A Wish For Nicholas

Chapter Three

The following morning was hot, with no promise of a breeze to cool the coming swelter. Nick stood up from hoeing and wiped the beads of moisture from his forehead. Across the meadow, he noticed Becky on the sorrel mare, galloping along the hedgerow.

He’d hoped she’d ride out to check if he’d shown up for work. He’d enjoy seeing her again, if only to observe if the dark shards in her lovely eyes were as violet as he remembered.

Damn, what the hell did he care what color her eyes were! He’d best find out as much information as he could from Geer before Becky discovered that he wasn’t Ben Twaddle.

But he’d like to see her again, because she was nothing like any other women he’d known. His fascination was only business, he decided, pushing back a rush of unwelcome arousal. She knew the answers to the questions about the estate that he needed to know.

Nick watched as Becky and the mare vaulted gracefully over a stone fence. She controlled the sorrel with the same mastery of skill that she had shown yesterday with the bull.

After a few moments, Nick grasped the hoe and was bending over the next row of turnips when a voice called out to him.

“‘ey, Twaddle.” Geer came up behind him with a water pail and tin cup. The old man squinted at the long, neat row of dark green leaves Nick had finished hoeing. “This ain’t a race, lad.” His wrinkled face creased when he smiled. “Save some of that muscle for this afternoon’s toil.”

Nick took the offered drink of water and drained the cup. Geer’s smile faded. “Noticed yer limp. ’ow’d ye hurt the leg?”

“Nothing serious.” Nick hoped to deter the man’s curiosity. If Geer were to see the red zigzag pattern of scars along the length of his thigh and calf, he would pry all the more.

“Put yer hoe down, Twaddle. I’ve a better chore fer yer strong muscles.”

Nick hesitated while Becky brought the mare to a sharp halt in front of them.

“How’s the work going?” Her gaze was fixed on Geer, but Nick could tell that she was aware of him by the faint flush that rose from her neck to her cheeks.

“We’ve got an able worker, here, Mistress Becky.” Geer said. “Ben hoes twice as fast as the regulars.”

A tinge of surprise flitted across her face.

Taking advantage of her refusal to glance his way, Nick drank in the sight of her. Her eyes were truly as violet as he had remembered. Her plain blue gown contrasted brilliantly against the riot of cascading black curls that fell unbound across her shoulders. In her unadorned dress, she appeared more lovely than any of the overadorned women he’d seen recently at court. Her rounded bosom lifted and fell as she caught her breath. He tried to imagine what the dark cleft between the soft mounds would look like—

“Twaddle! Get in the wagon,” Geer ordered. Then he glanced up at Becky. “I’m takin’ Ben to where the crew’s fixin’ the crumblin’ rock wall. No need wastin’ his strong back on weedin’ when those rocks need movin’.”

“Just see that Twaddle keeps out of trouble.” Becky wheeled the mare around and took off across the field, her black hair whipping behind her straw hat.

“Mistress Becky isn’t ’erself of late,” Geer said as he trudged beside Nick toward the wagon. “Her mind is full o’ troubles.”

“Because Sinclair is arriving to take ownership of the estate?” Nick asked uneasily.

“That bugger!” Geer sputtered the words. “What kind o’ man takes away a poor widow’s livelihood?”

Nick’s interest grew. “What are her plans when she leaves here?” He curbed his step to the older man’s slower gait.

“Our Becky won’t leave without a fight.” Admiration, pride and loyalty filtered through Geer’s words. “It’s Sinclair who’ll be runnin’ with his tail ’tween his legs before our Becky is through with ’im. Just wait an’ see.”

Nick’s curiosity edged up several notches. “How will she manage that?”

Geer shot him a silencing look. Nick knew that he’d have to be more tactful if he wanted further information from Geer.

“It must be hard for a woman to manage alone,” Nick said into the growing silence.

“Keane oversees the manor for ’er, ’though I’m not sure how much of a help ’e is.” Geer wiped the beads of sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve.

“Keane?” Nick didn’t recognize the name.

“Ye remember Keane, surely.” Geer squinted at him. “Some say he’s Ol’ Winky’s son, born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

“Ol’ Winky?” Nick asked carefully. Although he remembered Becky saying that Ben Twaddle had left Thornwood Hall when he was nine years old, Nick didn’t want to alert Geer by asking questions about things that Twaddle should have known.

