The Secret to Seduction (28 page)

Bloody hell. And here he’d thought he’d acquired a
quiet
wife. She was proving more capricious, in her way, than Sophia Licari could ever dream of being.

He’d been in London a mere fortnight, and now he was forced to return again. He turned to the messenger, fishing in his pockets for coins with which to pay him.

“Would you kindly bring a message to Signora Sophia Licari to tell her I will not be attending her performance this evening? I must away to La Montagne.”

He arrived at La Montagne by midday, a little later than he would have liked, but melting snow had played merry hell with the accessibility of the roads, turning some to pools of mud and forcing them to seek out different routes, or to occasionally get out of the carriage and walk.

He arrived disheveled, perspiring, muddy to the knee, and seething.

He rang for Mrs. Bailey immediately, and the stout, solemn woman greeted him with a curtsy.

“On the roofs, Mrs. Bailey?” he demanded without preamble.

The woman didn’t even blink. “The blizzard, sir. The countess discovered that the storm damaged some of the roofs in Buckstead Heath.”

“And so she climbed up
on
the . . .” It was too absurd a sentence to complete.

Rhys read no approval or disapproval in the housekeeper’s face. She was merely relaying information. “So I am told, Lord Rawden.”

He didn’t ask:
told by whom?
He knew how gossip spread in a town like Buckstead Heath.

“Is the countess in?”

“I’m afraid not, Lord Rawden.”

He drew in a breath. “Do you know,” he drawled, “where she
is
?”

Please, God, don’t say “on the roof.”

“I believe she went to see to the mill, Lord Rawden. The mill seems to have suffered some damage, too. The roofs in town have already been seen to.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

F
IFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Rhys had sponged his face, handed his boots over to be cleaned and pulled on fresh ones, changed his coat, retied his cravat, and mounted Gallegos bound for Buckstead Heath, in search of the mill.

Far be it from him to look like anything less than an earl, ever.

In a sense, Rhys knew the mill on Buckstead Heath was in part responsible for his existence: it was centuries old, and had ground the grain that both fed and filled the coffers of the Gillray family. Still, Rhys needed to keep his eyes on the horizon in order to find it, because pride had kept him from visiting the town until he was lord of the manor once again. He expected the mill would have been built on a mound to best take advantage of the wind, so despite the thick growth of trees, he was optimistic he’d be able to spot it.

At last in the distance he saw, turning like a great Saint Andrew’s cross high in the sky, the sails of the mill, a post mill, a brilliantly whitewashed little dome against the blue sky. He spurred Gallegos into an easy gallop, but slowed as he drew nearer: one of the mill sails had been snapped, the bottom half dangling sickeningly. One of the blizzard’s victims.

And that’s when he saw the now-unmistakable-to-him figure of his wife, hands on her hips, head craned back, standing alongside a man as squat as the mill. This person, Rhys assumed, was the miller. His head was pointing upward, too, and his hands waved about illustratively. Recounting the story of the disaster, no doubt. He saw the miller make a snapping motion with his hands in the air. Sabrina’s bonnet had tipped from her head, and it bobbed behind her as she nodded along with the miller’s tale as though she found it fascinating.

They both swiveled abruptly as Gallegos galloped up, and in one smooth motion Rhys pulled him to a halt, swung down, and strode toward them, leaving the horse’s reins to dangle. The miller took a reflexive step back, and Rhys was distantly amused. His expression must be speaking indeed.

The miller recovered himself swiftly and bowed low, because though he’d never seen Rhys in his life, there was absolutely no question about who he was: potent rays of aristocracy all but radiated from him, along with, Rhys was certain, his temper.

“Rawden,” his wife said faintly.

She curtsied, a little belatedly. She looked a little guilty. Ah, he thought ironically. At least she knew countesses do not typically tread out to discuss mills with millers.

“Countess.” He made the word a warning.

She cleared her throat. “Rawden…this is Mr. Pike, the miller for Buckstead Heath and the surrounding villages. Mr. Pike…the Earl of Rawden.”

Mr. Pike bowed again. He seemed rather pleased to have an earl to bow to.

“Mr. Pike and I were just discussing the—”

“Yes,” Rhys interrupted abruptly. The word cleared her sentence in two like an ax.

