A Rose in Winter (8 page)

"I'll make some tea while we wait," she said hesitantly. She stirred the fire, placing a fresh block of peat on it, then hung a kettle of water on the hook above it.

Nigel Talbot regarded Erienne with growing ardor. Several weeks had passed since he had been to London and there was entertained by some rather lusty, lace-bedecked acquaintances in their richly appointed apartments. It was truly amazing that he had overlooked such rare fine fruit in his own orchard, but considering Erienne's subdued, ladylike composure, it was easy to understand why he had not really noticed her before. The bold ones drew immediate attention, yet it was not always the case that they were also the choice ones. Erienne Fleming was of prime quality and no doubt unspoiled.

His mind formed a vision of her in petticoats and stays, with bosom overflowing and tiny waist cinched to fit a man's hands. He imagined her black hair flowing loosely about her creamy soft shoulders, and his eyes widened as he realized the possibilities before him. Of course, this was delicate and must be broached with care. He did not intend to offer marriage, but surely Avery would not be foolish enough to turn down a substantial sum for her.

Lord Talbot rose to his feet and assumed his best heroic pose, his left hand on the casually braced cane, his right clasping the lapel of his brocaded coat so she might admire his manly form. A more experienced wench might have stared openly at what he was eager to display instead of trying to keep busy with inconsequential matters.

"My dear, dear Erienne..."

His wakening passion made his voice more forceful than he intended, and the suddenness and volume of his address made Erienne start. The cup and saucer she was placing on the sideboard rattled in her fingers, almost falling to the floor. Nervously she set them down and, clasping her still trembling hands together, faced him.

Nigel Talbot was a wise man beyond the impetuous years of youth. He retreated and tried again, this time more cordially. "My apologies, Erienne. I did not mean to startle you. 'Tis just that it comes to me that I have never really looked at you before." As he spoke, he closed the distance to her. "Never really seen your beauty."

He laid a long, slim, well-manicured hand upon her lower arm, and Erienne found no retreat with the sideboard to her back.

"Why, my dear, you're trembling." He looked down in the wide, frightened eyes and smiled tenderly. "Poor Erienne. Do not be afraid, my dear. I would not harm you for the world. Indeed, 'tis my fondest wish that we should come to know each other . . . much . . . much better." His fingers lightly squeezed her arm in gentle reassurance.

Suddenly a loud curse from the upper floor interrupted, and an uneven thumping and pounding was heard on the stairs. Lord Talbot stepped away from Erienne just as Farrell came stumbling past the open doorway. He almost went to his knees but managed to teeter to a halt. His eyes rolled several times past comprehensive vision as he straightened. He had managed to don a shirt, which now hung open to the waist. The breeches were loose almost to the point of embarrassment, and his stockinged toes curled away from the cold boards of the floor. When he managed to focus on the occupants of the parlor, his jaw dropped in surprise.

"Lor! Lord Talbot!" He rubbed his good hand against his temple as if to still a pounding there and raked his fingers through his tumbled mop of hair. "Yer lordship..." The "p" was oddly stressed. He mumbled an unsure apology and began to fumble with the buttons of his breeches. "I didn' know you were here..."

Lord Talbot struggled to appear an understanding guest. A slight tic at the corner of his moustache was the only betrayal of his true feelings. "I trust you are feeling well, Farrell."

The young man licked his lips as if an abiding dryness burned his mouth, and he grasped his shirt together over his sagging breeches when he caught Erienne's glare. "I just came down for a drink..." He cleared his throat as her eyes narrowed warningly and added, "of water." He saw the steaming pot in the fireplace. "Or maybe some tea."

He was gaining some degree of control and knew full well the duties of a host. "Erienne," he assumed an instructive tone, "would you be so kind as to pour us some tea? I'm sure Lord Talbot has been dying of thirst." His own thick swallow added his unspoken endorsement to the statement. He started to clear his throat but ended in a hacking cough. "A man needs a good warm brew to clear his gullet on a cold morning."

