A Rogue in Sheep’s Clothing (14 page)

• • •

This is fun
, thought Ellie in the quiet of the garden shed. How entertaining to see the two sides of Hugh Davenport. Lord Iceblock in proper company, and the warmest, most charming fellow whenever he was around plain country folk. She chuckled and threw her dress on over her head.

Wrapping herself in her shawl, she dashed out hoping to find Claire to act as lady’s maid.

She spied her sister in the garden with Sport nosing around at the end of his leash. The dog may have been preoccupied, but hanging on Claire’s every word was Flavian Monroe. A dash of alarm entered Claire’s eyes upon seeing Ellie. “Good morning,” she said, and gave a slight shake of her head, indicating the spaniel hadn’t cooperated.

“Good morning to you, and to you, Lord Monroe,” said Ellie.

“Good morning,” Flavian said.

As she passed them, Ellie turned and walked backward, hiding her wide open dress. “It’s a lovely morning. I hope you have a pleasant walk.”

“Yes,” Claire said. “You too.”

“And you as well, Lord Monroe.”

“Thank you, Lady Ellie. We shall.”

“And Sport, you have a nice walk, too. Be productive.”

“Yes, I will,” said Claire in a growly spaniel voice. “You’ll be amazed at what I can do … do.”

“Good boy,” cried Ellie. She ducked into a grove of trees and laughed ’til her stomach ached.

• • •

From a charmed morning the weather held, making a perfect afternoon — until Lady Davenport declared it “Archery Day.” She told Ellie she wanted the girls outdoors so the breeze could pink their cheeks.

The company paraded to a hill overlooking the grand estate. Suppressing a laugh, Ellie watched Lady Davenport arranging partners so Chase Hart would be with the older woman. Hugh and Ellie were teamed, Claire was paired with Algie Swift, Poultney Bigalow with Rosemarie Philapot, Peggity with George Pitt, and his twin sister Hester with Flavian Monroe.

“Do you know how to shoot?” Hugh asked Ellie as they positioned themselves in front of the target.

“Naturally,” said Ellie, scarcely able to see the target through the fog of her lenses.

She took aim with the rest of the women, drew back the bow, and watched the arrow sail well over the target. Peering around the tortoiseshell frames, she was shocked at how poorly she’d done. The spectacles ruined her aim.

Her second shot smacked the side of Claire and Algie Swift’s target, bounced, and hit the dirt. Though he stood behind her, she could feel Hugh’s growing disdain.

“Gad,” Algie said, “with practice you could shoot a barn.”

“Or the House of Commons,” added Poultney.

“I thought you said you knew how to do this,” Hugh growled.

“I do, it’s just that my aim is off today.”

“Perhaps you ought to give Miss Ellie a little archery instruction,” his mother suggested, a sly twinkle in her eye.

“I’m sure Miss Ellie would rather practice a little before someone starts bothering her,” he replied.

“Not at all, dear. Miss Ellie needs help now, don’t you darling?”

Ellie looked in the direction of the blob she identified as her hostess. “I’d rather not trouble Lord Davenport,” she told her, a nervous thump beginning in her heart.

“Nonsense.” The hostess beamed. “My son could teach a woman anything.”

“Except how to behave themselves, eh, Mother?”

“The best teachers lead by example,” the older woman replied. “You are an excellent shot. I’m sure Miss Ellie could benefit from your expertise.”

“Bull’s eye,” Chase Hart added with a smirk.

Hugh glared at Chase then turned his attention to Ellie. He assessed her as if she were a side of beef. “Take aim,” he commanded. His eyes, so close they magnified into huge icy orbs, spelled doom if she didn’t hit the mark. Ellie raised the bow, pulled back the string and aimed at the blur she assumed was the target. Hugh inspected her position.

“Close your left eye,” he barked. “Face your left shoulder toward the target. Ready. Fire!”

The arrow whirred to the right, crossed in front of several of the company and landed in the grass before Flavian and Hester’s target. Hester squeaked and ran for the house. “She frightens easily,” George explained apologetically. He ran after her.

“I declare,” Poultney said, “if you were cupid, I’d be marrying a rock.”

“Better a rock than the grave,” Algie rejoined.

“Sorry,” said Ellie. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”

Rosemarie Philapot snickered. “Do it like this,” she said, winging her arrow into the golden ring at the center of her target.

“Yes, thank you. Good advice.” Mortification dug a pit in Ellie’s stomach.

