He glared at her, thinking himself a saint for not going for her throat.
She bit back a smile and looked away. “This is where the pigpen will be.”
“So I gathered.”
“Mmm, yes.” She glanced down at his now not-so-elegantly clad foot and smiled. “That is probably cow.”
“Thank you so much for informing me. I’m sure the distinction will prove most edifying.”
“Hazards of life on a farm,” she said breezily. “I’m actually surprised it wasn’t cleaned up. We do try to keep clean around here.”
He wanted desperately to remind her of her appearance and smell two days earlier, but even in his supreme irritation he was too much of a gentleman to do so. He contented himself to saying doubtfully, “In a pigpen?”
“Pigs are actually not as slovenly as most people think. Oh, they like mud and all that, but not . . .” She looked down at his foot. “. . . you know.”
He smiled tightly. “All too well.”
She put her hands on her hips and looked around. They had started the stone wall that would enclose the pigs, but it was not high enough yet. It was taking a long time because she had insisted the foundation be particularly strong. A weak foundation was the reason the earlier pen had crumbled. “I wonder where everyone is,” she muttered.
“Sleeping, if they have any idea what’s good for them,” Dunford replied acerbically.
“I suppose we could get started on our own,” she said doubtfully.
For the first time all morning he smiled broadly and meant it. “I know less than nothing about stonemasonry, so I vote we wait.” He sat down on a half-finished wall, looking quite satisfied.
Henry, refusing to let him think she thought he might be right about anything, stomped across the construction area to a pile of stones. She leaned down and picked one up.
Dunford raised his brows, well aware that he ought to help her but completely unwilling to do so. She was quite strong, surprisingly so.
He rolled his eyes. Why was he surprised about anything having to do with her? Of course she’d be able to lift a large stone. She was Henry. She could probably lift him.
He watched her as she carried the stone over to one of the walls and set it down. She exhaled and wiped her brow. Then she glared at him.
He smiled—one of his best, he thought. “You ought to bend your legs when you lift the stones,” he called out. “It’s better for your back.”
“It’s better for your back,” she mimicked under her breath. “Lazy, good-for-nothing, stupid little—”
“Excuse me?”
“Thank you for your advice.” Her voice was sweetness personified.
He smiled again, this time to himself. He was getting to her.
She must have repeated this task twenty times before her workers finally arrived. “Where have you been?” she snapped. “We’ve been here ten minutes already.”
One of the men blinked. “But we’re early, Miss Henry.”
The skin around her mouth tightened. “We start at six forty-five.”
“We didn’t get here until seven,” Dunford called out helpfully.
She turned around and leveled a deadly stare in his direction. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
“We didn’t start until half past seven on Saturday,” one of the workers said.
“I’m sure you’re mistaken,” Henry lied. “We started much earlier than that.”
Another builder scratched his head. “I don’t think so, Miss Henry. I think we started at half past seven.”
Dunford smirked. “I guess country life doesn’t begin that early after all.” He neglected to mention that he tried to avoid getting up much before noon when in London.
She glared at him again.
“Why so testy?” he asked, schooling his features into a mask of boyish innocence. “I thought you liked me.”
“I did,” she ground out.
“And now? I’m crushed.”
“Next time you might think about helping instead of watching me lug stones across a pigpen.”
He shrugged. “I told you I have no experience in stonemasonry. I wouldn’t want to ruin the entire project.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Henry said.
Her voice came out a little too smoothly. Dunford grew worried. He raised his brows in question.
“After all,” she continued, “if the previous pigpen had been constructed properly, we wouldn’t have to be building a new one today.”
Dunford suddenly felt a little queasy. She looked altogether too pleased with herself.
“Therefore, it would probably be wise not to let one as inexperienced as yourself near the structural aspects of the pen.”
“As opposed to the un-structural aspects?” he asked dryly.
She beamed. “Exactly!”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning . . .” She walked across the pen and picked up a shovel. “Congratulations, Lord Stannage, you are now commander of the shovel, lord of the slop.”
He didn’t think her smile could grow any wider, but it did. And she wasn’t faking the expression one bit. She jerked her head toward a foul-smelling pile of something Dunford had never seen before and then walked back over to the other workers.
It took all of his restraint not to run after her and slap the shovel against her backside.
Chapter 5
Two hours later he was ready to kill her.
Even his outraged mind, however, recognized that murder was not a viable option, and so he contented himself with devising various plans to make her suffer.
Torture was probably too trite, he decided, and he didn’t have the stomach to use it on a female. Although . . . He looked over at the person in the baggy breeches. She appeared to be smiling as she lugged the stones. She was no ordinary female.
He shook his head. There were other ways to make her miserable. A snake in her bed perhaps? No, the blasted woman probably liked snakes. A spider? Didn’t everyone hate spiders?
He leaned on his shovel, well aware he was acting childishly and not caring in the least.
He had tried everything to get out of this disgusting job, and not just because the work was difficult and the smell was . . . well, the smell was revolting, there was no way around that. Mostly he just didn’t want her to feel she had bested him.