Sabrina fell silent.

Mr. Pike was unaware of any tension; his mind was focused on a more immediate grief. “Snapped right badly, din’t she, Lord Rawden?” Mr. Pike said mournfully. He reached up a hand the size of a lamb shank and gave the dangling blade a stroke. “The windshaft is splintered, too, and willna ’old the sails should the wind get stiffer. Built in the year of our Lord 1540 by Pikes, and we Pikes ’ave been millers ’ere e’er since yer family first built ’ere. Nivver seen a blizzard the likes of the one what came through. Polly was no match for it.”

“Polly?” Rhys frowned. “Who the devil is—”

“The mill’s name is Polly,” Sabrina told him quickly.

A tall ladder leaned against the side of the mill. Or rather, Polly. And the ladder made Rhys immediately think of roofs. His wife, rosy-cheeked from the chill or perhaps guilt, eyes bright from no doubt treading all the way to the village from the Montagne, stood looking up at him, the wind whipping the hem of her green wool pelisse about her ankles. He suddenly had a vivid image of her up on that ladder, the wind making a sail of her pelisse at that height, catching it, yanking Sabrina’s feet from the rung, the pelisse fanning out behind her as she plummeted to the—

“Were you about to go up the ladder to look at the sail?” He directed this, with deceptive mildness, to his wife.

“No,” she answered quickly.

“She just come
down
from lookin’ at the
windshaft,
din’t she?” the miller told him cheerfully. “Knows a bit about mills, she does.”

Sabrina shot a belated quelling glance at the oblivious miller.

It seemed there was no end to the things there were to learn about Sabrina.

“You’ve been on roofs as well, I hear.” Rhys’s voice was growing milder and milder. The only way he knew to keep his temper in control. Sabrina’s eyes were beginning to kindle a bit with temper of her own.

“Just the one!” Mr. Pike interjected quickly, in the spirit of clarity, no doubt. “Margo Bunfield’s roof is gone by half. Rufus Curliss lost the roof of his cottage, and the blizzard took the roof right off the barn at the Jenkins’ farm.” The miller ticked these off his fingers. “That’s all I know fer now. The countess, she were looking into it, ye see.”

So while Rhys was compromising a vicar’s daughter and getting himself married, disaster had struck in the little town of Buckstead Heath, and his countess had recently climbed up on roofs to see it.

Rhys gazed up at the handsome, sturdy mill, and almost unconsciously took a step toward it, laid his hand on the fractured sail as though in comfort. Some instinctive sympathy for the machine. “The mill is a few hundred years old, but I’ll wager the sails are newer?”

“Aye, Lord Rawden, we’ve the sort what closes and opens, now, like shutters. Built ’em meself, when the cloths looked ready to give way. Learned it from a chap in Sussex.”

Rhys was intrigued. “Ah, I see. So you can open and close them as necessary, to best utilize the wind. Rather like the blinds in Venice, isn’t it?”

He studied the cunning construction of the sails, absently tried his hand at opening and closing them.

“I canna speak fer the blinds in Venice, Lord Rawden, but the sails do a bonnie job of turning to grind the grain. I can take best advantage of the wind as she comes, can’t I, this way? But we Pikes might ’ave built a tower mill a century ago, like, rather than this little post mill, if we knew we’d ’ave blizzards like the one a fortnight or so ago.”

“Clever of you, Mr. Pike, to move with the times with regard to the sails.”

The miller glowed.

Sabrina, for her part, was wisely silent. Her hands were clasped behind her back.

“And I do believe that blizzard was a once-a-century anomaly, Mr. Pike.” He glanced at the miller. “A rare occurrence,” he revised for him as he set foot on the bottom rung of the ladder, testing it for his weight and height. It was sturdy, too, and Rhys scaled it quickly.

At the top he had a view of miles, and everything, he knew, as far as his vision could reach, now belonged to him, to his family, once again. Dizzying, exhilarating. He could see La Montagne, a stretch of tawny stone, aged, glowing against the white landscape; uneven fences surrounding snow-covered pastures, older cottages built a few decades after William the Conqueror had reached English shores scattered among newer cottages. And beyond those cottages, land that had not yet been built or planted, and could be used for grazing, for another field of corn, grist for Polly. He drew in a breath; the air seemed sharper, cleaner at that height, than on the ground, so clean it nearly hurt. He imagined that it all but scoured his lungs.

