Once Beloved (13 page)

V
anessa blinked back hot, angry tears as she picked her way through yet another field, this one full of tall grasses. She'd barely managed not to cry in front of Mr. Lanfield and his nephew. That Henry looked to be only a few years older than Billy. She had resolved not make even more of a spectacle of herself by dissolving into girlish tears. Thank goodness he'd led the sheep away and rode down the hill. He looked at ease on a horse, but then he must be, working like this every day. She hated that the two men had seen her so upset and disordered, so bloody weak!

But really this was too much indignity to bear in one day. Stupid sheep. Stupid shopkeeper. Did she have a target painted on her forehead today to be treated thusly? That shop woman's vicious tongue and heartless demeanor were surely just a rare case of narrow-minded provincialism, or so she tried to rationalize. Not everyone in Marksby would be like that. Mr. Lanfield wasn't. Not really. He and Auntie might snip at each other, but he was much kinder in general. And he'd come to their aid time and again. Mrs. Weathers and her husband weren't. Not really. Maybe at first. But they'd changed almost overnight once she and her aunt had shown they weren't afraid of hard work and could be trusted to do their part in the house.

But . . . was this how people treated a woman who sought to direct her own future? Women who chose their own destiny, defying family and convention to do so?

“Vanessa, watch your step, dear!” Aunt Helena called out, just in time. She'd almost walked straight into an area dotted with sheep droppings. Between the rocky terrain and what the sheep left behind, she couldn't allow her thoughts to wander. But still . . . what would people think of her if she ran off with Billy? She felt the urge to ask her aunt, but it wasn't a question she could ask without tipping her hand. And Auntie would absolutely tell her mother, even if she only speculated about eloping. It wasn't fair, was it? She would only be following in Aunt Helena's footsteps. And see how happily that decision had bloomed into a fairy-tale love story!

Her mind slipped to Aunt Helena's tale of how she'd met Uncle Isaiah. He'd rescued her, for heaven's sake! It was practically love at first sight! Her mother said over and over that such things only happened in fairy tales, but Auntie was living proof, wasn't she? And, oh, how she wanted that kind of love for herself. She thought back to Billy's first overture. Sally had introduced them. He'd said she'd caught his eye. She could picture the way he'd wiggled his eyebrows and said, “Give us a kiss, love,” before they parted. It wasn't a fairy-tale beginning, really, but they could still have a fairy-tale ending. Arriving at the Thorton home did little to quiet her mind, nor did the too-vivid image of Henry Lanfield astride his horse. At least by the time they arrived home, she no longer felt like crying.

“I
'll be right behind with the strays. I need Max to round them up, though,” Daniel shouted to his nephew, raising his voice more than usual to carry over the storm. His nephew's silhouette nodded. The massive storm had descended before they'd managed to get the sheep to the sheltered fields. It would be best for them to at least have some cover available, in case the storm persisted. He watched Hal walking his horse along behind the group, subtly steering them down to the bridge crossing. Reassured that his nephew had everything well in hand, he turned back up the hill and whistled to the trusty Max to find the others. It didn't take long, with the collie nipping at their heels, for the wayward sheep to return. His thoughts turned to Helena Martin, a wayward sheep if ever there was one. As much as he felt she deserved to be ostracized, he couldn't help but feel sympathy for her. Perhaps it was the fact that he'd seen her at her most vulnerable more than once and knew how delicate she could be, or perhaps it was the fact that he'd met her fine sons, innocent and bereft of their father. Whatever it was, the sight of her and her niece struggling with the rambunctious Meno had drawn out his protective instincts. When Miss Vanessa had mentioned today's incident at the shop, he'd had to quell his immediate desire to hunt down Mrs. Wyatt and threaten to withdraw Lanfield as their customer and supplier. While there were many farms in the area, he was well aware that he and Gordon made a significant impact on the shop's income in multiple ways. Looking back, he couldn't comprehend his own drastic reactions. The villagers' behavior was exactly what he'd warned her would happen, justifiably so.

Hal's sharp whistle drew his attention. Damn, he knew better than to allow his mind to wander at a time like this! His nephew was focused on the flock, which was reluctant to cross the bridge. They massed along the stream as if disoriented by the storm and didn't seem to register his whistled commands. Rain-swollen, the beck nearly reached the peak of the arch underneath the bridge, and debris swirled and slapped against the stones. They'd have to remember to check the bridges on their lands for erosion over the next few days.