And she had bested him, the hellish little chit. She had him, a lord of the realm (albeit a rather new one), shoveling slop and manure and God himself probably didn’t want to know what else. And he was neatly cornered, because to get out of it meant to admit he was a sissified London dandy.
He had pointed out that all of the slop would get in her way as she built the wall. She had merely instructed him to put it in the center. “You can smooth it out later,” she had said.
“But some might get on your shoes.”
She had laughed. “Oh, I’m used to that.” Her tone had implied she was far tougher than he.
He ground his teeth and slapped some slop down into a pile. The stench was beyond overwhelming. “I thought you said pigs are clean.”
“Cleaner than people usually think, but not as clean as you and I.” She looked at his messy boots, amusement dancing in her gray eyes. “Well, usually.”
He muttered something rather unsavory before shooting back, “I thought they didn’t like . . . you know.”
“They don’t.”
“Well?” he demanded, planting his shovel into the ground and putting his other hand on his hip.
Henry walked over and sniffed the air above the pile he was making. “Oh, dear. Well, I guess some got mixed in by accident. Happens often, actually. So sorry.” She smiled at him and went back to work.
He let out a discreet growl, mostly just to make himself feel better, and marched over to the slop pile. He thought he could control his temper. He usuall
y thought of himself as an easygoing man. But when he heard one of the men say, “Work’s going so much faster now that you’re helping, Henry,” it was all he could do not to strangle her. He didn’t know why she had been so smelly the day he arrived, but it was now apparent it wasn’t because she’d been knee-deep in muck, helping to build the pigpen. A red haze of fury blinded him as he wondered what other disgusting tasks she was planning to take on just to convince him they were daily chores for the lord of the manor.
His teeth clenched together as he stuck his shovel into the smelly mush, scooped some up, and made to carry it to the center of the pigpen. On the way over, however, it slid off the shovel and onto Henry’s shoes.
Pity, that.
She whirled around. He waited for her to burst out with, “You did that on purpose!” but she kept silent, motionless except for a slight narrowing of her eyes. Then, with a flick of her ankle, the slop spattered onto his trousers.
She smirked, waiting for him to say, “You did that on purpose!” but he also remained silent. Then he smiled at her, and she knew she was in trouble. Before she had time to react, he’d lifted his leg and planted the sole of his boot against her breeches, leaving a muddy footprint on the front of her thigh.
He cocked his head, waiting for her to retaliate.
She briefly considered picking up some of the slop and smearing it on his face but decided he’d have too much time to react; besides, she wasn’t wearing gloves. She glanced quickly to the left to confuse him, then slammed her foot down on his.
Dunford let out a howl of pain. “That is enough!”
“You started it!”
“You started it before I even arrived, you conniving, unruly . . .”
She waited for him to call her a bitch, but he couldn’t do it. Instead, he grabbed her around the middle, heaved her over his shoulder, and stalked off with her.
“You can’t do this!” she shrieked, pounding his back with surprisingly effective fists. “Tommy! Harry! Someone! Don’t let him do this!”
But the men who had been working on the wall didn’t move. Openmouthed, they stared at the unbelievable sight of Miss Henrietta Barrett, who hadn’t let anyone get the better of her in years, being forcibly removed from the pigpen.
“Maybe we shoulda helped her,” Harry said.
Tommy shook his head, watching her writhing form disappear over the hillside. “I don’t know. He is the new baron, you know. If he wants to carry Henry off, he’s got a right to do it, I guess.”
Henry obviously didn’t agree because she was still screaming, “You have no right to do this!” Dunford finally dumped her down next to a small shed where they kept farming tools. Luckily no one was in sight.
“Oh?” His tone was utterly imperious.
“Do you know how long it has taken to win the respect of the people here? Do you? A long time, I’ll tell you. A bloody long time. And you ruined it. Ruined it!”
“I doubt the collective population of Stannage Park is going to decide you are unworthy of respect because of my actions,” he spit out, “although your own may cause you trouble.”
“What do you mean by my ‘own’? You’re the one who dumped the slop on my feet, in case you don’t recall.”
“And you’re the one who had me shoveling that shit in the first place!” It occurred to Dunford that that was the first time he’d ever spoken quite so crudely to a female. It was amazing how furious she could make him.
“If you’re not up to the task of running a farm, you can go right on home to London. We will survive just fine without you.”
“That’s what this is about, isn’t it? Little Henry is terrified I’m going to take her toy away from her and is trying to get rid of me. Well, let me tell you something, it’ll take a lot more than a twenty-year-old girl to scare me off.”
“Don’t patronize me,” she warned.
“Or what? What will you do to me? What could you possibly do to me that will cause me any harm?”