“Take off those bloody glasses,” Hugh instructed, giving first Ellie then his mother a furious look.

“She can’t,” Claire sputtered. “It’s for health reasons.”

Hugh rolled his eyes. Stepping behind Ellie, he put his arms around her, and placed his hands over hers as she gripped the bow and arrow. She felt the warmth of his body, his breath against her neck. Her body tingled with excitement, and she relaxed a bit.

“Are you toying with me?” he whispered.

All the tension returned a hundred fold. “Do you mean flirting?”

“That is precisely what I mean.”

“Could I mistake you for a man enjoying himself right now?”

“Probably not.”

“No one shoots like I am by choice.”

“Humph,” Hugh said.

“Good boy,” his mother trilled. “You’ll see, Miss Ellie, what a wonderful teacher he is.”

In response, Hugh brutally gripped her hand, pulled back on the bow, and let the arrow fly. It hit the target square in the center.

“Got it?” he asked, stepping away. He planted a cold eye first on his mother, then on Ellie.

Where does the sweet Hugh hide while this monster prowls?
Ellie wondered. All eyes focused on her. The thought of furthering her humiliation turned her muscles to wood. “Shouldn’t the men have a turn now?”

“That’s all right, dear,” Lady Davenport cooed. “You take one more for practice, and then the men can go.”

What Ellie wanted was to dig a pit, leap in, and pile the dirt on top. Trying to subdue the trembling in her arms, she drew back the bow, tucked it next to her cheek, squinted through her right eye, and let go. Pain seared through her arm. The arrow cleared the target, zigged to the left, bounced off a bush, and nearly pierced Sport. The little dog let out a yelp. “Oh, Sport! I’m so sorry,” cried Ellie, as the spaniel raced to Hugh and jumped into his arms for safety.

“Gad woman, you’re a menace,” Hugh said.

“The dog is fine,” she replied, anger leaking into humiliation. She examined the inside of her arm. Layers of skin at the elbow had been shaved off by the string.

“Oh, you poor dear,” Claire said. “Let’s put some herbs on your arm before it gets swollen.”

“Oh yes,” said Peggity. “Our sister swells a lot. We need to take her inside.”

“So sorry to break up the contest.” Claire pulled Ellie away from the group.

Never had Ellie been so grateful to her sisters in her life. The three held hands and ran down the hill for the house, skipping and giggling the further away they got from anything to do with archery.

“Ah, that’s marvelous, Toby girl,” Hugh cried as Ellie circled back after having pushed Manifesto into an immediate gallop at the starting line of the mocked up Haldon racetrack. “He gets so excited, though,” Hugh continued, “it’s taking him too long to settle into his stride. Let’s try it again.”

“Is there anything I should do differently?” she asked.

His eyes dallied over her form. “Not a thing, lass.”

“Concentrate on the horse, Lord Davenport,” she teased.

“Always.”

Ellie smiled to herself as his gaze strayed immediately to her thigh.

He caught her watching him. “And you concentrate on Manifesto, too.”

“Yes, my lord.” She stifled a laugh.

“And they’re off!” Hugh shouted.

Ellie pressed Manifesto’s sides with her heels. The stallion bolted forward, tossing his head and not paying the least heed to the track.

After several strides Ellie pulled the horse to a stop. “I think he’s getting frustrated.”

“All right, let’s try him one more time and see how he does.”

As she rode Manifesto back to the starting line, she caught Hugh looking at her and licking his lips.

“Lord Davenport, you are staring at me as if I were a succulent orange.”

“I was certainly doing no such thing,” he said, feigning affront. He wiped his lips, caught himself licking them again, and started to laugh.

Ellie laughed, too. In her glee she leaned forward in the saddle and touched Manifesto’s sides with her heels. The stallion bolted forward, catching her unprepared. For a moment she lost her balance, but caught a hank of mane and managed to hold on. “Whoa,” she said, pulling the horse to a stop. Her hands shook.

Hugh ran to her side. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, just a bit wobbly. He caught me off guard.”

“You nearly ate grass there.”

“Quite so. And not the breakfast I had in mind, either.” Breathlessly, Ellie started to laugh. Hugh joined her, and then, with no discussion or planning, he mounted Valaire and they turned toward the moors.

