“You have visitors.” Tony couldn’t believe his luck. Whoever was out there better have a damn good reason for interrupting.
The door knocker sounded, three loud raps, and Sylvia hurried to answer, Tony at her heels with a candle.
“So sorry to intrude, my lady,” Hayden said, shivering on the doorstep. At least a dozen adults and children were huddled behind him in the rain. “Lightning struck the old oak on High Street, and it smashed two cottages. Wind ripped the roofs clean off three others. The Happy Jack and the church are already packed to the rafters. We’ve nowhere else to go.”
S
ylvia stepped back, gesturing. “Come in, all of you. We’ll find room.”
Tony lit the wall sconces as people streamed into the hall, filling the space with bodies and the scent of mud and rain blowing in after them.
Hayden’s wife, Mildred, entered, her arm around their fifteen-year-old daughter, Betsy. “So sorry I haven’t been able to come help with the cleaning yet this week, my lady.” Betsy sniffed back tears.
Sylvia patted the girl’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. You can help later.”
Betsy started to move forward, but grabbed her mother’s shawl. “Look, mum, there he is!” she said in a hoarse whisper. “You didn’t tell me he was handsome. How could you threaten to cut off his ballocks?”
Blushing furiously, Mrs. Hayden bent to whisper in her daughter’s ear, pushing her forward, as Sylvia choked back a laugh. Busy with the sconces, Tony either didn’t hear or pretended not to. A moment later, though, she caught his glance. He betrayed no emotion, just raised one eyebrow a bit, his chin lowered, as he stared at her for several heartbeats.
Mr. Hayden herded his twin boys in just then, who ran along the hall, shouting for “Lord Monty.”
Jimmy had finally awakened and come to investigate the noise. Grabbing one boy under each arm, he swung them up until they squealed. “Hullo, what’s this?”
Hayden explained as Sylvia ushered in Mrs. Doyle, arms full of squalling baby, with three more children clinging to her skirts. Doyle was helping Mrs. Pitsnoggle negotiate the steps. The widow had stayed with them since her own cottage had been damaged in a storm last winter. Behind them was Baxter, helping his aunt, Mrs. Miggins, shake out and fold her pink parasol.
“Lord have mercy!”
Sylvia shut the door in time to hear Galen’s exclamation. The housekeeper stood by the stairs in her wrapper, Gerald behind her, white tufts of hair sticking out from beneath his nightcap.
Yes, indeed. However were they to deal with all this? Children were crying, Jimmy had the Hayden twins shrieking with laughter, and the colicky baby paused her screaming only long enough to inhale another breath. The adults were talking among themselves, discussing the storm, the damage, and whatever were they to do now?
Well, they couldn’t stay in the hall all night. Sylvia clapped her hands. “May I have your attention, please?” No one seemed to hear. She drew breath to shout again, when Tony pierced the air with a two-fingered whistle.
“Lady Montgomery has something to say,” he said into the sudden silence.
All eyes turned to her. She gave him a nod of thanks. “Betsy, you know where the towels and blankets are—let’s get everyone dried off. Galen, please find something to warm everyone from the inside. Gerald, the fire in the rose salon has burned down. Everyone, that’s the warmest room at the moment.” She gestured for them to go into the salon.
Mrs. Hayden went to help Galen in the kitchen, Betsy darted up the stairs, and everyone else headed into the salon. Sylvia helped Mrs. Pitsnoggle hang up her wet cloak and escorted her to a sofa near the fire. The same sofa where Sylvia had been snuggled up within Tony’s arms, just minutes ago. Warmth spread from her chest down to her toes. In the circle of his embrace, she’d felt safe and secure, and wanted. Tony made her feel wanted, desired, in a way Hubert never had.
But it was only for the moment. Soon he’d be moving on, to another town, another woman.
Bemoaning that fact would accomplish nothing. She wouldn’t waste her energy on things she had no control over. Once Mrs. Pitsnoggle was settled, Sylvia checked to see what else needed to be done, and smiled at the sight of Mrs. Doyle comforting her two toddlers. She glanced around, looking for the baby who had finally—thank heavens—stopped crying.
Tony was pacing before the doorway, the baby balanced on his hip. She was trying to poke her tiny fingers into his mouth while he talked to her. He returned the favor, tapping her bottom lip with his index finger, and they settled a truce with her fists clutching his fingers.
Sylvia’s heart constricted. She found herself blinking back a tear, and quickly wiped it away so she wouldn’t miss a gesture, a single change of expression. She could have watched all night, until Mrs. Pitsnoggle intruded on her thoughts. “Damn fine man you snagged yourself.”