He glanced down: the windshaft, to which the sails were attached and which turned them when they were set free in the wind, was indeed badly split; perhaps the force of the wind that took off the sail had borne down on the axle, too, and the weight had proved too much for it.

His coat did whip about his legs, and he gripped the ladder to keep his balance. Silently he swore again, picturing Sabrina up there doing the very same thing.

“Is Polly in good repair otherwise, Mr. Pike?” he called down to the miller.

“All’s fair with her, as far as I can see,” the miller called up.

“I think we’ll need to replace the windshaft.” He was scarcely aware that he’d used the word “we.” “I don’t think it can be patched or repaired.” He was accustomed to giving orders. Out it had come.

“My thoughts, too, Lord Rawden.” The miller sounded pleased to be in accord with an earl.

Just then three men, well fed, warmly clothed in patched coats, and looking remarkably alike with their round heads and blunt wind-reddened noses, trudged into view up the mill mound. One of them carried a long wooden box by a handle.

“’Eard ye’d a wee problem on yer ’ands, Pike!” one of them called. “Ye’ve a man to see to it, then? We’ve come to ’elp, as we can use yer ’elp wi’ the roof. We’ve covered it fer now, but me wife dinna fancy snow in the parlor, ye see.”

Rhys began to back down the ladder.

“Snow doesna match wi’ ’er new settee!” one of the other big men explained, and they all laughed.

“Oh, ’tis the countess!” one of them said, noticing Sabrina. “Good day, my lady.”

“Good day, Mr. Ferris, Mr. Ferris, and Mr. Ferris,” she replied solemnly, as they each bowed in turn.

“Could ’ave bought a good mule for the price of that settee!” one of the Mr. Ferrises continued. It was a sore point, clearly. “I tell ye, the cost of making a woman ’appy is—”

He stopped abruptly as Rhys landed softly on the ground, and they all got a good look at him.

And then all was stares and silence.

“Gentlemen,” Sabrina said gently. “Lord Rawden, the Earl of Rawden.”

Simultaneously, the three Ferris brothers bent swiftly in bows.

Upright again, their faces were somber but pleased, and a little shy. It occurred to Rhys that they’d all been rather missing the presence of a Gillray family member.

“Albert, Georgie, and Harry Ferris, at your service, your lordship,” one of them ventured.

“A pleasure to meet you, gentlemen.”

A bit of an awkward silence.

“Has Polly gone to her reward, then, Lord Rawden?” The one called Harry asked this with no apparent sense of whimsy.

“Oh, she’s some life in her yet, I think,” Rhys reassured him thoughtfully. “I imagine a number of men working together can get her repaired. What do you think, Mr. Pike?”

“Well, it willna be a simple thing, but I do think ye’ve the right of it, Lord Rawden. ’Twas men what built the sails in the first place.”

“Shall we, then? Have you tools, Mr. Ferris?”

“Aye, Lord Rawden.”

“Good, then. And I’d rather like to see how you build those shutters, Mr. Pike.”

In minutes, Rhys, former military man, current erotic poet, had organized the men with precision and was issuing orders. With the help of Mr. Pike, he gave out tasks and instructions, and soon the sound of sawing, hammering, swearing, jests, and syllables of triumph filled the air as the new sail and windshaft took shape.

A half hour or so into the labor Rhys shed his coat and strode over to Sabrina, handing it to her without a word. She took it with a raised brow, but wisely held her tongue. She folded the coat neatly over her arms, and silently stepped aside, taking up a seat on a nearby log to watch the work.

She was all but forgotten soon enough, but this suited her. She didn’t particularly want to actually
build
a sail for the mill, after all. And it gave her an opportunity to watch her husband work in his shirtsleeves. He’d appeared looking nearly as groomed as he did for dinner, but now the fine linen of his shirt was damp and clinging to his broad-shouldered frame. His forearms were strong and corded; his hands wielding tools deftly, as though he’d done it dozens of times before.