He urged Max ahead to steer the sheep across the bridge and didn't miss the relief on Hal's face when they began pouring over the stone archway, as if a gate had been opened. Gordon's son carried the same trait that afflicted all Lanfield men, himself included: stubborn self-sufficiency. They'd all drive themselves into the ground before asking for help. If Daniel hadn't returned from London, Gordon would have managed as best he could alone, out of necessity. All the Lanfields were raised to treat every situation as if alone, as if they should never expect assistance and therefore never seek it.

Daniel caught a glimpse of something white bobbing downstream, and then another white blob, and then another, getting washed away. Light puffs in the murky, churning waters.
Damn and double damn.
He mounted his horse and sped down to intercept the sheep that had fallen in. If luck was on their side, the sheep would get caught in eddies and be easily rescued. If not . . .

Racing along the shore, he found one sheep as hoped, pulled into a shallow eddy by the water's edge, shallow enough that it was already finding its footing and making its way up the bank on its own. The other two weren't so fortunate. They hadn't made it far either, but both had caught on an old tree that had fallen into the beck. Tangled in its branches, the sheep couldn't right themselves, and he could hear their panicked cries. Despite the rushing debris, he nudged Talos down into the frigid water.
Blast, no way to get close enough to the sheep this way.
Sliding into the icy water, he leaned against his horse for stability in the strong current. When he reached the first animal, he made short work of freeing it from the branches and then made his way to shore to deposit the waterlogged beast. In its gratitude, the headstrong thing immediately bolted up the bank and out of sight. At least its liveliness was a good sign. By the time he managed to reach the other trapped sheep, its condition wasn't as promising as the others'. It had been tangled, he now saw, much more intricately and, unfortunately, with its head just barely above water. It had ceased to cry out and made only the faintest attempts to kick and wiggle when he touched it. He had to cut away some of its coat, so entwined was it with the tree's appendages.

When he carried this one back to the bank, he tried to hold it with its head lower to the ground than its tail. Water poured out of its mouth. But it was still listless when he laid it on solid ground. Alarmed by its lethargy, he rubbed its body briskly to clear more water from its lungs and then secured it across his saddle for the remainder of the trip home. Along the walk to rendezvous with his nephew and the flock, he watched carefully for any sights of revival. The sheep bleated a few times and shook itself awkwardly, almost like a human's shiver. But it still wasn't back to normal.

As he expected, Hal had gotten the rest of the sheep across without incident, and, of their own accord, the flock headed straight for a cluster of trees.

“Good work, as allus, Hal!” he said as he slapped him on the back. Water jumped off the young man at all angles from the impact.

“Thank you, Uncle. Sorry you had to take a dip. I should've jumped in the gill myself but didn't see the fallen ones until you'd already followed them in.”

“No need for apologies. You were doing what you needed to do.”

“Is that one lost to us then?” Henry gestured at the prone sheep, his expression heavy with guilt.

“I think she'll be fine. I'll take her back to my barn, where she'll be warm and dry. She should be back to normal by tomorrow. You've nothing to be sorry for, Hal. You did everything right. Now go home and get some rest. We'll have to check fences and bridges tomorrow after all this.”

“Aye, sir. Should I check the west or meet you here to run the whole perimeter together?”

“Check to the west. Then we can meet at the north ridge to check that flock and compare notes. Remember to tell your father that we moved the newer flock to the Pleiades grove. Now go before you worry your mother!”

“Aye, and a good night to you, Uncle!” As soon as the young man turned for home, Daniel carefully mounted behind the still too-docile sheep and made haste.

Surely, Mrs. Martin and her niece would have made it home before the storm descended. He'd have to pay a visit to the shop soon and speak with the owners about civility. Lost in thought, he almost dropped the reins when Talos was startled by a thunderclap.
Focus, man!

As soon as he got back to his barn, he wrapped the sheep—Lampy the Younger, now that he could see her better—in a horse blanket and began vigorously rubbing her from head to tail. It wasn't long before that blanket was waterlogged, and he had to root around for more. By the time he returned to the stall, little Lampedo, like the Amazon warrior for which she was named, stood and bleated loudly. He tossed a dry blanket over her, relief coursing through him. After he got the newly recovered sheep settled in a clean stall with water and hay, he still had to take care of Talos. He leaned against a post to catch a moment's rest. Talos had been his usual dependable self, even wading into the violent beck undeterred. He couldn't allow his mount to suffer just because he was tired and cold and still sopping. Talos must be all that and more, having carried a double load part of the way.

Just as he was about to straighten up and get to his task, there was a light knock at the barn door. He almost didn't hear it over the rain hitting the roof. Before he could respond, the door opened to reveal a woman in a heavy cloak, her face obscured by the low hood.

