Animals, like the fairer sex, can sense if one likes them. They’ve always responded in kind.”
Her answering glare brought a smile to his lips.
“Was it Keane who asked you to bring in the beast?” she said finally.
“Aye. He’s waiting where the men are loading rocks.”
“Indeed!” Her mouth lifted. “Well, let’s not keep Keane waiting. Climb behind me, Twaddle. We’ll both bring in Sir Richard.”
Becky reached out and took the bull’s lead, while Nick climbed on the horse. He put his arms around her waist. Her body stiffened in response to his touch. “Hold on to the saddle, Twaddle,” she said, but the horse bolted slightly, and he tightened both arms around her waist to steady himself. He felt Becky’s quickened pulse beneath his fingers with each breath she took before he gripped the saddle and held on.
She dug her heels into the mare’s sides, the horse beneath them picking up speed. Her hair brushed Nick’s face, the scent of lavender filling his nostrils. He didn’t have to see her to know her jaw was set and her chin jutted in the air.
Cantering through the fields of buttercups, Nick felt the same sense of freedom that he had at sea. The July sun beat hot against his back. The fresh air whipped his face. For the first time since his ship had taken the direct mortar, he felt aware of being alive.
Was it because he impersonated the bounder, Ben Twaddle, that brought this brief respite from melancholia? When he became Sir Nicholas Sinclair again, would the heavy mantle of remorse clamp its weight upon his shoulders and around his heart?
Or was it the relative peace of the moment, with the magnificent beast of burden keeping pace at their side? Or was it this unique experience of riding behind the mistress of Thornwood Hall, leading him across the sea of wildflowers? Becky, so like the beautiful figurehead he planned to fashion for his new ship.
As they rode, he thought of the carved woman who would grace his ship. She’d have a mane of ebony waves that flowed to her tiny waist. Violet eyes set wide in a face of creamy ivory. Her head would meet the storms with a proud lift of her chin, and her breasts would be the size to fill a man’s hands.
Beneath the pounding rhythm of the horse, he wondered if the spirited Becky would bring her zest for life to his bed.
Damn, what was the matter with him? He’d never been inquisitive about a woman before. But he was more than curious about this woman, and the thought bothered him.
Beautiful women were in every port. He’d paid for what he wanted, with no unsettling loose ends. Neat and orderly. That was the only way he wanted women in his life.
Poor Ben Twaddle. Falling for every skirt who gave him the come-hither, and look at the tangle they made of his life. And why was Becky so concerned with Ben Twaddle—the no-account son of one of her crofters? This woman, who carried a sword as easily as a man; who sang to beasts instead of whipping them; who took up the thankless chore of devoting herself to her orphan siblings instead of trading her beauty for an easier life? Each new thing he discovered about Becky made her all the more mysterious.