For once the sister was grateful for her brother's presence. "Farrell," Erienne said, smiling sweetly as she obeyed, " 'tis well past the noon hour."

Lord Talbot's irritation with Farrell was supreme, but he could hardly order the young man from the room so he could feast his eyes on the sister. It was obvious the brother intended to stay and impress his guest with his manners, but knowing the limits of his temper, Lord Talbot decided a tactful retreat at the present moment would be wise. After all, he had a great deal of thinking to do about the mayor's daughter before he launched into any positive action.

"I shan't be staying for tea," he announced, his voice curt and agitated. "My daughter will no doubt be wondering what is keeping me. Since I must leave for London in the morning, I will see your father when I return. I'm sure the matter will keep."

Chapter Three

FODDER would be anything but plentiful in the approaching months of winter, thus herds and flocks of sheep, pigs, geese, and the like began to flow into the cities and hamlets, where they would be sold at markets or fairs. Drovers prodded the animals onward, while dust roiled up in clouds around them. Though on a considerably lesser scale, the sight was as familiar in Mawbry as it was in York or London, for only a fool ignored the need for storing provender for the frigid weather ahead.

Erienne sought to bolster the family larder with the purchase of a small pig, the best her meager coins would buy. She could not bring herself to slaughter it, but she scratched out a few more shillings for the wandering pigsticker. The evening before he came, Avery grumpily declared the preparation of food to be woman's work and, fearful that his lot might fall to labor, took himself and Farrell off to Wirkinton for a day of "meetings," as Avery put it.

The busy butcher arrived with the dawn, and Erienne fled into the house until he had accomplished his work. She had readied the hot grains to make black pudding, but since it was not one of her favorite dishes, it was a laborious task requiring a stern stomach. She found stripping the intestine for sausage casings no less trying. Long slabs and larger portions of meat were packed in a barrel with layers of salt while she continued to cut away the fat from other pieces. Once the meat was trimmed, it was weighted down in the barrel with a stone, and the whole filled to the brim with a salty brine for the curing.

Behind the cottage in an open-sided hut used for like purposes, she built a fire, hung a kettle, and began trying down the fat for lard. The tiny bits of meat that clung to the chunks of fat floated to the top and had to be skimmed off, lest a scum form with them and spoil the lard. But when cooled on a cloth, the cracklings provided a tasty, crunchy tidbit to chew.

The hound from the neighboring cottage eyed her wistfully and, when her back was turned, wiggled under the fence and boldly approached. Flopping down close by, he raised his wet nose high in the air to sample the wafting aroma and then lowered his massive head until it rested forlornly on his paws. His brows twitched as his eyes followed her every movement. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, he'd sneak forward and grab a scrap in his large jowls, then take off like a shot when she ran after him with a broom, threatening to fetch the pigsticker after him. Undoubtedly he was not intimidated by her warning, for soon he came lumbering back to a spot where he could watch her again and sniff the tantalizing odors.

The air was crisp, but Erienne hardly felt its chill as she worked. Indeed, she had rolled up the sleeves of her faded dress, and with only a light chemise beneath her gown, she gave welcome to the cool breezes that now and then stirred the curling tendrils of hair escaping from beneath her kerchief. She was in a frenzy to have the task done before nightfall, and she wanted nothing to distract her or set her from her purpose. Intent on her labors and with watching the sizzling fat and the encroaching dog, she failed to notice that in the shadows near the corner of the house a man had come to stand and observe.

Christopher Seton's eyes passed over the shapely figure with warm admiration. The light breezes teased the dark curls, and she paused to tuck the stray wisps beneath her kerchief. Her arms reached forward as she turned away to another chore, and for a moment the bodice of her gown stretched tight across the slim back, reassuring him of the fact that the waist was naturally narrow and had no need to be shaped by the tight cinching of stays. In his far-reaching travels he had seen his share of women and been most selective of those he had chosen to sample. His experience could not truthfully be termed lacking, yet it was hard in his mind that this delectable bit whom he scrutinized so carefully far exceeded anything he could call to mind, whether here or halfway across an ocean or two.