“Ruth, what are you doing here? Surely, Gordon and the boys wouldn't let you go out in this mess! Is my brother with you, fool that he is?”

“I'm sorry to disturb you, but I'm not Ruth.” Her delicate voice alerted him before she pulled her hood away and showed her face. Helena.

“Mrs. Martin!” He didn't know what else to say, her presence here so disoriented him. In a thousand years, he wouldn't have guessed he would ever see her here, in his barn, on his land. He certainly wouldn't have expected it on a night like this. His heart pounded, surprise mingling with a strange sensation he didn't recognize. If it were any other human being on earth, he might have identified the odd feeling as pleasure. But that couldn't be the case now.

“After we left you, I saw you and your nephew struggling to rescue some of the waterlogged sheep during your crossing,” she explained, haltingly. Her eyes kept darting around the room. He'd come to recognize it as a sign of her discomfort, a sign she wished to be anywhere else, perhaps. “I waited at Gran's until there was a break in the storm. Mrs. Weathers made some stew and bread.” She raised the basket she was carrying, like a grown version of Little Red Riding Hood. “I thought, with all that trouble, you two would need a warm meal.”

She looked so ill at ease, and yet she'd thought to come here, thought to look after him and his nephew. Warmth spread through him; it had been years since a woman—well, a woman other than his brother's wife—had tried to attend to him. Ruth acted like a mother to him, which was laughable since he was almost five years her elder. And maybe that was Mrs. Martin's intent too, a mother's instinct so deeply ingrained. She'd expected Henry to be here too. He shouldn't read anything more into this visit than neighborly concern. He shouldn't. And yet his heart still beat harder, his pulse sounding in his ears.

“Aye, I owe you thanks, ma'am. Uh, the house is open, if you'd be so kind.” Even to his own ears, he sounded like a dolt. “I still need to tend to Talos. If you must return home, don't let me keep you. Ah, but you're welcome to sit a bit for warmth before you go.” He'd never felt so horribly tongue-tied before. He must be more worn than he thought. This was Helena
Thorton
. And he'd just invited her into
his
home. As soon as the door closed behind her, he set to work, muttering all the while about the fickle hand of fate.

H
elena was relieved to see that the storm remained at bay as she walked carefully toward Daniel's house. Tidy hedges made a pretty border around it. They surprised her. After all, they were ornamental, and she hadn't thought he cared much for fancy trappings. In the darkening, storm-cloud-laden evening, she found it difficult to see details, but the structure looked solid and permanent. Built in a simple style, it had a large window in the front room, a large, impractical window that must let in quite a chill on a winter's night but also must provide a beautiful view of the hills. Someone had taken great care in its construction and built it to last, to be passed down to future generations.

The interior of the house was even more Spartan and utilitarian than Helena had expected. It was a modest home, just large enough for a family starting out. The main room wasn't much larger than some shepherd huts, built in the fields for occasional shelter. It held a kitchen, a table, and an assortment of chairs and benches. A spinning wheel sat in the corner, complemented by a basket of raw wool. She could only guess that the doors on both sides of the central room led to bedrooms. It wasn't much, but then a man like him didn't need much.

After she stoked the fire, put on coffee, and set the stew pot on the hearth, she felt at a loss as to what to do next. Glancing around Daniel's home, she felt like an interloper. How long had he been a widower for the house to have no evidence of feminine influence at all? This house wanted warmth. For a man so reserved, she felt as if she was violating his private life just by being in his home alone.

So she fled the too-revealing building in favor of the barn. The small barn was warm and dry, despite the chill outside. No leaks in the roof, no drafts. Remarkable construction, really. Not that she would have expected anything less from the Lanfields. Perhaps there was something productive she could do here. Talos stood in his stall, calmly chewing oats, with Daniel nowhere in sight. The horse paused when she approached and put his nose out for her to pet him. So forward. So charming.

Then Daniel's voice drifted over from the farthest stall. Curiosity piqued, she moved quietly through the barn until she could just see him through the slats. Leaning his back against a wall, he sat on the straw-covered floor with a sheep cradled on his lap. He was singing! Whatever the tune was, she didn't recognize it, but it sounded like some kind of lullaby. Such tenderness. It seemed like such an intimate moment that she retreated, afraid to break whatever spell he'd wrought. This was a man who cared deeply but so privately. It was no wonder he'd despised her all these years, after what she'd done to his brother, to his family.

