Page 70 of His Spirited Lady
Richard held out his hand for them, only to be met with a disappointed sigh. She was looking at him like he was daft.
“You’re too short.” She wasn’t much taller than the barrel they were about to sacrifice.
Amelia dragged a stool across the stone floor slowly, prolonging every screech and bump. Then she stood on it with an exaggerated flourish. “The world is too tall.”
She set the awl against the barrel and swung the mallet, her mouth set in grim determination. Richard stood to the side, ready to help if the barrel slipped or the stool shifted.
“There are two glasses in the office.” She picked up the tap.
God save him from stubborn women. Richard strode through the door and the still room, his long legs making quick work of the distance. The glasses sat on the shelf, sparkling in the sunlight as though they knew their roles for the day.
By the time he returned, Amelia was easing the tapped barrel into a cradle. The stool screeched on the stones as she adjusted her posture.
Richard thumped the glasses on the table and reached for the barrel.
“Stop it.” Her voice was as sharp as the awl. “I have to get used to the weight and how it moves or I won’t be able to do it on my own.”
She wouldn’t be able to do it at all if she broke her neck, but he clenched his fists and waited for her to get into trouble. He didn’t breathe until she stepped down from the stool.
Amelia filled two glasses and set one in front of him. “Let me try it first, please.”
The amber liquid glinted in the light, reminding him of the topaz in the ring he’d given her. The moment he’d seen the stones, he’d known they were perfect.
She hesitated for a moment, closing her eyes as though she were praying. Her first sip was tentative, and the way she ran her tongue over her lips made him weak in the knees. Her smile shaped to the rim of the glass with her second sip.
Richard lifted his glass and took a drink. It was smooth and warm on his tongue, and the fragrance lingered in his nose after he’d swallowed.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” Amelia whispered. “I’m not imagining it?”
He took another sip, longer this time. God help him, it was like kissing her. “It’s delicious, Amelia.”
“I did it,” she whispered as she stared at the liquor swirling in her glass. Her smile broke wide. “I really did it.”
Richard recognized the look. He and Oliver had shared it the first time they’d filled a skid with hewn lumber. They still shared it whenever they pushed felled trees into a wagon on their own. Just like he’d found a home in the middle of wild trees, Amelia had claimed her space here.
He touched the rim of his glass to hers. “Congratulations.”
*
I publish the banns of marriage between Richard Pierre Ferrand of this parish, via Quebec, Canada and Rosnay, France and Amelia Christine Chitester, daughter of Baron Kilverstone, of this parish. If any know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in Holy matrimony, ye are to declare it. This is the first time of asking.
Chapter Eighteen
The Rushford coachrocked past Oakdale’s gate and onto the road, sloshing Amelia in her seat. She kept a tight hold on the handle mounted to the wall to avoid falling against Richard. He was too busy admiring the scenery to notice.
“I apologize for the ruts,” she said. Father had always sent stewards out to smooth the road after a rain. She should have thought of it, but her attention had been divided between a very real worry over her product and her panic over an imaginary wedding that was ten days away.
Plus, she’d had an extra employee to train.
“I’d be happy to send someone over to help your stewards,” Oliver said.
“Thank you, but I’m sure the household will get back to normal while I’m not underfoot to distract them.” Father wouldn’t want his neighbors, no matter how friendly, to think him incapable of managing.
“There is no need to pretend, Amelia.” Richard’s shoulders heaved like a swell over the open ocean.
She’d ridden over them aboard ship when they’d traveled. There was thrill in standing on the bow as they’d gathered speed and height; the spray in her face promised wild adventure. But as they’d neared the crest, panic had always fluttered in her stomach. There was no turning back. It was either crash or race down the other side. Either way, the world was different.
“That’s a bit harsh, Rich.”
