Page 26 of Tremaine's True Love
“This herd is.”
She put a biscuit in Mr. St. Michael’s hand. “We have pigeons in the dovecote from Mr. Belmont’s estate in Oxfordshire. Are these extra rations from the same hay you normally feed?”
Mr. St. Michael stared at the biscuit. Nita could see him trying to make himself focus, the way she had to focus when deciding what supplies to grab when somebody was badly injured. Catgut, scissors, poultices mostly, and a prayer that Dr. Horton hadn’t already been consulted regarding the course of treatment.
“I had the steward buy some particularly good hay,” Mr. St. Michael informed his biscuit. “We’ve saved it back to feed on the coldest nights. That hay is beautiful, soft, green… Quite dear, but worth the expense.” ‘
“Send a pigeon in the morning,” Nita said. “Tell your men to switch back to your usual hay.”
Mr. St. Michael half rose, then sat back down heavily, as if an excess of strong spirits had caught up with him.
“Pretty hay isn’t always the best quality,” he murmured. “Noxious weeds can spring up in any field.”
In other words, Nita’s theory had merit, and she hadn’t even had to raise her voice or slam a door. Reason had joined them in the kitchen, a far more agreeable companion than panic. Mr. St. Michael broke the biscuit in half and offered Nita the larger portion.’
“Unless you’ve moved your herd or recently added to it,” she said, “a sudden illness affecting many of the flock isn’t likely. If it’s not contagion, then a problem with their fodder is the next most likely culprit.”
Mr. St. Michael dispatched his sweet in silence, though as Nita took a place beside him before the fire, she sent up a prayer the problem was as simple as a noxious weed in the hay. Diagnosis was equal parts science and instinct, with common sense mediating between the two.
“May we send the pigeon tonight, Lady Nita?” Worry and the Aberdeenshire hills still laced Mr. St. Michael’s voice.
“Certainly. A good bird will be in Oxfordshire before your shepherds are at their morning chores. Alfrydd manages the dovecote.”
The apple went next, in a few crunchy bites, while Mr. St. Michael remained quiet, and Nita’s feet grew chilly.
“The grooms sleep above the carriage house?” Mr. St. Michael asked.
“Alfrydd among them. You might take them some biscuits.” Apparently nobody would get any rest until Mr. St. Michael had done something to ensure the welfare of his sheep.
While Nicholas thought to send the merinosand Susannahto Edward Nash?
“You truly think it’s the hay?” Mr. St. Michael asked, rising. He took his mug to the sink, tossed the apple core into the slop bucket, and wiped his hands on the towel kept for that purpose near the bread box.
“I’m nearly sure of it,” Nita said, though no medical situation was ever certain. “You’ll also want to scrub out the water buckets. If all you’re doing is adding hot water to icy buckets, then the buckets haven’t been truly cleaned for some time. Start fresh, and see if the sheep aren’t more interested.”
“Excellent advice,” he said, draping the towel over its hook exactly as he’d found it. “I might have come to the same conclusions by the time I reached London—provided I hadn’t landed on my arse in the ditch at the foot of your lane.”
Mr. St. Michael offered Nita his hand, and without thinking, Nita let him draw her to her feet. They were in the kitchen, she was wearing two thicknesses of wool stockings, and front parlor manners were the farthest thing from her—
Tremaine St. Michael hugged her. The sensation was rather like being enveloped in a blanket left to warm on a brass fender, all comfort and ease, a hint of heather and lavender, and an irresistible temptation to relax.
To relaxeverything. Nita’s mind, her body, her worries, herheart, yielded to the pleasure of Tremaine St. Michael’s embrace.
“I worry over those young fellows,” he murmured. “I am in your debt, my lady.”
Tremaine St. Michael’s debts were patiently repaid. He made no move to march off to the stable. Nita rested her head on his shoulder—so few men were tall enough to afford her that comfort.
She offered him the words nobody offered her. “You’re good to worry for them, Mr. St. Michael.
They count on you to look after them, to keep them healthy, and your shepherds were right to bring this problem to you. A few days of proper rations, a nap in the sun, and your tups will recover. Keep them in your prayers, and this time next week, they’ll be good as new.”
He stroked her hair, another invitation to relax, to be safe and warm. “One doesn’t admit to praying for sheep.”
Onejust had, perhaps even two.
Nita stepped back and Mr. St. Michael let her go. “Take the biscuits to the stable lads,” she said.
“William will benefit. You’ll probably have word back from Oxfordshire by sunset tomorrow.”
