Page 30 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
She flashed him a smile. This close, she could see the darkness of his beard on his cheek, the rugged cast to his skin, and brown eyes the color of mink. They were unsettling, thoseeyes. Rich and deep, she felt like she sank into them, and her smile faltered.
So did his.
They stood there, eye to eye, while her breath caught and her belly tightened.
“I got it!” Thomas bellowed from somewhere far away. Except it wasn’t far away. It was a few paces behind, and she jolted as she realized she’d been staring.
“’Old it out,” she instructed.
“I know, I know,” groused the boy. “Move out of the way.”
It wasn’t easy. It took all three of them to coax, bully, and drag Mr. Periwinkle to his pen. And during the long, agonizing process, Mr. Hallowsby was grim, but he didn’t complain. Not even when the blasted pig lifted a leg and pissed on him.
He cursed, of course. And she worried about his boots, but there was nothing else to do but keep hauling, while the stupid beast was off-balance on only three legs.
Then, finally, they were done. She stared at the ruins of her favorite gown and sighed.
“Well, look at you,” cried Widow Dwight from where she came out from the laundry area. Her face was slick from boiling water and her eyes red-rimmed from the lye, but she was grinning with her gap-teeth from her big heart. “Mr. Periwinkle, you been out roaming again?”
Maybelle nodded, her hair flopping into her eyes and making them sting. “He was out by the inn.”
“But that’s not far. You two look like you dragged him from Yorkshire.”
Mr. Hallowsby grunted from where he was leaning hard against the stone part of the pen. “It took us more than an hour. That was far enough.”
“Naw,” piped in Thomas. “Once my dad and Miss Bluebell dragged him from Newbald. That took four full buckets of me dad’s best ale.”
“That it did,” the widow said with an indulgent smile.
It hadn’t, but Maybelle loved how the tales expanded with age, so she didn’t say anything.
“Now, ’ow come these others are covered in mud, and you’re just regular dirty?” the widow asked Thomas.
“’Cause I’m faster than they are,” he answered with a grin. “Bye!” And off he ran before the widow forced the child into her laundry tub for a good scrubbing with that lye soap. Maybelle knew. She’d been a mite slow once upon a time when she was younger.
Meanwhile, she gestured to her dress. “I’m afraid this one’s done for. But do you have my other washing?”
“I do. And I’ll only charge you half ’cause you brought Mr. Periwinkle back.”
With anyone else, she’d dicker. But everyone looked after the widow. They didn’t fuss about prices so long as the widow kept the cost low. With a nod, she fished out her purse and counted out most of her coins, giving the woman a dark eye as she did it.
“Fair counting,” the woman answered. “Now go on. Get in that wash water afore the sun starts to bake you in.”
Maybelle smiled, knowing exactly where her laundry would be waiting. But then she paused, all too aware of who was leaning against the pen watching everything with his dark chocolate eyes.
“Mrs. Dwight, may I introduce you to Mr. Hallowsby?” She was careful to speak slowly and pronounce everything as she ought. “He’s got a broken carriage at the inn and is waiting for it to be fixed and painted.”
“Just fixed,” he said, as he swept into a deep bow.
“That’s a mistake,” the widow said as she creaked into her own curtsy. “You’ll get a better price with a fresh coat.”
“Not with what they’re charging me,” he answered with a rueful smile. “I was going to do it myself, but the cost for the paint was more than anyone would pay.”
The widow chortled, then gestured to Maybelle. “Let Miss Bluebell do the dickering. She’ll sort it out right and tight.”
“And charge me for the privilege?”
“Nothing more than I’m due,” Maybelle put in, feeling the need to defend herself.
