No, she thought silently as she watched Weston unknot his cravat and drape it over Posy so that the lamb’s delicate pink nose wouldn’t be burned by the sun,I really don’t think we are.
If someone hadbet Weston fifty pounds that he would soon find himself responsible for a beautiful American and an orphaned lamb while stranded in the middle of the countryside, he’d have laughed and ordered the poor sot to hand over the money outright.
A fool’s bet, he would have called it.
As it so happened,hewas the damned fool.
He never should have agreed to travel with Evie to Hawkridge Manor. Not that they were anywhere near their destination, and were now actively walkingawayfrom it as they’d veered off the road onto a private, tree-lined drive that led to a cottage with a crumbling stone wall behind which several sheep grazed, indicating they’d found whom the lamb belonged to.
A line of geese temporarily halted their progression as the feathered fowl marched across the drive in an orderly row, chests puffed and orange beaks proudly held aloft. Once the parade had waddled past, he and Evie proceeded to the front door.
He knew by her stiff gait and the mutinous set of her lips that she wasn’t pleased with his decision to return the lamb. But what did she expect him to do, willingly abscond with stolen livestock? He was an earl, not a thief. An earl who was beginning to question his own sanity with every minute that passed and hedidn’tleave Evie and her lamb behind to find their own way home.
Weston was no gallant knight devoted to safeguarding helpless maidens and defenseless animals. No one would think differently of him if he said to hell with it and left his charges on this very doorstep. Brynne wouldn’t be pleased, but if Evie eventually made her way to Hawkridge Manor, what was the harm? He didn’t owe this American anything. Certainly not any more of his valuable time than he’d already given. But neither could he bring himself to abandon her. It was an…unexpected conundrum. One he’d never faced before, as he made it a point to keep everyone at arm’s length where it was easier to remain impersonal and indifferent.
Even his own mistresses were not privy to his undivided attention. Chosen strictly for their discretion and skills in the bedchamber, his intimate partners were informed at the beginning that there was to be no emotional attachment. And if that were to ever change (as it inevitably did, much to his general annoyance), they would be relieved of their position immediately. For if there was anything Weston’s childhood had taught him, it was that it was better to be the person withholding love and affection than to be the one constantly craving it.
Vulnerability was another weakness, and a man was never so vulnerable than when a woman held his heart in the palm of her hand. Which was why he’d ensured that his heart was too cold to touch a long time ago.
But since having Evie forced upon him, he had felt anythingbutcold.
The woman infuriated him, and with fury came heat.
With heat came fire.
And with fire came desire.
The kind of desire that would lead a man to traipse through the countryside carrying a sheep because a raven-haired minx who heated his blood like no other had insisted they save the damned thing.
“This is for the best,” he told Evie as he knocked on the door. “The farmer needs to be told there are poachers after his flock, and with this many sheep about I’m sure he has a ewe who can take the lamb on as its own.”
“And if he doesn’t?” she asked, her damning blue gaze making him feel for all the world as if he were about to toss a puppy into a pit of crocodiles.
Before Weston could reply, the door swung inward to reveal a young man with freckles across his cheeks and a shock of red hair sticking out beneath a flat brown cap.
“Can I help ye?” he asked, his curious gaze flicking from Evie to Weston before centering on the lamb.
“Yes,” said Weston. “We were walking past your field–”
“Walking?” The lad scratched the back of his neck. “Where’s yer carriage?”
“An excellent question,” Evie interceded with a glare at Weston.
“A broken axle back by the Three Crossings,” he explained, returning her glare. “We left the driver to tend the horses and set off on foot. Whereupon we found this fellow here”–he held out the lamb, which gave a worried sounding bleat–“and its dead mother. Butchered for her meat, if I had to guess.”
“Aye,” said the lad. “We’ve been having trouble with trespassers.”
When he didn’t say anything else, Weston bit back a curse of frustration (couldnothingabout this cursed journey be simple?) and said, “Can you take the lamb, then? Or direct us to someone who can?” He glanced past the boy into the house. From what he could see, it was sparsely decorated, but freshly swept. “Is your father or mother here?”
“They’re gone. Won’t return until tomorrow.” The lad shifted his weight from side to side. Then his face brightened. “I can give it to my sister. She’s just in the kitchen. Gertie!” he yelled, turning his head. “Gertie, I’ve another lamb for ye!”
Weston felt a tightness on his arm. He glanced down to see Evie had her fingers curled around his wrist.
“Why would you bring Posy into the kitchen?” she asked, her pretty brow creasing. “To warm her up?”
“Warm her up?” the boy said, visibly confused. “Ye mean when we put her in the stew?”
Evie blanched. “Thestew?You’re going tocookPosy?”
