Kiss From A Rogue

Chapter 8-2

“But the barns don’t have pedimented windows.” Tony stayed at her side, stepping carefully in order to keep his boots out of the cow patties.

“Farleigh, are you in here?” she called as soon as they entered the cool, dim interior of the barn.

“Back here, my lady.”

She walked past the rows of stalls and milking stanchions, breathing in the sweet scents of milk and straw with the slight undertone of fresh manure, to the workbench at the back. She dug two small jars of ointment out of her basket and set them on the bench next to the leather collar he was repairing. “One is udder balm; the other is for your stump.”

Farleigh gave her a gap-toothed grin. “Thankee, my lady.” He picked up the collar, the bell clanking, and limped over to the cow waiting for it in the nearest stall. “But which is which?”

“Your choice, sir. They both work equally well.”

Tony glanced at Farleigh’s wooden leg. “A casualty of the war?” he asked softly.

Sylvia nodded, then continued on to the workroom connected to the barn. Miss Atwood was at work preparing the cheese, while Mrs. Brewer churned butter and her children played at helping. Both women looked expectantly between Tony and Sylvia.

“You’ve heard about Mr. Sinclair, no doubt.”

Miss Atwood finished pouring into a cheese mold and wiped her hands on her apron. “Aye, my lady. It appears everything we’ve heard is true.” She beamed at Tony.

He gave an exaggerated, elegant bow to each in turn. “Charmed, ladies.”

Miss Atwood giggled, and even staid Mrs. Brewer simpered.

Both ladies were Tony’s age or older, and it should not bother Sylvia that he was smiling at them. All rakes flirted outrageously, with all females. She had no special claim on him.

Sylvia gritted her teeth. Before the women could make cakes of themselves over him any further, she gave them each their jar of hand cream and collected the day’s butter, and headed back toward the manor house. To her surprise, Tony stayed right beside her, giving the ladies only a farewell wave as he exited the barn.

It wasn’t his fault that so many of the local women were starved for male companionship. Though he certainly didn’t seem to mind offering it.

They had crossed the pasture and were back on the road before he spoke again. “Have you always been the village apothecary?”

His soft-spoken question surprised her, and she carefully considered her answer before she replied. “Many of the locals were not overjoyed four years ago when Montgomery brought me here as his bride. He’d waited exactly one year and one day after his first wife succumbed to a fever. They didn’t realize he was marrying the niece of a business associate, and simply wanted a mother figure for his much younger brother.” She stepped over a deep rut. “I’m only a few years older than Jimmy, though, so I’m more of a big sister than parental figure.”

Without breaking stride, he kicked a fist-sized rock from the road into the pasture. “But they didn’t welcome you into their midst.” There was no condemnation in his voice, only understanding.

“I probably would have reacted the same way in their position. The first Lady Montgomery was generally well-liked.” She shifted her basket to her other arm. “When Montgomery and I paid our monthly visits, I learned that many of them worked outdoors just as hard as the men, and noticed their hands were painfully chapped in the winter. So I started bringing them jars of cream I’d made. Ointments to help wounds heal. Soon after, while he was away at sea, they started inviting me to tea and to their sewing parties.”

“Social entrée made possible by jars of hand cream.” Tony nodded his approval. “London ladies should be so enterprising.”

“Would London ladies gather together to dye their gowns black after a shipwreck?”

He rested his hand on her shoulder. “Probably not.”

Enough examining the past. The present was far more interesting. “Why are you here?”

“I’m accompanying you back home so Crowther doesn’t doubt our story.”

Sylvia stopped, the roofless shell of the gatehouse behind her, and leaned against the post where a gate once hung, so she could watch Tony’s expression. “No, I mean why are you here in Lulworth? I can understand why you stayed last night. The lads can be intimidating at times. But why didn’t you leave this morning? No one could have stopped you.”

“Truly?” He plucked a tall grass stem and stuck the end between his teeth. “I like Marge.”

“Marge — Mrs. Miggins? You’re staying because you like Mrs. Miggins? She’s eighty-nine and claims to have been a mistress to King George.”

Tony tilted his head. “She does seem fond of men.”

Sylvia winced. “She didn’t pinch you, did she?”

“She pinches, too?”

Sylvia began walking toward the house again, Tony falling into step beside her. She would not think about what it would be like to pinch the handsome man at her side, and forced her mind to more practical matters. She made a mental note to cut back the rhododendrons that lined the drive now that they’d finished blooming, as there was no longer room for a carriage to pass in some places. They may lack funds to replace things, but the pruning shears were still serviceable. “How did you meet Mrs. Miggins?”

Tony shifted the grass stem to the other corner of his mouth and took entirely too long to answer such a simple question. “She and a few of her friends said hello to me while we were at the Happy Jack this morning.”

“When? I didn’t—”

“You were inside chatting with Mrs. Spencer. It was just me and seven lovely ladies, all of whom brandished a rolling pin or some other weapon.”