“You remember Ol’ Winky.” Geer crinkled his brow as though Nick should have remembered. “General Forester, God rest ’is soul.” Geer shook his head. “Ol’ Winky never admitted if Keane was from his own seed or not. Don’t rightly blame him none.”

Nick was more interested in Becky Forester. “Why hasn’t the widow remarried?”

Geer chuckled. “No man’s good enough, I’d say.”

A few minutes later, they arrived at the horse-drawn farm wagon. Climbing next to Geer on the driver’s bench, Nick asked offhandedly, “Does the estate make much profit?”

Geer only grunted. His mouth remained as tight as his grip on the leather reins. Nick knew better than to ask any more.

The wagon creaked and wobbled as they traveled along the back fields where wheat and corn grew tall and green. Nick wondered about the spindly crops growing beside the lane he’d first seen on his way to the manor. Had the untended fields, unkempt hedgerows and fallingdown fences been neglected for a reason? Had someone purposely wanted Thornwood Hall to look unproductive? And if so, who and why? The first things he’d insist upon reviewing were the account ledgers. But another thought bothered him.

It’s Sinclair who’ll be runnin’ with his tail ’tween his legs before our Becky is through with ’im.

Something in the way Geer had said those words. Nick sensed that the lovely Becky had a plan to rid him of Thornwood Hall. Damn, he could feel it.

Ten minutes later, the wagon rumbled to a stop in front of a crofter’s shack. A tall, wiry man stood overseeing a group of men loading stones on a skid. Nick recognized him as the same man who had tried to lead the bull from the pasture yesterday.

“That’s Keane, the overseer,” Geer said. Before they had stepped from the cart, the man approached them.

“Who’s this?” Keane asked.

“Twaddle, Molly’s son,” Geer answered. “I thought he’d be best used to load stones for the cutter.”

“Yer not paid to think, Geer.” Keane’s attention remained fixed on Nick.

“Ye look nothin’ like yer mum.” Keane’s mouth twitched, then his face lit with an idea. “Twaddle, stay in the wagon. I’ve got just the chore fer that strong back of yers.”

Geer’s mouth drew tight. “But Mistress Becky says—”

“Git back to the fields, Geer, before I take me whip to ye.”

Nick had all he could do not to put an end to this charade and call this clodpoll out. He hated bullies and never tolerated such behavior aboard ship. He decided to wait and see what Keane had in mind.

Geer climbed out of the cart and lumbered back toward the fields. Keane said nothing as he climbed into the wagon and picked up the reins.

For the next ten minutes, the men didn’t speak until they reached the other side of the crest.

“Let’s see what yer muscles can do with Tumbledown Dick,” Keane muttered as he climbed from the wagon.

Nick glanced at him with curiosity. “Tumbledown Dick? Who’s he?”

Keane sneered. “Mistress Becky’s pet bull.” He rolled his eyes. “She’s mighty fond of that animal.” He spit on the ground.

Nick said nothing for several minutes, then he asked, “What are your plans after Sinclair arrives, Keane?”

Keane’s mouth dropped open, then he shot him a sharp look. “Ye know a lot for only bein’ back a few days, Twaddle. Who filled yer noggin about Sinclair?”

Nick knew he had said too much. “My mum, who else?”

Keane snorted. “From what I ’ear from Lily at the Seven Swans, ye ’aven’t been ’ome enough to hear much from Molly.” Keane lifted a black brow and grinned knowingly.

Nick decided to press the subject. “So what will you do when Sinclair takes over?” Nick asked, climbing down from the wagon.

“I’d worry about yerself, Twaddle.” Keane ambled toward a grove of sycamore trees. “I want ye to bring Tumbledown Dick back to where Geer and the lads are filling the skid.”

Nick glanced around. “I don’t see—”

Suddenly, a piercing snort shattered the stillness. The enormous black bull Nick had seen yesterday lay in the shade of the tree’s umbrella of leaves. The bull’s eyes bulged as he glared at them.

Nick swallowed. “That’s Tumbledown Dick?”

“Aye, ’e is.” Keane smiled at Nick’s apprehension. “Ye’ll find the way back by the wagon’s tracks in the weeds,” he added, barely keeping a straight face. “And don’t be long, Twaddle. The lads will have the skid filled with stones within the hour.”

Keane flipped the reins, and the horse lunged forward. The wagon wheeled around in a tight arc toward the direction from which it came.

Nick glanced back at the bull. Tumbledown Dick tossed his head and snorted. Noticing the sharp horns, Nick swallowed hard.

Keane’s dark laughter echoed across the meadow as the creaky wagon disappeared behind the rise.

