My heart twisted painfully in my chest. “But…”
“But you also feelrightin a way that nothing else ever has. I don’t want gratitude. I want you, complaints and all.”
What could I do in the face of such words besides toss my half of the tree to the side and pull his lips down to mine?
His smile tasted like hope, even as his surely sap-covered hands found my waist.
Too soon, he pulled away, glancing behind for observers. Finding none, he dropped one last kiss to my forehead before nodding to the tree. “Come on, if we’re going to have a place to keep Fenella before next year, we need to get to work.”
He strode back to the other end of the log and picked it up. From behind, I caught sight of the place where my sappy hands had found their way into his curls, leaving behind bits of goo.
Served him right for starting such things with no intent to finish them.
Twenty-Seven
KILMARNOCK ABBEY, EDINBURGH - JULY 16, 1816
TOM
The sheepfold was coming along simultaneously betterthan I’d imagined but worse than I’d hoped. On the face of it, construction was going well. I’d managed to strip most of the bark using the blade knife with relatively few splinters, but my body was unused to such work and was quickly beginning to protest my efforts.
Xander was still gamely fretting beside me, trying his best to refrain from mentioning his sappy hands. He’d press them together occasionally before remembering the viscous goo and glaring down on them in irritation. It was clear he very much wanted to wash his hands—literally and figuratively—of this entire adventure. But he sat on the grass, occasionally peppering me with questions about various tools—most of which I only had vague ideas of how to answer.
My shoulders and back ached, and my breath was beginning to quicken with the efforts. Fenella better be appreciative of my assistance. The ewe had taken interest in my work, seemingto sense it was on her behalf. She watched with curious eyes, occasionally interjecting with a bleat or a quick bite of grass.
Tired of splinters, I abandoned the logs in favor of the postholer. It was simple enough—and I’d seen laborers use one for improvements to the paddock abutting Mother’s dower house. Fortunately, the ground seemed to be soft enough to work with but not soggy, which was likely best.
I rose, brushing off the grass stuck to my breeches—which then stuck to my hands—and held my hand out for Xander. He looked at it askance for a moment before remembering his own were equally tacky and allowing me to pull him up.
“Where do you want the sheepfold?”
“I don’t know, wherever they go.”
“Is there a flat area near the barn? That is probably best.”
He shook his head. “Too many hills.”
“Beside the shed then?” I knew that area well enough to know it was flat.
He nodded and shrugged. I took it to mean agreement—and, regardless, it would all be replaced in the near future anyway.
“Do you suppose we can keep it pretty small?”
“Yes, please.”
“Here abouts?” I asked when we were beside the shed.
“That will do.”
It was a good choice. The area allowed me to use one wall of the shed in place of fencing. “What do you think, girl?” I asked the sheep. “Can you make do with this?”
She offered a bleat that I took to be an affirmative.
With little ceremony, I decided to start beside the shed. I thrust the postholer into the damp ground with all my might before twisting it down. It went about six inches before I began to meet resistance. Again, better than I expected but worse than I hoped.
My struggle to bite back a very unattractive grunt failed as I turned it. I did not have a laborer’s build at the best of times and I’d spent the last weeks either in a carriage or in Kit’s office—neither of which improved my physical prowess.
“Is that very difficult?”