The horses broke into a canter. Cool wind un-tethered strands of Ellie’s blond hair from beneath the floppy hat. Green and gold, the abandoned moors stretched for miles — gentle swells of earth with no sign of humanity — only the loneliness of broken rock. She lifted the hat off and shook the last tresses free, then dropped the reins. Spreading her arms wide she launched into a popular sea chantey. “’Twas in the good ship Rover, I sailed the world around,” she sang.

Hugh, cantering next to her, sang back, “For three years and over, I never saw British ground.”

Together they belted, “At last in England landed, I left the roaring main. Found all relations stranded and went to sea again!”

Hugh pushed Valaire past Manifesto, saluting as if he were on the bow of a ship. Ellie tore off her cravat and held it up to catch the wind, pretending Manifesto was under sail. She laughed until her cheeks ached.

Still cantering, Hugh reached down and yanked out a fist full of heather, roots and all. “Here, hold this,” he said. She snatched the unruly bouquet and took off at a gallop up the last rise to the top of High Tor, the topmost point on the moors.

Valaire cantered up behind. They slid off their horses together, laughing so hard they staggered in circles holding their tummies and “accidentally” bumping into each other.

Hugh did a terrible imitation of a sailor dancing the hornpipe. Ellie doubled with laughter, begging him to stop. “No more, no more!” she cried. “I’m in pain.”

“Yes, yes, be calm, Toby. Calm yourself, girl, or I’ll have to sing you to sleep.” He began dancing again.

“Oh, I can’t breathe,” Ellie said, tears of amusement streaming down her face. “Stop, Lord Davenport. No more.”

“Hugh, please. Call me Hugh or I’ll not stop at all.”

“Hugh, then. Hugh!” she cried, stumbling away toward the edge of the tor.

A stiff breeze swept up the massive stone edifice bringing the scent of heather, gorse, and a tinge of the dank salt sea. The beauty of it sobered her. “My God, it’s magnificent,” she said, feeling the sun’s warmth and the chill of the breeze on her cheeks. For miles around she saw only the dip and rise of the yellowed moors disappearing into soft, distant gray.

Hugh joined her cliff-side. He settled on a patch of thin, wind-whipped grass. Ellie plopped down beside him and took a deep whiff of the heather he’d picked for her on the trail. “Ah,” she said. “It smells like England.”

Hugh broke off a branch of the plant and put it between his teeth. “Tastes like her, too,” he said. Ellie laughed.

Then they grew silent, listening to the rustle of grass, feeling the hot sun, and breathing the rich smell of sweet flowers and fecund herbs.

“This is my day,” said Hugh, lying back in the grass. “You may have a piece of it.”

Ellie swatted him with the stalk of heather. “I shall take your captain’s salute on horseback.”

“And I shall take this moment, right now,” he said, closing his eyes.

They were silent again. Ellie lay back and snuggled into the grass. The cool wind couldn’t reach her here, just the thick heat of the sun. She closed her eyes, too.

A fly tickled her forehead. She brushed it away. It came back and tickled her again. She opened her eyes in time to see Hugh leaning over her, the branch of heather in his teeth. He flicked it away from her face.

“You’re the annoying fly,” she said, lunging to pull the heather from his mouth. He caught her wrists and rolled onto his back. She struggled, enjoying the feel of his large, callused hands. “I suppose if I were really clever,” she said, giving up and leaning on his chest, “I could get that branch without using my hands.”

“Oh yes, and how would you do that?” replied Hugh, a glint in his eye.

Ellie leaned over and, bringing her face close to his mouth, pulled the heather from his teeth.

A bolt of electricity raced through her. She hadn’t meant to be so intimate, hadn’t anticipated the heat of his flesh against hers or the soft velvet of a corner of his lips. Her heart beat fast and her face grew hot. She looked away, dropping the heather from her mouth. “I’m never getting married,” she blurted.

Hugh studied her. “Then I’m not either.”

Gently, he brushed a bit of heather from her lips.

The caress stirred a small fire. She closed her eyes and lay back down on the grass. Joy washed over her. “That’s wonderful,” she sighed. Hugh’s hand closed on hers.

• • •

“Did he kiss you at High Tor?” Peggity asked, her eyes narrowing with accusation.

“For the longest time we just lay there and held hands,” Ellie said, falling back on the bed pillows, a dreamy look in her eyes. “When we stood to go back to the horses, I tried to get my hair back under the floppy hat, but the wind kept whipping it. He smoothed the curls from my eyes with his hands. He touched my face — his hand could have been the down of a baby bird. Then he twisted my hair around his fingers, pulled my head back, and kissed me.”