Thornwood Manor could be brought around to the profitable estate it had been under Cromwell. A magician couldn’t turn this pile of stones into a gainful venture again.
Nick swore under his breath. There was no excuse for unkempt buildings. Run a tight ship, he always proclaimed. No wonder the estate lost money year after year. The king had best forget any thought of receiving tax monies from this dung heap.
Thornwood Hall. Remembering the ghastly hedgerows, he realized that whoever named it had a rich sense of humor.
“Come, Rex, let’s find a grassy spot by the river, where I’ll hide you until dark.” The horse nickered in answer.
Yawning, Nick remembered that he hadn’t slept last night at the Seven Swans. The drunken singing drifting from the taproom would have wakened the devils in hell. His gaze fixed on a small stone outbuilding attached to the barn. The perfect place to grab a few winks and rest his leg before he began exploring his land.
Nick dismounted, his thoughts going back to the black-haired beauty who had taken the man to task for whipping the beast.
Why hadn’t the king mentioned her? he mused.
Still flushed from her ride in the meadow, Becky paused to glance up from her planting and take in the familiar sight of her favorite flowers. Bees buzzed amid the blue delphiniums in front of the open window of the hay barn. The exposed earth waited for the seeds of verbena, lavender and coltsfoot she had yet to plant.
Why was she wasting her time planting seed? She and her sister and brothers wouldn’t be at Thornwood Hall to see them flower. She brushed back the wrench of anger and loss that sometimes threatened to overtake her. The bees’ buzzing drew her attention as they hugged the blossoms. She had no time to squander on such thoughts. She had work to do, for God answered those who tried solving their own troubles.
“Ah-ah-ah-a choo!”
Startled, Becky jumped. Her basket slipped from her lap, seeds scattering along the ground. Pox and calamity! Who was in the haybarn? She grabbed her husband’s sword, which she always kept close to her side, and got to her feet.
She leaned into the open window and peeked inside. Shielding her eyes, she peered against the darkness. All she could see was her shadow, casting a wide-brimmed silhouette upon the sunlit patch of golden hay strewn about the floorboards. A few feet away stood the bulging hayrick; a man’s leather boot stuck out between the wooden slats.
So that was where the lazy arse had hidden himself, Becky mused, remembering that Molly’s son was to have shown himself this morning for the first honest day’s work since he returned from God knew where.
Becky charged into the barn, her sword drawn. “Get your lazy arse out of that wagon or I’ll run you through!” She thrust the sword’s point an inch above where the dusty leather boot poked through the straw. Bits of golden chaff burst into the air.
“What the…” The man leaped up in the hay wagon, his legs shot under him like a marionette at the Punch and Judy show. “Watch that sword. You’ll do some damage—”
“Aye, I will, an’ that’s a promise, Ben Twaddle. Now, out from that rick and show yourself. On your feet. Let me see what sort of an ill bargain I’ve bought myself this time.”
Instead of obeying, the man stared at her with sharp gray eyes. Sly, cunning eyes. She hesitated a moment as their gazes locked.
In the half-light of the barn, he appeared older than she thought Ben to be. She was barely six years old when the nine-year-old Ben had left home. Aye, left his mother to bring up all the children when his father, the thief, went to jail.
She eyed him cautiously. He looked more like thirty and five than the twenty and seven he would be. She sniffed. Years on the road had aged him, no doubt.
Yet she hadn’t imagined Ben to be so…Becky took in the tousled black hair, strong jaw and high, arrogant cheekbones. The arched black brows gleamed like blackbird’s wings against the sun-burnished face. She stopped and mentally shook herself. Sun-burnished from lying in the weeds with the barmaids from the Seven Swans Tavern, no doubt. Not from scything hay or weeding turnips in honest man’s toil.
Aye, Molly’s troublesome son didn’t have his father’s weak chin, or low forehead. No, this pigeon was most handsome. Cocksure of himself, too, by his outright gawk. No wonder he’d given Molly such fits since he showed up on her doorstep last week.
“Up, up, I say.” Becky whirled the sword in a menacing arc. “I haven’t all day, Ben Twaddle.”
“Who the hell are you?”
Becky stopped dead still. Molly had said her son was shiftless and crafty, a man who’d put more struggle into getting out of a decent day’s work than if he’d settle straight to the task. But Molly never said Ben was stupid.
“Surely you remember the scrawny, pigtailed lass, whose pet pig you stole and sold to market?” She narrowed her eyes. “The years have changed us, Twaddle. Today, I’m mistress of Thornwood Hall, and you’re the same worthless bag of bones that ran off all those years ago with my pig.” Becky blew a black wisp of hair from her face. “Surely your mum told you that I married General Forester, God rest his soul. I’m your new employer,” she answered, wondering which of his artful tricks he would ply her with. She watched as the look of surprise spread across the planes and angles of his face.
Just let him try to play stupid with her. She poked into the hay, about where she imagined his hip to be.
“Ouch, you little…” He glared at her, his left hand rubbing his hip.
She couldn’t hide the smug feeling of satisfaction as she poked him again. “This little nudge will sharpen your wits, Twaddle. Now, do you remember your promise to your mum to work off her rents in exchange for your labor?”
The gray eyes frosted over like icy steel, and for a flash, she thought he might be dangerous.
“You’re a peppery little spit, I’ll give you that, but if you don’t put down that sword, you’ll damn soon regret it.” His square chin hardened into a stubborn wedge as he pulled himself to the cross rails of the wagon and peered down at her.
Becky could only gape at what was none other than blasphemy. In the seven years since her husband had died, she had never been shown disrespect by the servants—who were mostly kin—or the crofters, whom she thought of and treated as her family.
“How dare you speak to me like that!” She glared at this giant, who had probably never broken a sweat in honest toil. Becky felt her temper boil. “It will be my pleasure to break your spirit, you shiftless waste of skin.”
The man climbed down from the wagon and stared at her. She glanced at the familiar shirt with the wooden buttons that she remembered Molly sewing when she had last visited her. The breeches and shirt had belonged to Ben’s father, as well. Ben was taller than his father and much more well-developed. His arms almost bulged the seams.
He limped toward her, favoring his left leg, then stopped a few feet from where she stood.
She studied him, then sniffed. “Playing for sympathy with the game leg trick, aye?” She threw back her shoulders as she decided how best to teach him a lesson. Despite his rumpled shirt and breeches, he loomed with attractive masculinity.
“I’ll teach you to respect your betters, Ben Twaddle,” she said, feeling suddenly unsure of her words.
His black brows knitted into a scowl as he glowered down at her. “What sort of fool are you, woman?”
Fueled by his outrageous lack of respect, Becky tightened her fingers through the sword’s hilt and whirled the blade around his ear with record speed. A black lock of hair sailed to the barn floor. His mouth slacked open with surprise, then he shot her a look of inflamed, disbelieving shock.
“Now, who’s the fool?” She couldn’t help but smile when she saw the open astonishment on his face.
He