* * *

The sun had barely reached the ten o’clock position in the morning sky when a black-lacquered coach rumbled up the weedy lawn of Thornwood Hall. Chickens, pecking crickets from the grass, flew in the air, cackling in annoyance.

From the study, Becky glanced up from her account books to peek through the lace-curtained window. “Pox and calamity! It’s Willoughby.” She turned to her cousin Sally. “Quickly, help me hide these books—”

“It’s not Willoughby, it’s his wife, Hazel,” interrupted Sally, who stood beside Becky at the window.

“Saints! What does Hazel want now?” Becky watched as the liveried footman helped a short, stylishly dressed woman from the vehicle.

“She must want it pretty much to fussy herself up in this heat.” Sally wiped a bead of sweat from her brow. “Well, we’ll soon find out. She’s practically running to the front door.”

Becky glanced back at the pile of gold coins from the sale of furniture Keane had taken to market. “Show Hazel into the withdrawing room, Sally. I don’t want her to see what I’m doing.” Becky yanked the floral scarf from the back of the sofa and covered the desk with it. The coins and ledgers were safely hidden from view.

Satisfied, Becky straightened her gown, patted a few wisps of hair from her face and strode into the withdrawing room as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

“Hazel, what a lovely surprise.” Becky greeted the older woman with a dazzling smile. If Hazel had come to see how Becky was enduring the loss of Thornwood Hall, she’d be damned if she’d show her.

Sally hovered uncomfortably, unsure whether to stay or leave. “I’ll bring a tray—”

“Oh, stay, Sally, and hear my plans, too.” Hazel began most sentences with “oh” as if it gave importance to everything she said. Becky also thought it made her face look like a trout’s.

“Oh, wait until you hear about the social!” Hazel fluttered her hands in her lap.

“Social?” Becky hoped to get rid of her so she could finish posting the accounts. “For what occasion?”

Hazel’s pink cheeks flushed with heat and excitement. She pulled out her beaded fan and waved it dramatically. “First, please tell Molly Twaddle how sorry we are for what happened to her son.”

“Her son?” Becky felt a prickly sense of unease. “Ben Twaddle? What happened to him?”

“Oh, an unfortunate accident last night” Her round mouth pinched in sympathy. “Ben was running through our gaming fields and fell into the ravine. His howling woke the gamekeeper’s dogs, who woke the gamekeeper, who woke Mr. Willoughby.” She rolled her eyes. “Imagine a grown man bolting through the fields in the dark of night, jabbering on about being chased by the devil.” She closed her eyes dramatically. “Poor dear Molly. What is she to do with a son like that?”

Becky and Sally exchanged glances.

Hazel shook her head. “Thought his back was broken, for sure.”

Becky listened skeptically. “Was he deep in his cups?”

Hazel shook her head. “Stone sober.” She made a face. “Oh, Ben Twaddle’s a rascal, they say.” Hazel’s thin brows knitted together. “But he won’t be rustling the skirts at the Seven Swans for a while, from what Dr. Rivers said.”

“You sent for Dr. Rivers?” Sally asked.

“It was our Christian duty, dear. Twaddle was howling like he’d seen the devil.” Hazel whirled the fan in her lap. “The doctor said Twaddle should remain abed for a week or two. Then Mr. Willoughby ordered our lads to lift Twaddle into the wagon, and they drove him to Molly’s croft, this morning.”

The back of Becky’s neck prickled with alarm as she listened to Hazel’s tale. Something wasn’t right. She’d just left Ben Twaddle in the turnip fields, a little more than two hours ago. And from every indication Geer had given her, Twaddle had been hoeing since sunup.

But if Ben Twaddle was the lad found tripping through the Willoughby fields last night, then who was the man hoeing her turnips?

An ominous thought crossed Becky’s mind, and she almost gasped. “What did Ben Twaddle look like, Hazel?”

“Covered with dirt and twigs, it was hard to tell. But he had the Twaddle chin. Aye, he takes after Molly’s husband.”

For a moment, Becky couldn’t move as Hazel’s words sank in. Why hadn’t she realized it before?

“Becky, dear. What’s the matter?” Hazel leaned forward and fluttered the fan in Becky’s face. “You’re white as a cloud.”

“It’s the…heat,” Becky said, the terrible truth crashing around her with the weight of an anvil.

She should have known by his commanding presence. His skill with the blade as his sword whirred through the air, touching the ribbons at her bodice with chilling exactness. The muscular strength of his warrior build, the callused hands, the arrogant challenge in those gray eyes.

