Ten
“Good morning.”
Jack could see his breath when he spoke. The sky was overcast and the air was much colder, and he was glad he wasn’t going to be washing sheep in an icy stream halfway up a mountain today.
Helen’s head popped up from where she was stooped, inspecting something on a sheep’s foot. Jack put his forearms on the fence of the paddock and leaned forward, cracking his back. He was sore from yesterday’s adventure in washing sheep, but he was well-rested, having first bathed upon his immediate return to Dunmore Castle and then fallen into his bed for ten hours of heavy sleep.
He grinned at Helen’s obvious surprise.
“I’m here to learn about shearing.”
She frowned and muttered something. Her head disappeared and she went back to doing whatever she had been doing before he interrupted her. Finally, she stood.
“Ye dinnae need to be here today. Duncan is coming to help.”
“Duncan?”
At that moment, a giant of a young man came around the corner of the keep. He was surely the same height as Edmund Haskett, Earl of Longridge and Jack’s friend from London, the tallest man Jack had ever seen. But Duncan had none of Edmund’s heavy build. He was lean, like everyone else Jack had seen in Kinmarloch. And unlike Edmund’s dark head, the young man’s light-red hair was so bright Jack was tempted to put up his hand to shield his eyes. The young man came closer, and Jack saw a sprinkle of freckles across his nose and wide-set pale blue eyes.
Helen came out of the paddock. “Duncan Mackenzie, this is Mr. Pike from London. The purported new Duke of Dunmore’s man. He’s here to learn about shearing. He’s useless but willing.”
Jack smiled at Helen’s barb. Useless but willing. Jack could make it the new MacNaughton clan motto.
He wasn’t sure about this Duncan though. He looked younger than Helen, but the pair seemed to have an unspoken understanding of each other. A deep knowledge of what each of them needed in order to complete the job at hand. This spoke of long familiarity. And the way the young man concentrated on Helen, on her every word, her every gesture. Were these the looks of a lover?
Helen bumped Jack with her elbow. “Ye cannae shear. The fleeces are too valuable for me to let ye ruin one. But ye can hold the sheep for me as I shear and ye will be able to see what I do.”
Duncan held his own sheep and he was swift and adept at moving the shears over the ewes’ bodies. Helen was more careful, more deliberate.
Jack sensed she was tired from yesterday. Also, she was decidedly less interested in looking at him today since he had left his shirt and coat on. Or was that because Duncan was here?
They finished at long last, and the fleeces were rolled and piled in a cart.
“Duncan will take them to his father’s forge until I can go to Cumdairessie.”
“Why not hold them in the keep? Surely that would be more convenient?”
Helen grimaced. “Fleeces must be kept warm and dry.”
Yes. Something needed to be done about that roof.
“Come have some dinner, Jack Pike.”
They went into the keep and all of Jack’s worries? Concerns? These words were too fraught. All of Jack’sthoughtsthat Duncan might be Helen’s man went out the window once the three of them entered the keep.
Duncan’s eyes were glued on Mags. There was nothing else in the world for Duncan except Mags. Yes, Jack had thought Duncan had been closely watching Helen out of affection, but now he realized those had been the looks of a follower toward a leader. How could he have mistaken them for the gaze of a lover?
See how Duncan blushed as Mags handed him his bowl and his piece of bread. How Duncan asked every other minute if he could help her. How soft his voice was when he called her Margaret.
And if he was not mistaken, the shy Mags was smitten with the redheaded giant quite a bit herself.
It was sweet. Jack had never seen this kind of young love outside of the theater or a poem or a novel. Certainly, he had never experienced it.
Suddenly, he was jealous of Mags and Duncan. He, a rich man. Possibly a powerful man, in the future. A man who, in London at any rate, could charm his way into any woman’s bed.
And it wasn’t that he wanted Mags. Because he hadn’t lied to Helen. To him, Mags was still a girl, much too young. But he wanted to be a young man, in love with a young woman, in a place where the accidental brush of a finger on the outside of a bowl of soup could make blood rise to his face.
But he had never had that and he never would.
