Читать книгу A Wish For Nicholas - Jackie Manning - Страница 13

Nick glanced around for a place to run in case the enormous, black bull suddenly charged. He noticed several sycamore trees that might provide a few stout limbs if he needed an immediate haven. Damn Keane, he thought. He’d deal with that bounder when—

The beast bellowed, charging to his feet. For a moment that felt as though time stood still, Nick froze, not wanting to show fear as he stared at the bull. Eyeing the nearby arm of the tree, Nick held his ground, waiting for Tumbledown Dick to charge.

Neither man nor beast moved. The bull stared—not with anger, Nick decided after a few minutes, but with curiosity. The huge brown eyes were as soft as a spaniel’s; the thick fan of eyelashes brushed his black curly cheeks when he blinked. Finally when Tumbledown Dick swung his massive head in the air, he swiped at a clump of daisies nearby, chomping a mouthful.

Nick’s experiences with bulls were the few times cattle had been freighted as cargo aboard ship. Although this bull was enormous and sported a deadly pair of horns, Nick remembered the scene in the pasture yesterday. He doubted Keane would have browbeaten the animal before Becky came roaring in to stop him if the bull possessed an ornery disposition.

Nick took several strides toward the beast, whose watchful eyes remained fixed on him. A rope dangled from the ring in his nose, and Nick decided that if a slip of a woman like Becky Forester could bring the beast to heel, then damned if he wouldn’t do the same.

Cautiously, Nick crept toward the tree where the lead rope was tied to the trunk. He hesitated, watching. The bull returned to his grazing, a serene look on his curlyhaired face.

With a steady hand, Nick reached for the rope and untied the loose knot. When he’d finished, he tried not to think that at the end of the rope was a beast that could gore him to shreds if he had a mind to.

Tumbledown Dick munched happily, seemingly oblivious to him. Nick presumed that Keane would expect him to yank on the bull’s ring. Likely, Keane would wait, then drive back, making sport of Nick the way Becky had done to him.

“What a sweet boy you are, Tumbledown Dick,” Nick crooned softly, ready to lunge for the overhead tree limb, if necessary. Instead, the bull ignored him, munching noisily.

The idea to sing in the bull’s ear was ridiculous. Besides, although Nick’s singing carried fair 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.

Aye, there wouldn’t be enough days to come to understand a woman like that, so why try? And why did he care, anyway?

Damn, he was not here to be pleased or attracted to anything. He was here to get a job done, then get back to sea. He wondered if Finn had met with the shipbuilders by now. In the meantime, the less Nick thought of the secrets of the night with the lovely Becky, the better.

Keane stood in the shade beneath the sprawling oak tree and watched the other four men strain to lift the rocks onto the skid. When the sound of horse’s hooves announced Nick and Becky’s arrival, Keane’s shoulders tightened, and he scowled as they rode up beside him. Becky dropped the rope from Tumbledown Dick’s lead at Keane’s feet.

“Keane, report to me in my study before supper.” Her voice held none of the tension Nick saw in her stiff spine and shoulders. She had spared Keane’s authority rather than demean him in front of the men, and he respected that.

Nick slid from the horse, then brushed himself off. “Here’s the bull, Keane. Just as you asked.”

Keane glared beneath the straw-brimmed hat he wore. “You’ll get no lady’s help with the next job I give ye, Twaddle.”

“That’s enough, Keane.” Authority laced Becky’s words, and Keane’s face flushed.

“For the rest of the day, Twaddle will be under my charge.”

Everyone’s gaze fixed on Becky. Nick wondered, as well as the other curious men, what chores she had in mind for him.

“Get back on the horse, Twaddle. We don’t have all day.”

“I don’t mind walking,” Nick said lazily.

“Let you walk alone?” She tossed her head and huffed. “You’re not going to be out of my sight, Twaddle. Jump back on and be quick about it.”

Nick did as he was told, but not before he witnessed the resentment deepen in Keane’s face. If Keane was the overseer, as Geer had said, Keane acted as the puppet with Becky controlling the strings. Yet she cut him no slack when they were alone, as Nick had witnessed in the pasture yesterday. A man like Keane wouldn’t enjoy being ordered about by a woman.

Becky forced the mare to a steady gallop, and for the next few minutes they rode silently over the fields and meadows toward the manor house.

When they came in sight of the horse barn, a small boy ran out from the bushes alongside the path in front of the horse.

Becky pulled on the reins. The animal whinnied, reared back from the child and missed trampling the youngster by mere inches.

Nick was at the child’s side in seconds. He picked up the boy, who was at least three years old, by the size of him. Sandy gold curls framed the face of an angel. Blue-violet eyes, wide with surprise, stared back at him.

Becky slipped from the saddle in one fleeting motion. When the tot saw Becky, a wide smile flashed across his cherub face. Her hands shook when she grabbed her brother and cradled him to her. “Baby Harry.” She buried her face in his curls.

Nick remembered that Becky had lost her parents and older sister with the plague only last summer. No doubt the close call reminded her of the loss. The idea recalled his own memories as he gathered the reins of the startled mare and tied the animal to a tree.

By the time he came back to where Becky and her brother were, she had composed herself, and the child smiled happily in her arms.

Becky glanced around, then held up the boy’s hand to Nick. “Hold Harry while I see what happened to Mary. She should have been watching him.”

Nick stared at the child, then back at Becky. “You’re not leaving me with this babe, are you?” As the only surviving child in the family, Nick had run off to sea as a young lad, so he’d never been alone with a child.

“You’re staring at him like he’s going to bite! Just hold him while I find my cousin Mary.”

“Hurry back.” Nick took the child, whose smile faded immediately. Nick felt more terrified than if he were staring down the barrel of a cannon on one of De Ruyter’s ships.

Nick held the baby with outstretched arms, its chubby legs dangling in the air.

“Pox and calamity! I’d swear you never saw a tad before.” She glared at him, then a slight smile brightened her face. “I’ll be right back,” she shot over her shoulder. Both Nick and the child watched Becky dash along the bushes and disappear inside a small shed beside a pinkflowered hedge.

Then Nick and Baby Harry stared at each other. The boy’s pink mouth flew open, and he howled the most bloodcurdling scream Nick had ever heard.

Becky burst out of the shed, along with a flushed young girl who looked around ten and six, and a young man whose beet-colored face told a tale all of its own. The young couple headed in different directions.

Becky sailed toward Nick, cheeks the color of the pink blossoming hedge, her skirts flying behind her. He was reminded of a tall, beautiful ship, banners flying, as she made course.

“Best you get used to crying babies, Twaddle. It seems that Mary, who was Baby Harry’s nanny, is leaving to get married.”

Becky chuckled as she took her brother from him. Harry rubbed his eyes, the screams immediately turning into hiccups.

“So? What does that have to do with me?”

“I’ll explain, but first follow me.” Only the slight smile Becky tried to hide warned Nick that she was planning some devilment. He limped behind her, taking one step to her every two. Over her shoulder, Baby Harry peered at him, eyes round and distrusting.

Nick swore under his breath. He wasn’t afraid of hard work, but as they approached the crumbling stone entrance to the old manor house, his sense of wariness increased.

The mixed aroma of sour milk, molasses and vinegar rushed out at him as he stepped inside the small storage room off the galley—kitchen, he reminded himself. He glanced around. Bloody hell, she wasn’t going to stick him here, in the cook’s quarters, was she?

But she pushed past the servants, who were busy with supper chores, and he was reminded that whatever she had in mind might be a blessing in disguise. For how else would he be able to seek entrance to the house if she didn’t assign him duties here?