Page 30 of My Hero
Garth bit back a grin. The idea of Cynthia hearing anything over her own loud singing, as well as the sight of her subsequently tumbling into the dirt on her backside, was most comical. But when he beheld the silky lines of her exposed limbs and the sensual disarray of her curls, all humor deserted him. He froze.
“You could at least help me up,” she chided, reaching out a hand.
Against his better judgment, he offered her his arm. Her fingers upon his sleeve were like a hot iron singeing the damp wool as she pulled herself to her feet. And when she stood before him, he realized that a few inches forward and he could have brushed her forehead with his lips. God help him, he wanted to. She smelled delightful, like cinnamon and earth and spring.
He must have been staring. She hastily lowered her eyes and disengaged herself from him.
“I’m redesigning the privy garden,” she explained a little breathlessly. Then she pushed the gate closed behind him. “I thought you could help. If you’d write down the names of the plants in their proper places…”
Garth clenched his jaw.
The garden was deserted. There were just the two of them, alone. The oak door rattled behind Garth as the latch swung home, imprisoning him.
He lowered himself stiffly to the sod bench. With clumsy fingers, he stretched the parchment over the block of wood that would serve as a desk. The sooner he accomplished the task at hand, he thought, the sooner he could flee. He hastily uncorked the bottle of ink and dipped his quill.
“If you’ll make a diagram of sorts and label the trees…”
With a fleeting glance around the garden, he set his quill to the page.
“Those two are peaches,” she said, shading her eyes and pointing to the farthest trees to the left. “Sweeter peaches you’ve never tasted,” she confided. “Cook makes a wonderful peach tart that doesn’t even need honey.” She pointed at another. “And that is a hazelnut. Last Christmas it gave so abundantly, we had packets of roasted hazelnuts for all the villagers’ children.” She pointed again. “And over there—”
Garth put the quill down, finished. She looked at him quizzically. He showed her the parchment. It was admittedly the worst scribbling he’d ever done in his life. But the words were there. And the trees were labeled properly. And now he could leave.
“Ah.” She blinked. “Well done.” But somehow she didn’t look exactly pleased. “You know your trees. Are you familiar with the shrubs as well?”
He squinted past her at the bushes lining the rock wall and began writing again, glad he’d first learned Latin by identifying the plants in his mother’s garden. There wasIlex. AndJasminium.
From the corner of his eye, he saw her reach down to pluck a weed. Then another.
Hedera.
One weed came up clutching a great ball of earth in its roots. She knocked it against her thigh to dislodge the dirt, soiling her skirt.
He scrawled“Rosa”onto the parchment.
She pushed her sleeves back from her wrists to her elbows to get at a patch of clover choking the daffodils. The skin of her forearms looked as smooth as polished parchment.
Laurus.
Then she must have forgotten he was there. With no preamble whatsoever, she hoisted the back hem of her surcoat up through her legs and tucked it into her belt at the front like a peasant, exposing a considerable length of her silky limbs.
Maybe if he closed his eyes tightly enough, the sight of Lady Cynthia lifting her skirts and baring those long slim legs would disappear.
It didn’t. When he opened them again, to make matters worse, she’d kicked off her slippers, exposing creamy white toes that looked like ten of the Orient’s most precious pearls dropped in the mud.
His quill dripped onto the page, spattering ink across the holly he’d just labeled.
Bent over at the waist, she struggled with a particularly stubborn weed, scrabbling at the dirt with her fingers, grunting with the effort. Finally, she dropped down to her knees and wrapped both hands around the tough stalk, pulling for all she was worth, to no avail.
He wheezed a troubled sigh. The Lady of Wendeville shouldn’t be digging in the dirt like a half-naked serf. It was improper and unnatural. And it was driving him to madness. He wouldn’t allow it.
He may be unable to protest with words. But there was something he could do about it.
He corked the ink bottle and set his quill aside. Shaking his head in disgust at his own folly, he snatched up a spade resting against the garden wall and motioned her back. He drove the spade deep into the soil and rocked it. The weed popped out easily.
“Thank you,” she said, wiping black mud across her cheek. She made a grab for the shovel.
He compressed his lips, unwilling to surrender it.
