Kiss From A Rogue

Chapter 9-2

The fluffy little traitor was spending the night with Tony. Again.

Sylvia rolled over, punched her pillow, and waited for sleep to claim her.

* * *

When she awoke, it was well past her usual time to be up and about. Normally she would take an afternoon nap the day after landing a cargo, to catch up on the sleep she’d missed, but having Tony in the house had thrown off her routine yesterday. She was surprised Galen hadn’t come in to wake her already.

The house was quiet. No thumps from the gold salon.

She threw the covers back, startling Macbeth, who had been curled up at the foot of the bed. “So you came in after all.” She rubbed behind his silky ears, earning a purr for her efforts. It didn’t take long to mollify the cat after his rude awakening, and she quickly got ready for the day and went downstairs.

“He went with Monroe,” Galen announced as she set breakfast in front of Sylvia, answering her unasked question. “He grabbed a scone hot out of the pan and ran out the door to catch up with the wagon. Said he wanted to pick out the supplies personal like.”

Sylvia poured herself a cup of tea, made with new leaves. Ahh, heaven. “I didn’t know any gentleman from London had ever seen the sunrise, except by staying up for it.”

Galen chuckled and set the scones on the table, along with a jar of preserves they’d put up last summer.

Sylvia grabbed two before Galen could take the platter away, and smeared them with fresh butter and blackberry goodness. Just one spoonful, though, as they still had to make the preserves last until the berries ripened again later this summer, and the vines had been unusually slow to leaf out this year. Mmm. Was she really so easy to please, just a little fresh food? She’d wager Tony’s other female conquests wouldn’t be so easy.

Perhaps he’d already tired of pursuing her? Her hand froze with the teacup at her mouth. That’s why he’d run out so quickly this morning. Anything to get away from the boring little backwater burg and the country turnips in it.

As if sensing the direction of her thoughts, Galen sat down with her own cup of tea. “Gerald freshened up the suite this morning.” She stirred a drop of honey into her cup. “The mister’s haversack and other set of clothes is still there, and his razor and whatnots are on the dressing table.”

Sylvia let out a shaky breath. “This is ridiculous. Two days ago, we didn’t even know he existed.”

Galen patted Sylvia’s shoulder, then quickly drained her cup and went back to work.

“It’s only that we need him for dealing with Ruford,” Sylvia said.

“Yes, that’s it.”

“And it will be nice to no longer have changing weather conditions inside the house.”

“Whatever you say, my lady.”

Sylvia quickly ate the rest of her breakfast in silence. She had a lot of work to do, too.

She went about her chores determinedly not thinking about Tony, what he was doing, or when he would return. There was no point in doing her usual cleaning, since Jimmy and Gerald were doing their best to fling about as much dust as possible in removing the debris from the gold salon. Eventually they settled on tossing it directly out the window down onto the lawn, but not until after they’d tracked plaster dust down the stairs and all the connecting halls.

Sylvia mixed and delivered a tonic for Mrs. Doyle’s colicky baby and had just sat down for the household’s midday meal in the kitchen when the wagon rumbled up the drive. Her stew forgotten, she dashed outside, but slowed to a more decorous pace once out in the drive. The others were only a few steps behind her.

Tony was driving Monroe’s wagon, loaded high with lumber, slate tiles, and other supplies she couldn’t even name. Monroe lay stretched out on top of the whole, snoring.

“Whoa,” Tony called to the old nag in the traces. The wagon creaked to a halt. He flashed a grin at Sylvia as he set the brake. “Miss me?”

Her stomach fluttered. Must be hungrier than she thought. “We just sat down to eat.”

“Ah, then my timing is perfect.”

Monroe snorted and sat up, wiping the corner of his mouth. “Someone mention food?”

“S’pose I can set another place,” Galen said. “Bring your lazy arse inside.”

Gerald released the horse into the pasture to graze while the humans went indoors.

After the worst of their hunger had been appeased, Jimmy excitedly quizzed Tony about the supplies he’d bought and plans to use them. Much of the discussion included terms unfamiliar to Sylvia, but she wasn’t listening to the words, she was watching the speaker.

Tony’s brown eyes were bright, his features animated. When hand gestures weren’t sufficient to explain his ideas, he resorted to drawing with slate and chalk, plans for the roof and walls and ceiling, plans that would soon have the entire southwest side habitable again, on all floors. Simple plans for him, but impossible for ancient Gerald and young Jimmy to implement on their own.

And impossibly beyond their reach, financially. But one had to have dreams.

“Of course, only if that’s the way you want to do it.” Tony set the chalk down. “I’m merely making suggestions. It’s entirely up to you.”

“No, no, I like this.” Jimmy leaned on his elbows, studying the slate. “We’ll put the roof tiles on so no more rain comes in, then really get going.” He stabbed the slate with his index finger. “This is exactly what we’ll do.”