Sir Nicholas Sinclair!

She had aided him in his intrigue as easily as if she were his willing accomplice. Pox and calamity! She’d let the fox in the henhouse, now what was she to do?

Becky glanced at Hazel and Sally, who were both watching her with a worried frown. “I—I’m sorry, Hazel. I don’t know what came over me.” Becky took a fortifying breath and moved near the door.

“Thank your husband for me, and for your time, Hazel.” Becky opened the door, waiting for Hazel to take the hint. “I’ll see to Molly and Ben immediately.”

Hazel frowned. “But I haven’t had the chance to tell you of my social.”

Becky forced a smile, then reluctantly shut the door and took a seat beside Sally, who offered her a sympathetic look. Despite her best efforts, Becky couldn’t keep her mind on Hazel’s droning monologue.

Why had Sinclair tried to fool her into thinking that he was a common laborer?

“Dear Becky, I don’t think you’ve heard a word I’ve said.”

Becky sat up with a start “Of course I have, Hazel. You were talking about your social.” Becky’s lips froze into a smile.

“Aye, for Sir Nicholas Sinclair, of course.”

“Sinclair?” Becky strangled a whisper. “Do I understand that you’re planning a social to welcome that—”

“Oh, I know it wouldn’t be appropriate, under the circumstances—” Hazel’s voice lowered “—for you to do it. Besides, your lack of furniture and…” She glanced around the cavernous room, frowning at the few chairs and sofa.

Becky stood, her hands flew to her waist. “I can’t believe you’d give a social for that…that stuffin’bob who is removing me and my family from our home at the end of the month.”

Hazel stiffened. “Oh, my dear. We must remember that Sir Nicholas Sinclair is a wounded war hero. He distinguished himself at the battle on St. James Day, defending our country against those barbarous Dutch.” She lifted her chin. “Mr. Willoughby says Sinclair is the talk of London.”

“Humph!” Becky paced to the window and stared at the overgrown driveway. What would Hazel think of the war hero if she knew Sinclair as Becky did? Her cheeks flamed with the memory of his mouth taking hers and the riffle of feminine pleasure it had given her.

If only Hazel would leave. She tapped her foot as she gazed out the window. Afternoon sunshine glimmered off the Willoughby coach, while four perfectly matched, high-spirited black horses snorted impatiently. From the rear of the coach stepped Becky’s eight-year-old sister, Aphra, and three-year-old brother, Baby Harry. The children stood wide-eyed, as they watched the magnificent coach and four.

Just then, the red-and-gold-liveried footman made a face at the children and shooed them away. Aphra scurried off with her younger brother in tow.

Becky bristled at the footman’s snub. What did Hazel know of defending oneself against snobbery? Easy to talk when one is born to wealth and security.

“Oh, besides,” Hazel went on, her hands fluttering like a startled wren, “Thornwood Hall is much too much work for you, Becky. My dear, you’re not getting any younger. You should marry again, not worry over those crofters.” She made a face as if she smelled something rank.

Sally’s head bobbed from Hazel to Becky, her blue-eyed gaze finally resting on her cousin, waiting for her defense.

“Those crofters,” Becky said, her voice even despite the emotion she felt, “are my family, in case you’ve forgotten, Hazel. My parents were crofters, and their parents, as far back as the time of King Harry. If I hadn’t married Ol’ Winky, I’d still be grubbing in the soil, paying my rents to the master of Thornwood Hall.”

Hazel’s face blanched. “Oh, Becky. Oh, Becky, I meant no disrespect, dear.”

Becky sighed, immediately sorry for her outburst. She rubbed her temples. “Aye, it’s I who am sorry, Hazel. This heat has me out of sorts.” She smiled. “If you and your husband want to welcome the man who’s tossing me out, I can’t stop you. But don’t expect me or my family to attend or to be festive about it.”

Hazel’s green eyes rounded. “Oh, I daresay I’m shocked by your words, Becky. Your dear mother and father, God rest their souls, would expect you to leave here with your pride.”

“Aye, but not throw rose petals in Sinclair’s path when he comes to throw me out.” Becky turned and glanced out the window. Thornwood Hall stretched as far as the eye could see. She had put her heart and soul into the land since her marriage to Ol’ Winky, and she wouldn’t give it up without a fight.

“I’m sorry, Hazel. You’ll have your celebration without us.”