She cleared her throat. “He’s only here temporarily, to help us out.”
Mrs. Pitsnoggle snorted.
Betsy took the infant from Tony, and he began talking with Baxter, Hayden, and Doyle.
Soon, the hall was filled with dripping garments hung up to dry, everyone had something hot to eat or drink, and children began nodding off on their parents’ laps. Sylvia’s eyes were gritty with fatigue. Time to get everyone settled for what was left of the night.
Most of the extra beds were gone, sold off long ago, and the bedchambers were uninhabitable, anyway. Last winter, Monroe’s family had simply slept on pallets in here until their roof was fixed. But the salon wasn’t big enough to hold all the refugees from this storm.
Betsy could stay with her, and the Hayden twins would be overjoyed to sleep on the valet’s unused cot in Jimmy’s room. But everyone else?
Her gaze swept the room. Tony stood just inside the door again, talking with Doyle, this time…oh, dear heaven, this time with his packed haversack slung over one shoulder.
Sylvia staggered back a step, her heart pounding. No, he couldn’t. Not yet.
Doyle slapped Tony on the back and went to whisper in his wife’s ear.
Sylvia walked over to Tony on leaden feet. “Aren’t—” She cleared her throat, tried again. “Aren’t you at least going to wait until the storm lets up? I mean, I know all this isn’t what you bargained for, but—”
Tony cupped her cheek with his uninjured hand. “Sweetheart, I’m not going anywhere. I promised I’d stay and help you deal with Ruford. Sinclair men always keep their word.”
Too choked up to speak, she pointed to his haversack.
He tossed it to the floor, over by the door. “That’s an awfully big bed in the master’s chamber. Doyle has a big family. I thought it made sense for me to bunk down here, and let them sleep up there.”
She started breathing again.
He leaned forward and dropped a kiss on her cheek. “Still my second choice for sleeping arrangements, however,” he whispered. “We have unfinished business, you and I.” He stepped aside, guiding Sylvia to do the same, as the Doyles walked past, carrying their sleeping children.
“Thank you, Mr. Sinclair,” Mrs. Doyle said.
“My pleasure, madam.”
Mrs. Miggins came back into the room with an armful of blankets. Tony jumped as she passed close by. “Marge!” he said sternly. “I thought we had an agreement.”
“
You
had an agreement, laddie.
I
got me a handful.” She snickered and made pinching motions with her thumb and forefinger. She dropped her burden, and she and Mrs. Pitsnoggle made their beds for the night, each taking a sofa.
Sylvia tried not to laugh. She was so tired and her emotions so raw at this point, she feared if she started, she might not be able to stop. She could offer to rub Tony’s abused flesh, but the rogue would probably say yes.
Hayden and his wife had bedded down on a pallet near the fire. Jimmy took the twins upstairs, and Betsy leaned against the doorjamb, yawning. Baxter had pulled chairs together, propped his stocking feet up, and was already fast asleep.
As Sylvia turned to go, Tony dropped another kiss on her cheek. “Sweet dreams, sweetheart.” He pulled the cushions from several chairs, lined them up on the floor, and lay down with a sigh.
Sylvia blew out the last candle, caught Betsy by the elbow, and tugged her up the stairs. At least now she wouldn’t have to worry about resisting Tony’s advances. With this many chaperones, he wouldn’t be able to do much. Her equilibrium was safe.
By the time Galen shook Sylvia awake the next morning, the men had all left, including Jimmy and Tony, to inspect the storm damage and begin repairs. The kitchen was chaotic, as Mrs. Doyle and Mrs. Hayden disagreed on the food to be prepared. Galen had abandoned them in favor of tackling the mud and dirt tracked in last night, and overseeing Betsy with the overwhelming laundry. Mrs. Pitsnoggle and Mrs. Miggins were left to deal with the children, who were running rampant through the halls. At least the tonic had finally worked, and baby Claire had ceased her constant crying.
Sylvia went down to the barns to check on Farleigh and the other dairy workers. Everyone, including the cows, had been safe inside during the storm. Only minor damage had been sustained, which included a new leak in the roof. At least it dripped over an empty stall, and not into the feed or workroom. She might tackle that repair herself, before the leak got worse.
She spent the rest of the day in her stillroom, treating a near-constant flow of villagers with assorted injuries from the storm and its debris. Each told a different tale about the storm’s destruction, describing the damage to their homes and gardens.
If they’d just had a chance to finish repairs from the previous storm, it wouldn’t have been so bad. How many more families would give up, abandon the village, this time?