Sylvia couldn’t contain a smile at Tony’s tact. He acknowledged her thanks, but quickly lowered his eyes, almost as though he were being modest.

Galen gave a huff and got up to clear the dishes. “Them roof tiles ain’t going to nail themselves in place. The rain’s a’coming, lads.”

“I best get going, too.” Monroe stood and scratched his stomach. “My barn is fixin’ to blow down with the next stiff breeze, otherwise.” He gave Galen a peck on the cheek. “Delicious as always,” he said, then made his farewells and was out the door. Jimmy and Tony left as well, to unload their supplies from Monroe’s cart.

Sylvia had her own work to do, but that didn’t prevent her from taking a break to check on the men’s progress. Until she discovered that their work required lengths of rope, and Tony balancing near the very edge of the roof, four stories up.

He gave her a jaunty wave from his lofty perch.

It was enough to lodge her heart in her throat. She waved back, safe on the lawn, standing near their scattered building materials, and quickly retreated to her stillroom. It wasn’t so much that she couldn’t bear to watch. She was more concerned that his peacock streak would emerge again, and he’d hurt himself while showing off.

Yes, that was it.

Tony heaved a sigh of relief as he watched Sylvia disappear from view. If he was going to slip and fall, which he’d nearly done several times already, he’d rather not have her witness him dangling from a rope forty feet above the ground. Or, heaven forfend the ancient rope should break. Falling prostrate at the widow’s feet was not part of his seduction plan.

He pounded in another nail, securing another tile, ensuring another twelve square inches of roof wouldn’t leak. And then another, and another. Gerald kept him supplied from the stack they’d hoisted up to the roof and watched over their safety ropes tied around the chimney. Jimmy worked just ahead of Tony, wrenching the rusted nails and ruined tiles free, and tossing them over the side. Though the roof might be new, the lawn would never be the same. But the lawn couldn’t keep rain out of the house.

Less than a quarter done, and his back ached, his knees were on fire. Fiery red streaked his palm, forerunner to blisters. Why was he doing this, again?

Seduction plan. Right.

Sylvia was skittish. Instead of sailing straight ahead, he’d have to tack back and forth for a while. He’d devised the perfect plan to win her over. He would woo her with his labor. What woman could resist the gift of a weatherproof house?

The men around her had been trying to take care of her, but youth or old age prevented them from being truly effective. Not to mention a serious shortage of funds. Tony had physical stamina and something none of Sylvia’s other men had — the experience of having run an earldom for five years. It had been rough his first three years, needing to practice frugality to a degree he’d never before experienced after paying off his father’s final gambling debt. But eventually the estates recovered. Tony knew things about carpentry and crop rotation, plaster and poultry. He could give her something far better than flowers, more practical than writing an ode to her beauty. He had the means to improve her day-to-day life.

Plus, he was slightly better off in the funding department, though it had taken nearly all his own blunt this morning to buy just what was needed for the most urgent of repairs. The purse Jimmy had given him last night had barely covered the cost of nails.

He had kept enough coins for a different kind of gift for Sylvia, though, an item he’d purchased this morning. He’d hold it in reserve until the opportune moment.

“Think we’ll finish before the storm hits?”

Tony glanced at Jimmy, at the currently cloud-free horizon, and the vast expanse of n***d roof. “I’m willing to try if you are.”

Jimmy grinned and tossed another broken tile off the roof.

From up here, the view of the rolling countryside and sea was incredible. The steady breeze dried the perspiration before it could soak his shirt, and the air was fresh and clean. But as he stood and stretched, and got a dizzying look over the edge at the broken tiles on the ground below, he decided he’d much rather be knocking down wet plaster. Indoors.

He surveyed the progress he’d made so far, calculated how long it had taken, how much was left to go, and realized at this rate they’d finish … in about four days.

The wind picked up. Tony muttered a curse and bent back to work. He didn’t look up until he heard a shout, hours later.

“Lady Montgomery says you should go down and eat,” Baxter said, reaching into the bag he carried over his shoulder. Sawyer stood beside him, dusted with flour, as always, a bag over his shoulder as well.

“Don’t have time.” Tony set another tile in place.

“She said you’d say that.” Sawyer handed Tony a small cloth-wrapped bundle of cheese, bread, and cold mutton, while Baxter handed over a wineskin from his bag.

“Out of our way, laddie.” Baxter made shooing motions with his hands, and both men began setting tile. Judging by their appearance, they had already done their own day’s work, and had still come to help Sylvia.

Tony stepped out of their way, closer to Jimmy. “What about you?” He took a bite of the cheese, different from what they’d had with dinner the previous night. Delicious.

