Page 26

‘Probably in the woodshed, Jacob, with the rest of the tools.’

‘Yes. Of course. Just as I thought.’

His nape was damp and his shirt sticking to his back as Jacob raised the axe again and brought it down on the log in front of him. His arms ached but he pressed on, wrenching the axe’s head free of the supporting stump as the split log fell to the ground in two neat halves. It was the most backbreaking labour he’d ever done but there was a strange kind of satisfaction to be found in seeing the wood he’d cut stacked to one side, testament to the fact he wasn’t an entirely useless, pampered creature after all.

Sweat running into his eyes, he wiped his brow with the back of his hand. It was another fine autumn day, and the sun was warm on the top of his bare head as he finally stood back to admire his handiwork. There had to be enough there to last at least a week, if he was any judge, although in truth it was Meg’s approval that mattered far more to him than his own.

Good grief, man. Is that what you want—for her to praise you like a puppy for taking all morning to do something her father probably could have managed in an hour?

He shook his head sternly. He was not as much a fool for her now as he had been as a lad and he did not want her to look at him again the way she had when they’d been younger, her hazel eyes filled with admiration rather than doubt; and it was not the case that if something as simple as cutting firewood would help him achieve that he would chop down every tree on the Wellbourne estate. Whatever she’d once thought he lacked wouldn’t be overcome by something so trivial as gathering firewood, even if—as he did not—cared enough to try.

Still breathing hard, he glanced towards the cottage. The back door was propped open, giving a glimpse of the kitchen beyond, but there was no sign of Meg. She’d be far too busy to come out to see what he was doing and with a sigh he returned to his own task, ignoring the cramps in his biceps as he positioned another log and prepared to swing the axe.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Split logs rained down as he lifted and chopped, lifted and chopped, until his hands were chafed and sore. His face felt grimy, tiny specks of bark sticking to his hot skin, and by the time he was content he’d done enough his expensive shirt was covered with splinters and fragments of dry moss.

He laid down the axe and stretched his arms painfully above his head. A pleasant breeze crept beneath the hitched hem of his shirt and for a moment he allowed himself to enjoy it, although he knew his work wasn’t over yet.

Why did I say I’d cut the wood and get the water?

With a sigh he looked towards the small well standing at the bottom of the yard. Hauling water was the last thing he wanted to do while his arms felt as though they were hanging by a thread. An embarrassingly juvenile part of him had wanted to impress Meg with his competence, however, and that desire hadn’t gone away, the unappealing prospect of admitting defeat making him peer around for a bucket.

He found one in the woodshed near to where the axe had been propped against one wall and took it with him to inspect the well. The cover was intact despite not having been disturbed for years and when he leaned over to study the water he saw it was clean and its surface untroubled by dead rats or fallen leaves. All he had to do was hook the bucket onto the winch and let the rope unspool, so he did, listening out for the pleasing splash of the bucket plunging into the water far below.

Letting it drop was the easy part, he soon found. The winch handle was heavy and his already raw hands burned as he gripped it and began to turn. It took him longer than he would have thought to haul the bucket back up to the top and by the time it appeared over the side of the well his arms were protesting in the stoutest of terms. If he’d been a smaller man, he would have struggled to pull it towards him, but his years of riding large horses came to his aid, the strength it had lent him finally being put to good use as he hefted the bucket onto his shoulder and began to carry it back to the cottage.

One single bucketful wouldn’t go very far, he saw at once. At least another couple of trips would be needed to fill the huge pot perched on the stove. All that fetching and carrying would wear him out, and indeed he felt himself flagging slightly as he returned to the well for the fourth time, the splash the bucket made no longer quite so appealing after the loss of its novelty.

With the final load sitting on the rim of the well, he leaned back, arching the tension from his spine. His shirt clung to him like a second skin; sweat and dirt streaked his forearms, bare where he’d rolled up his sleeves; and he had the disagreeable suspicion he didn’t smell particularly sweet. Between the sun and the hard work, he could now taste salt on his upper lip and he frowned as he examined the dirt ingrained in his newly roughened palms.

Meg was right. I didn’t know the first thing about how normal people live.

It was a humbling realisation. When all his wealth and status was stripped away, he was the one at a disadvantage, distinctly lacking when compared to the village men Meg knew. They understood struggle and drudgery in a way he never could, and it made his respect for them grow, the few hours he’d spent in their shoes teaching a lesson it wouldn’t have hurt Anthony to learn.

Thoughts of his brother weren’t appreciated, however, and with a grunt Jacob dismissed him from his mind. He had other things to consider that were far more pressing than Anthony, one in particular taking priority as he felt the gritty wetness at the back of his neck.

‘I can hardly go inside like this,’ he told the silently observing bucket waiting patiently on the edge of the well. ‘This shirt’s filthy and I must smell like I’ve slept in a barn.’

The bucket didn’t judge, but it didn’t have to. Jacob knew he was right, and with a surreptitious sniff he cast swiftly round the yard.

There had been no sign of Meg all morning. The kitchen had been empty when he’d gone in to put the water on the stove and she hadn’t strayed into the pretty back garden that bordered the yard. Where she’d got to, he couldn’t guess, but at least her disappointing absence meant the coast was clear for him to unbutton his shirt and pull it off over his head.

The air felt wonderful on his heated skin. It whispered around him, drawing off the sweat from his chest and back, and he closed his eyes to better enjoy the sensation as welcome coolness spread over him. It was tempting to loosen his breeches too but he just managed to restrain himself, a half-smile flickering as it crossed his mind how prudishly scandalised Isabella would have been to see him in such a state of semi-public disarray.

Thoughts of his sister-in-law were no more welcome than those concerning his brother, and the Viscountess was soon forgotten as he eyed the full bucket standing within easy reach. Having a quick freshen up seemed the only polite thing to do, the prospect of encountering Meg while looking—and doubtless smelling—like something from a farm making him wrinkle his nose.

With little further thought he plunged his hands into the bucket and brought his cupped palms up to his face, dousing himself in the cold, clear water. It felt even better than the breeze had, and he did it again, rubbing another handful over the back of his neck. It ran down his chest, soaking the tangle of hair there and turning it an even darker black, and with the dregs that were left he slicked back his hair, pushing his fingers through it to sweep it away from his face.

With his eyes shut and his attention engaged elsewhere, he didn’t realise he was being watched until he heard Meg speak.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you…’

Startled, he turned round. She was standing at the gate that separated the yard from the garden, a tankard of what might be ale in her hand, and her cheeks so pink he wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d had no blood left in the rest of her body.

She blinked at him, her gaze trained steadily on his face, but all the same he had the uncanny feeling that before he’d seen her she’d been looking somewhere lower down. How long she’d been standing there he couldn’t say for certain, although the faintest suggestion of guilt in her voice made him wonder if she hadn’t hesitated before making her presence known.

He shrugged as casually as he was able, although he felt his heart quicken. ‘I’m not disturbed. Is that for me?’

‘Yes. I thought you might be hot after all your hard work.’