Sylvia paused mid-stride. “Weapon?”

Tony tugged on her elbow, helping her over a wheel rut in the path. “After our kiss last night, they just wanted to make sure my intentions toward you are honorable. Your men are gossips, it would seem.”

And they had the gall to call Mrs. Spencer a busybody?

If not for the audience that had been present, she might have been able to truly enjoy the kiss. Perhaps next time.

Next time? There should never be a next time. Last night had just been a fluke, a mistake. Never to be repeated.

Unless it was necessary for their charade, of course.

She looked at Tony sideways, studying his full mouth, sensual lips. No hardship there, should they have to kiss. For appearance’s sake. For their charade. After all, husband and wife would do far more intimate things with each other. And besides, as a widow, didn’t society grant her a little more leeway, as long as she was discreet?

Jimmy hailed them just then, as he emerged from the rhododendrons that hid the shortcut to the cliff path.

“All done?” she called, grateful for the interruption before her imagination could embarrass her any further. Tony was a rake, having a bit of a lark. Of course he’d be interested in kissing her, if she was willing. Trouble was, a rake would want much more than a chaste kiss, and she had no intention of being one among his undoubtedly many conquests.

Jimmy checked that the last branch went back into position, concealing the path, and brushed at the leaves and spent blooms on his clothes. “All right and tight, all the usual arrangements made for the deliveries, so I was going up to see what can be done with the gold salon. Trent says another so’westerly is going to blow through soon.”

As the three of them continued toward the manor, Sylvia couldn’t restrain a sigh. Trent’s knee was never wrong. The last so’westerly had been less than a week ago, and they’d used most of their lumber to shore up the salon. But it was too little, too late, and the sodden ceiling had collapsed anyway.

Was that the distant rumble of thunder already? Sylvia scanned the horizon, and then breathed another sigh, this one of relief. She stepped to the side, out of the way of Doyle and his wagon loaded with supplies. She’d almost forgotten today was the farrier’s monthly visit.

Doyle tipped his hat as he rolled past, headed for the kitchen door. “Mrs. Spencer sends her compliments, my lady.”

“Thank you. I’m sure Galen will be delighted to see you.”

“She always is.” Doyle gave a cheeky grin and flicked the whip above his horse’s ears.

Jimmy opened the front door for Sylvia, then headed up the stairs.

Sylvia hung her bonnet on a hook and continued down the hall. Tony stayed at her side. Her steps faltered. “Where are you going?”

“Wherever you’re going.”

Oh. “I have work waiting for me in the stillroom.”

“Then I’ll help.” He lowered his voice. “I can be very handy.”

She could imagine all too well what he might be able to do with his hands. The stillroom was at the back, off the kitchen but isolated from the rest of the house. And small. Tony would be able to stay quite close to her, the whole time. Work his charm on her with no one around to interrupt. She gulped. “W-what if you helped Jimmy instead? He and Gerald have had a difficult time making any progress with the gold salon.”

Tony glanced at the staircase. “If you’re sure that’s what you want?”

No, but that’s what she needed for peace of mind. “I’m sure.”

“Very well, my lady.” He turned for the stairs, and she hurried down the hall before he caught her staring at him taking the steps two at a time.

Once in the stillroom, Sylvia found it difficult to concentrate on her work, despite the beloved familiar surroundings and scents. She had never before spent time with a rake. Was not entirely sure she’d even met one before Tony. There certainly weren’t any here in Lulworth Cove, and her uncle had strictly limited her circle of acquaintances in Manchester. Tony, with that smile, those eyes, must be quite successful at it.

Not all the local ladies were ready to succumb to his charms, though. With a grin, she wished she could have witnessed the circle of women threatening him with rolling pins.

She kept her hands busy and eventually was able to settle her mind on her tasks. She had just given out her last jars of cream and was running low on the anti-inflammatory ointment that Trent needed for his arthritis.

This room was hers, more than any other in the house. Galen and Gerald used the still for brewing beer, but most of the space was taken up by Sylvia’s worktable and bench. Two walls were lined with cupboards and shelves holding her supplies. Dried herbs, flowers, oils and other ingredients, neatly tagged and labeled, were stored in jars, crocks and vials. All the books an herbalist or apothecary of modest means could ask for took up two shelves, including the books handed down from her mother and grandmother. The shelf below held journals filled with her own recipes and research notes.

Another shelf held the marble mortar and pestle set that had been her mother’s, as well as the olive wood set Hubert had brought her after a voyage that kept him away on their first anniversary, and the rustic oak set Jimmy had carved as a birthday gift for her two years ago. Bundles of lavender, yarrow, chamomile, mint, and other herbs hung from hooks in the ceiling, in various stages of drying. Set in the far wall was a connecting door to the conservatory, where she grew many of her ingredients.

Hours later, she finished tidying up and stretched her back, trying to work out the stiffness after mixing several new batches of creams and ointments. She caught a whiff of a new scent — dinner cooking — and her stomach growled.