When Daniel finally emerged from the stalls, he had patches of drying mud stuck to his clothes, reminiscent of his younger days. His head jerked when he saw her, and she could have sworn his surprise was tinged with relief and even a little pleasure. After a moment, he nodded to her, frowning slightly, and said, “I didn't know you stayed. You should have gone back to your grandmother's after dropping off the meal. I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but it sounds like the storm has gotten worse. It won't be safe for you to return tonight.” He was right. The rains had picked up, and the rumbles of distant thunder were unmistakable.

She knew perhaps better than he how much more severe the storm had become. Even on the short walk between the barn and the house, she would have been soaked through if she hadn't used the heavy cloak she'd found at home. Her boots hadn't fared so well, but she hadn't forgotten that aspect of farm life.

“You should eat something,” she said. “I left some things warming in the house. And you should get some clean, dry clothing on as well. You'll do no one any good if you make yourself ill.”

“There's nothing for it, is there? You'll have to stay the night. Come along.”

Despite her instinct to object, she knew he was right and went to take the closest lantern down from its hook. His hand brushed hers as he moved to do the same. He froze. When she looked at him, he turned away and said, gruffly, “Be careful the wind doesn't knock it out of your hand.”

Discomfited by the sudden tension, she snapped at him, “I'm not a child. I've managed just fine getting to and from the house with it. I'm capable of carrying lanterns, for heaven's sake.”

He looked weary and stiff as he pushed the door open. Wind and rain took the opportunity to shove into the barn, and the lantern flickered.

“Let's get on with it,” he said as he pushed her toward the house, pausing only to secure the barn shut.

Rain poured down in heavy sheets, making it difficult to see the building just a few yards ahead. A strong and sudden gust almost knocked her off her feet, but Daniel caught her, steadied her, and then remained close by as they made their way to the house. She followed him inside.

“Is the barn large enough to hold all the Lanfield sheep on the worst winter nights?” she asked, mainly to break the silence.

“By no means. When it's so cold that we fear injury to the flock, we keep many of them in the big barn on my brother's land. We also have a few smaller shelters out in the fields, ah, including a few of the Thorton barns now. We use mine mainly for strays and the rare quarantines. It's useful to have the extra storage and be able to separate some of the flock when necessary.” His reply sounded perfunctory, but then he looked at her and added, “I didn't figure you'd be all that interested in talking about shepherding.”

“It's as fine a topic as any. My father was quite proud of his sheep. But right now I suppose food is the real priority. May I?” She gestured toward the hearth, where she'd left a large pot of stew heating. So many questions filled her mind, but they could keep, for now.

“No need. I can serve myself just fine. Thank you. I'm famished, and 'tis a relief to have something to warm my belly.”

“Well, Mrs. Weathers provided the food. I haven't done all that much,” she replied. The warmth spreading through her midsection couldn't be attributed to food. Or to the fireplace.

She watched briefly as his stiff fingers struggled with the buttons on his coat. That was all the proof she needed. The moment they'd entered the room, she'd become aware of the sodden chill of her clothes in such stark contrast to the warmth of the house on her exposed skin. If she felt thus after just a few minutes, it was a wonder he could move at all. Her hands itched with the impulse to go to him and undo his coat herself. She could picture his clothes piled on that rush chair, could picture him bare while she drew linen along his arms, his chest, his legs to dry him . . . could picture rubbing his thick muscles to warm him in other ways. Would his chest be firm but with a touch of softness? Would his legs be covered with hair? Would he enjoy the sensations as her palms slid along his rib cage? What on earth had come over her? Startled by the uncomfortable turn of her thoughts, she moved swiftly toward the hearth to put her idle hands to some better purpose.

“You've been working for hours in the wet. It's no trouble for me to get you a bowl,” she insisted. “Now go sit in front of the fire before you catch ague.”

“I'm blathered and should wash before I do aught else,” he said tiredly, his accent heavy.

Graphic images crowded into her mind, and she didn't trust herself to look at him, lest he catch an inkling of her thoughts. What wicked demon possessed her? Daniel Lanfield, for heaven's sake! A man who despised her without mercy! It would be more sensible to take her chances out in the storm! Reining in her wayward thoughts, she poured hot water into a basin for him and asked, “Where might I go to give you some privacy?”

“Any room but that one,” he said. She had no choice but to look where he indicated. His face was blessedly neutral as he pointed at the room nearest to where he stood. “That one's mine. The other rooms are all unoccupied. Any will do. I'll fetch you when I'm ready.” When she met his gaze, the light from the fireplace reflected strangely. It seemed as if his eyes glowed with intent. Surely his words were all innocence.
I'll fetch you when I'm ready.
She had no doubt he could fetch her easily, if he put his mind to the task, especially with such strange thoughts dominating her mind. Yet he had no sensual interest in her, just as she had none in him. Truly.