“Oh, Becky, it’s not a celebration. It’s our Christian duty to welcome a new neighbor. Mr. Willoughby says Sinclair is a war hero, rewarded by the king with a title and an estate.”

“My estate,” Becky shot back.

Hazel’s eyes widened, and she drew back, her fan clucking like an angry hen.

Becky regretted her outburst at once. What Hazel said was undeniably true, but when she thought of that gray-eyed Sinclair kissing her as bold as sin…

“Oh, I think having Sir Nicholas Sinclair assume the affairs of Thornwood Hall is divine intervention,” Hazel said.

So that was it, Becky thought, finally realizing what was behind the Willoughbys’ support of Sinclair. They wanted to toady up to Sinclair in order to retain the free use of the water rights that Becky had allowed her neighbor, as Ol’ Winky had done.

Becky felt the threads of her best-laid plan begin to unravel. Fear, revitalized by the threat of loss, rushed at her. She gripped her hands together. She had hoped for Willoughby’s support against Sinclair.

Becky whirled back toward Hazel. “When will this affair take place, Hazel?” Her voice was so sweet, Sally glanced at her with a suspicious look.

“Oh, in two weeks. I’ve just now posted the invitations. Sir Nicholas Sinclair will be staying with us until…” Her voice dropped, as though she wished she hadn’t divulged the fact that they had obviously offered Sinclair their hospitality until he took over Thornwood Hall.

Hazel rose to her feet, averting her gaze.

“Until Sinclair takes over Thornwood Hall,” Becky finished for her.

“Oh, Becky, I wish there was something I could do.” Hazel’s mouth sagged with frustration.

Becky sighed. More than likely, the party was her husband’s idea, and poor Hazel was only playing her required part. She moved beside Hazel as they crossed the room and paused at the door. “I understand your need to do your Christian duty, Hazel. Truly, I do.”

Appreciation lit Hazel’s round face. “Do give it thought, dear. With the proper attitude, Sir Nicholas might make you an offer of compassion.”

Pity was more like it. But Becky bit back the scathing reply. Suddenly, she thought of the ghost of Ol’ Winky. What a perfect time for the spirit of the general to appear. Besides frightening off the prospective buyers, Ol’ Winky’s ghost would terrorize most of the guests, and the news of the haunted estate would spread through the shire like a grass fire.

“I’ll not need time to think about my duty. You’re absolutely right, Hazel. It’s my Christian obligation to meet my enemy with forgiveness. After all, I’m General Forester’s widow.”

Sally shot Becky a look brimming with questions, but thankfully kept them to herself.

Hazel’s face froze with surprise. Becky could only imagine how Hazel would try to explain to her husband this evening that she’d persuaded Becky to accept their invitation.

Becky forced a dazzling smile as she escorted Hazel to the waiting coach. “Thank you for inviting us.”

After the footman had helped Hazel into the coach, and the rumbling vehicle clacked down the drive, Becky buckled her sword’s belt to her chest and grabbed her bonnet.

“Where are you dashing off to, Becky?” Sally asked.

“I’m off to see Ben Twaddle,” Becky tossed over her shoulder. “Both of them!”

Chapter Four

Nick glanced around for a place to run in case the enormous, black bull suddenly charged. He noticed several sycamore trees that might provide a few stout limbs if he needed an immediate haven. Damn Keane, he thought. He’d deal with that bounder when—

The beast bellowed, charging to his feet. For a moment that felt as though time stood still, Nick froze, not wanting to show fear as he stared at the bull. Eyeing the nearby arm of the tree, Nick held his ground, waiting for Tumbledown Dick to charge.

Neither man nor beast moved. The bull stared—not with anger, Nick decided after a few minutes, but with curiosity. The huge brown eyes were as soft as a spaniel’s; the thick fan of eyelashes brushed his black curly cheeks when he blinked. Finally when Tumbledown Dick swung his massive head in the air, he swiped at a clump of daisies nearby, chomping a mouthful.

Nick’s experiences with bulls were the few times cattle had been freighted as cargo aboard ship. Although this bull was enormous and sported a deadly pair of horns, Nick remembered the scene in the pasture yesterday. He doubted Keane would have browbeaten the animal before Becky came roaring in to stop him if the bull possessed an ornery disposition.

Nick took several strides toward the beast, whose watchful eyes remained fixed on him. A rope dangled from the ring in his nose, and Nick decided that if a slip of a woman like Becky Forester could bring the beast to heel, then damned if he wouldn’t do the same.