“I, ah, went down a while ago and ate.” Jimmy handed Tony two fabric bundles and tied on his own set. “Sylvia’s idea,” he said with an embarrassed shrug. “She uses these when she’s on her knees in the garden all day.”

Something that had been tied around Sylvia’s bare flesh? Tony held the cloths close to his chest as he retreated to the roof peak. The precious bundle turned out to be two lengths of muslin, each wrapped around a pad of straw and wool. Where were these six hours ago, before his knees had needles sticking in them? But they were Sylvia’s, and she had sent them for him. That was all that mattered.

Tony sat against a chimney stack to rest his back and stretched out his legs with a groan, and spread the cloth open on his lap. The scent of food teased him, stronger than the sea breeze, and he smiled. Sylvia was feeding him. His seduction plan was working.

Perhaps he’d bring her up here when the work was done, with a blanket and a bottle of wine. Together they’d watch the sun dip below the horizon, stare at the waves lapping at the beaches until the stars came out. He’d put his arm around her shoulders, she’d lean into him, he’d kiss her, and taste her, and then… His butt was going numb.

On second thought, the hard, cold slate roof was not the place he wanted to make love with Sylvia the first time. The blanket, wine, and sunset idea had merit. It just needed a more comfortable venue.

He quickly finished eating and returned to work.

Thanks to the added efforts of Baxter and Sawyer, by the time daylight disappeared, almost half the roof was done. Perhaps they would beat the storm, after all. Or perhaps Trent’s knee was wrong.

They climbed down and staggered into the house, drunk with exhaustion. Tony waved to Sylvia from the rose salon doorway, taking care to stay downwind of her, then stumbled to his room, stripped, washed up with the cold water in the basin, and fell into bed. He dreamed of holding Sylvia in his arms.

He awoke with her cat stretched out against his side.

Dawn barely streaked the sky. Tony stretched, tight muscles screaming in protest, grabbed another pair of ill-fitting breeches and shirt from the previous Lord Montgomery’s wardrobe, and dressed in the gloom. He glanced at last night’s dirty water in the basin, decided there was really no point in shaving, and headed up to the roof.

Sylvia climbed up every few hours, bringing baskets filled with food and drink. They sat on a blanket she spread beside the chimney stack, far from the edge, and he ate while she pointed out spots of interest on the Lulworth coastline, visible from their elevated position. Her accent was slightly different from that of Jimmy and the other locals, but he couldn’t quite place it. Somewhere farther north. Inland.

“…of course, Middle Beach is only accessible from the sea. Spencer has a skiff we can borrow, so we can put in at Durdle Door Beach and row out to have our picnic there after the storm passes.”

So caught up in listening to her lilting voice, Tony had missed some of the content. She wanted him to row out onto the Channel, in order for them to have a picnic on a beach? He gaped at her. A little boat? Out on the sea?

He remembered the last time he’d been out on the water — on Nick’s big ship, which had even been tied up at the dock, and still Tony had found himself heaving his guts out over the side. Much of the images from that day and night were blurry, but he clearly recalled his white-knuckled grip on the railing as he spewed his dinner into the Thames. His stomach churned.

“It’s the only beach I haven’t been to, in the four years I’ve lived here.”

He winced at her wistful tone. “Montgomery never took you?”

“My husband didn’t like to eat al fresco. Said he had enough of that sort when he was at sea, no need to do it on the land.”

On Sylvia’s far side, Jimmy snorted. “Hubert was always up himself.”

“Jimmy!”

“Ain’t like I never told him that to his face,” Jimmy mumbled into the wineskin.

Tony hid a grin. Yes, indeed, older brothers could be full of themselves at times.

And he might not be Sylvia’s husband in truth, but there were things he could do that Montgomery never had. A secluded beach on a warm summer day, a blanket, a bottle of wine, and Sylvia… Might be worth the risk of going out on the water. The beach would definitely be a more comfortable venue than the roof. If he survived getting there.

By the time she brought a mid-afternoon snack, Tony couldn’t hold something as small as a fork. The blister on his palm had burst, and his fist refused to close. It didn’t hurt, though, or at least not that he could tell, what with his back, shoulders, and knees being on fire.

But they were nearing their goal of covering the roof. It was going to be close. Storm clouds were crowding the horizon. Whitecaps littered the Channel, and the surf crashing on the beach was audible even over the wind whipping at their clothes.

Sweat dripped onto Tony’s nose. Another drop fell, then another. He looked up.

Roiling black clouds were flying toward them, letting loose a curtain of rain so dense he could no longer see the Channel. Lightning flashed, followed by the booming crash of thunder.

“Close enough!” He had to repeat his shout before Jimmy and Gerald heard him. Tony pointed at the storm almost upon them. Jimmy’s jaw dropped. “Grab everything that isn’t nailed down, or it will be in the next county by morning.”