She hurried into the nearest room and shut the door firmly, leaving her alone in darkness. When had the house become so warm? The sounds of water sloshing sparked more vivid but unwelcome images of him in her mind. What had she done to deserve this torment? A truly depraved voice in her head whispered that she could open the door the tiniest bit to see if the reality matched her imagination. She ignored it. An aberration. A result of years of physical deprivation, perhaps. Was she coming down with a fever? She pressed her head against the door and took a few deep, cleansing breaths.

 

As Daniel removed his clarty boots and trousers, careful to keep all the mud and muck from scattering through the room, he glanced repeatedly at the thin door separating him from Helena. She'd thought to bring him a warm meal, thought to pour water for him. Her attentiveness touched him. Sure, that was all. But the way she'd looked at him before closing that door . . . he must have imagined it, but he could swear her eyes had roved over him as if he were already naked. He should have been disgusted by it, but that wasn't the sensation coursing through him at the moment. Her swift but intense glance had him burning from his toes to his scalp. Any chill from the past few hours burned away, leaving him aflame and certain parts of his body standing at attention. Once he'd put aside his clothes and rinsed off as best he could, he hurried to his bedroom for fresh clothing.

“You can come out,” he called before closing his bedroom door. “I'll just be a few minutes more. You should start eating. No reason for us both to wait.”

As he swiftly finished dressing, the muffled sound of her movements in the great room agitated him. No woman outside his family had set foot in this house ever. Those light footfalls and whispers of domestic activity struck him as both comforting and, unaccountably, arousing. How could they spend the night together in this house?

“I've eaten,” she replied, her voice carrying through the wall. “I can sleep in a chair or even on the floor,” she called. “You've worked so hard today. You really should get some rest in a comfortable bed.”

As if he could let any woman sleep on the floor while he used a soft bed and still call himself his mother's son. He quickly finished buttoning his trousers and yanked his door open.

“Today was but a regular day's work on a farm. Naught to speak of. As for you sleeping on the floor, it would be a cold day in Hades, ma'am. My ma would come back from the grave just to shake me for my thoughtlessness.” He would not compromise on this point. Gentlemen did not sacrifice a woman's comfort for their own.

“I refuse to banish you from your own bed.” She stood with her hands gripping the back of a chair, braced to argue. Her defiant stance perversely charmed him, as did the steaming bowl that sat on the table accompanied by a thick slice of bread and full mug.

“Well, I refuse to have you sleep anywhere else in this house. As a guest, you must take the bed. I'll tie you to it if I must.” Did he really just say that? He nearly smacked himself in the head for his idiocy. She should have slapped him. Yet she didn't appear offended. Instead, she looked curious, thoughtful.

“We could share it,” she said, watching him carefully. Her cheeks reddened, but she held his gaze.

“Huh?” He couldn't have heard properly.

She was watching him carefully. A bright red crept up her neck and her cheeks, but she held his gaze as she added, “No one need ever know. We both need sleep, and surely your bed would reasonably accommodate both of us.”

Now a pang of discomfort shot through him. She wasn't wrong. His bed was plenty large enough to share, and his bones ached from the day's strain. But other parts of him ached in a different way, and those were the parts that made sharing
that
bed a very bad idea.

“We would know.” He cleared his throat. “And that's a thing you can't unknow.”

When his eyes met hers, the flush on her face grew even stronger. When her gentle fingers brushed against his cheek, he ceased to breathe. Then she said, with a tart smile, “I only mean to sleep. Just keep each other warm.”

He had never been a man of many words, but now he could barely eke out a breathless syllable. Her touch burned his skin, and muscles all over his body contracted. Had he caught a fever from the rains? She moved in close to him, and he was struck by the sense of rightness and pleasure. It should feel awkward, shouldn't it? Unnatural. This woman, of all women. It should feel wrong to slide his hands around her waist. Her finely muscled arms should feel like an affront. Touching his lips to hers should feel like burning in the fiery pit of hell. And yet. That inexplicable, irrational sensation overtook him, just like the night at the coaching inn. Her closeness unraveled his brain. Something in him reveled in her softness. Her mouth, her skin, her full hips. A thrill shot through him when she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him closer. He traced the line of buttons down her blouse with his finger and grew hot when she shivered against him. His good sense had fled, and he could not make himself seek it. One thought invaded his mind:
More
. He feared this overwhelming desire. Even with Nancy, he hadn't felt such overpowering lust, as much as he'd been determined to do his husbandly duty toward her. He'd found her attractive, and his body had performed accordingly, but he'd never felt anything like this.