To Henry’s utter horror, her lower lip began to quiver. “I could . . . I could . . .” She had to think of something; she had to. She couldn’t let him win. He’d boot her off the estate, and the only thing worse than having no place to go was never seeing Stannage Park again. Finally, out of desperation, she blurted out, “I could do anything! I know this place better than you! Better than anyone! You wouldn’t even—”
Quick as lightning, he had her pinned up against the shed and was jabbing his index finger into her shoulder. Henry couldn’t breathe—she’d entirely forgotten how, and the murderous look in his eyes made her legs turn to jelly.
“Don’t,” he spat out, “make the mistake of getting me angry.”
“You’re not angry now?” she croaked in disbelief.
He let her go abruptly and smiled, cocking a brow as she slid down into a crouch. “Not at all,” he said smoothly. “I merely wanted to set some ground rules.”
Henry’s mouth fell open. The man was insane.
“First of all, no more devious little plots to try to get rid of me.”
Her throat worked convulsively.
“And no lies!”
She gasped for breath.
“And—” He paused to look down at her. “Oh, Christ. Don’t cry.”
She bawled.
“No, please, don’t cry.” He reached for his handkerchief, realized it was stained with slop, then shoved it back in his pocket. “Don’t cry, Henry.”
“I never cry,” she gasped, barely able to get the words out between sobs.
“I know,” he said soothingly, crouching down to her level. “I know.”
“I haven’t cried in years.”
He believed her. It was impossible to imagine her crying—it was impossible to believe it even though she was doing so right in front of him. She was so capable, so self-possessed, not at all the sort to give way to tears. And the fact that he had been the one to drive her to this—it wrenched his heart. “There you go,” he murmured, awkwardly patting her shoulder. “Now, now. It’s all right.”
She took great gulps of air, trying to still her sobs, but they had no effect.
Dunford looked around frantically, as if the green hills would somehow tell him how to get her to stop crying. “Don’t do that.” This was awful.
“I have no place to go,” she wailed. “No place. And no one. I have no family.”
“Shhh. It’s all right.”
“I just wanted to stay.” She gasped and sniffled. “I just wanted to stay. Is that so bad?”
“Of course not, dear.”
“It’s just that this is my home.” She looked up at him, her gray eyes made silver by her watery tears. “Or it was, at least. And now it’s yours, and you can do whatever you want with it. And with me. And— Oh, God, I’m such a fool. You must hate me.”
“I don’t hate you,” he replied automatically. It was the truth, of course. She’d irritated and annoyed the hell out of him, but he didn’t hate her. In fact, she’d somehow managed to earn his respect, something he never gave unless deserved. Her methods may have been skewed, but she had been fighting for the one thing in the world she truly loved. Few men could claim such purity of purpose.
He patted her hand again, trying to calm her down. What had she said about his being able to do whatever he wanted with her? That certainly made no sense. He supposed he could force her to leave Stannage Park if he so desired, but that didn’t quite constitute anything. Although he supposed that was the worst fate Henry could imagine; it was understandable she’d be a bit melodramatic about it. Still, something struck him as odd. He made a mental note to discuss it with her later, when she wasn’t so distraught.
“Now, Henry,” he said, thinking that the time had come to lay her fears to rest. “I’m not going to send you away. Why on earth would I do that? And furthermore, have I given you any indication that was my intention?”
<
br /> She gulped. She had just assumed she would have to take the offensive in this battle of wills. She glanced up at him. His brown eyes looked very concerned. Perhaps there had never been need for a battle. Maybe she should have waited to assess the new Lord Stannage before deciding she had to send him back to London.
“Have I?” he asked softly.
She shook her head.
“Think about it, Henry. I’d be a fool to send you away. I’m the first to admit I don’t know a thing about farming. Either I run the estate into the ground or I hire someone to oversee it. And why should I bring in a stranger when I’ve someone who already knows everything there is to know?”
Henry looked down, unable to face him. Why did he have to be so reasonable and so just plain nice? She felt wretchedly guilty about all her schemes to oust him from the district, including those she hadn’t yet carried out. “I’m sorry, Dunford. I’m really sorry.”
He brushed aside her apology, not wanting her to feel any worse than she already did. “No harm done.” He looked down at himself wryly. “Well, except to my clothing perhaps.”
“Oh! I’m so sorry!” She burst into tears again, this time horrified. His clothing must have been terribly expensive. She’d never seen anything so fine in her life. She didn’t think they made garments like his in Cornwall.
“Please don’t trouble yourself over it, Henry,” he said, surprised to hear he sounded almost as if he were begging her not to feel badly. When had her feelings grown quite so important to him? “If this morning wasn’t enjoyable, at least it was . . . shall we say . . . interesting, and my clothing was worth the sacrifice if it means we’ve reached a truce of sorts. I have no wish to be awakened before dawn next week only to be informed I have to single-handedly slaughter a cow.”
Her eyes widened. How did he know?
Dunford caught the change in her expression, interpreted it correctly, and winced. “You, dear girl, could probably teach Napoleon a thing or two.”
Henry’s lips twitched. It was watery, but it was definitely a smile.
“Now,” he continued, standing up. “Shall we head back to the house? I’m starving.”
“Oh!” she said, swallowing uncomfortably. “I’m sorry.”