In the past three years he had taken his four ships to the far eastern shores, sounding out fresh ports and seeking goods to trade. He had become much a man of the sea and ofttimes had been confined to a ship for long periods while under sail. Since arriving in England other matters had commanded his attention, and he had casually abstained from taking up a relationship until he met a companion worthy to be considered. Thus he was not unstirred by what he saw before him. There was a graceful naivete about Erienne Fleming that totally intrigued him, and he thought he would greatly enjoy instructing her in the ways of love and lovers.

Erienne reached to thrust a log into the fire and caught sight of the dog sneaking toward the raw fat that had been piled on a nearby table. Shouting a warning, she came upright with the stick in her hand and, as the dog skittered off toward the hole in the fence, turned to throw it after him. Doing so, she finally caught sight of the tall, nattily garbed onlooker, and the shock that went through her made her catch her breath. She stared at him as if stunned, distressed that he should be a witness to her undignified actions and dowdy appearance when he looked so dapper in royal blue coat and gray breeches and waistcoat. As if through a haze it came to her that she should be angry at his intrusion, but before that urging took some direction, the man stepped across the low fence and came toward her in long, hasty strides. Her eyes flew open in fear, and a scream built slowly in her breast. Though she knew she was about to be cruelly ravished, her legs seemed numbed and her feet firmly rooted to the spot where she stood.

Then he was there before her, but instead of crushing her to earth, he bent aside and snatched the hem of her skirt from the blazing hearth. With quick swipes of his hat, he slashed the flames out, then lifting the smoldering cloth, rubbed it together until no wisp of smoke strayed forth. As she stared at him, he straightened and held up a handful of charred hem for her inspection.

"I believe, my dear Erienne," he began solicitously, the humor in his voice disguised by a disapproving frown, "that you either have a penchant for self-destruction... or you are somehow testing me... or my ability to protect you. I think this may bear further investigation."

It dawned on Erienne, as his gaze dropped, that he was far more interested in the considerable length of leg the raised skirt exposed. Catching the garment free of his grasp, she cast a sidelong glare at the man and moved a step away from him, then eyed him quizzically as he set aside his hat and removed his coat to lay it across a plank. The hearth radiated a fair amount of heat, warranting the shedding of the garment, but for a man who had been banned from the cottage, Christopher Seton seemed quite at ease.

"I suppose I must thank you for what you did," Erienne reluctantly conceded, "but if you hadn't been standing there, this would never have happened."

His brows gathered in a lopsided query while a smile touched his lips. "My apologies. I didn't mean to startle you."

"What were you doing spying on me?" she asked bluntly as she flounced down on a bench to inspect her charred skirts.

The lean, hard muscles of his thighs flexed beneath the tight-fitting breeches as he half sat, half leaned on a high stool nearby. "I grew bored with viewing the ladies who meander about the markets, and I came to see if the sights were better here at the mayor's cottage." The corners of his lips twitched with amusement, and his eyes gleamed into hers as he added, "I am happy to report, they are!"

Erienne got to her feet in a huff. "Have you nothing better to do than go about ogling the women?"

"I suppose I could find something else to occupy me," he replied easily, "but I can't think of anything that's nearly as enjoyable, except, of course, being in a lady's company."

"Besides the fact that you're a scoundrel at the gaming tables," she responded tartly, "I'm beginning to suspect that you're a womanizing rake."

Christopher grinned leisurely as his perusal swept her. "I've been a long time at sea. However, I doubt that in your case my reaction would vary had I just left the London Court."

Erienne's eyes flared with poorly suppressed ire. The insufferable egotist! Did he dare think he could find a willing wench at the back door of the mayor's cottage? "I'm sure that Claudia Talbot would welcome your company, sir. Why don't you ride on over to see her? I hear his lordship traveled off to London this morning."