It was well past dark before the men dragged themselves to the doorstep, exhausted and filthy. Galen ordered them to wash up outside before she’d allow them indoors. Grumbling, they stripped to the waist and washed at the pump.
Sylvia lingered near the window, watching Tony sluice water over his naked torso, his sleek muscles glistening in the lamplight. He wasn’t as tall as Baxter, nor as brawny as Doyle, but his compact frame was perfectly proportioned, with a flat abdomen and deeply muscled chest that she longed to explore with her hands. She wanted to offer him a soapy washcloth, but only if she could run it over his skin herself. And with no one else around.
She winced. What had happened to her vow not to succumb?
Perhaps she could look—she just wouldn’t touch.
After everyone had a hot meal, Sylvia debated joining Mrs. Pitsnoggle and Mrs. Miggins in the salon, but they’d brought their mending out. Hayden and Doyle, each with their wife, lingered at the table across from Baxter, Jimmy, and Tony, discussing how best to repair the storm’s damage. She paid no heed to their conversation, was instead watching Tony, until she heard his name repeatedly brought up. He quietly acknowledged their thanks for his help, but didn’t preen, as she expected.
As they discussed implementing his ideas, she realized how much of an impact he was making on the village, how he was weaving himself into the fabric of their lives.
She wouldn’t be the only one to come unraveled when he left.
The next morning, Mrs. Doyle and Mrs. Hayden headed out with the men, to salvage belongings and food supplies from their homes. Good thing, since the week’s stores at the manor house were sadly depleted by the unexpected guests. Sylvia wondered if Tony had grumbled about having no sugar for his tea, or if it didn’t really matter, since today it was hardly more than hot water anyway.
She spent the day with Galen and the older children, clearing the storm debris on the estate grounds, stacking the broken branches for firewood. Thankfully, all of the new roof tiles appeared to have survived the storm.
When the men dragged in after dark, Sylvia brought out her bag in the dining room, and treated Baxter for a gash from broken glass, and Hayden for several cuts and scratches.
Jimmy sat down next, and pointed out a splinter in his thumb. “Next year we’re going to plant mangel-wurzels in the north field instead of wheat,” he announced.
Sylvia moved the candle closer, to better see the sliver. “Oh?”
“Tony says we’ll get better yields if we rotate which crop is planted in which field every year.”
“Tony says.” She adjusted her grip on the tweezers, and tried again. “How does he come by this knowledge? I didn’t know he was an estate manager.”
“While his brother was off fighting Napoleon, Tony was in charge for five years. Of course, he had stewards and managers working for him, but he was responsible for overseeing the estates.”
Estates, plural?
“Ow!”
“Got it.” Sylvia held the tweezers over the candle flame until the splinter sizzled out of existence.
Jimmy declined her offer of liniment, preferring to dab it on himself, and left to challenge Hayden to a game of checkers before they turned in.
Tony sat down, his hand on the table before her, palm up. “Afraid your bandage is a little worse for wear.”
She cut off the bandage and inspected the damage. His blisters were still red, but no sign of infection yet. And still sore, judging by his hiss as she cleaned his palm. “Jimmy says you ran your brother’s estates.”
“For a while. I seem to have a habit of stepping in temporarily.”
He flashed a smile, but all she could hear was the word “temporary.” As if she needed reminding. More reason to keep her vow.
She smoothed the ointment on, trying to be efficient and impersonal, but her gaze kept straying to the exposed
V
of flesh visible below the hollow of his throat. He’d changed into another of Hubert’s clean but too-large breeches and shirts, open at the neck. After seeing Tony shirtless at the pump, she knew about the planes and muscular curves hidden beneath his clothing. Her fingers itched to map them.
As she applied a fresh bandage, she couldn’t help admiring his long, strong fingers. Couldn’t help remembering how they had felt as he trailed them down her cheek, along her neckline, massaged her neck.
The band of gold on his left hand glinted in the candlelight. She touched the gold ring, reminding herself it was all part of the subterfuge, nothing more. Tony turned his hand over and curled his fingers around hers.
Startled, she met his gaze. She hadn’t thought about how he’d construe her action. They were alone in the dining room, alone for the first time in two days. She’d have to save her from herself, since there was no one around to do it for her.
She bent his fingers flat, pretending an examination had been her intent all along. She traced the softer skin in the middle of his palm, felt the calluses surrounding it. It was red, with hot spots where he’d soon have more blisters. New cuts and scratches adorned both hands. “If you keep abusing your hands like this—sawing, hammering, and whatnot all day—however do you expect them to heal?”