Page 26 of Under the Champagne Moon
Fear made her clutch the lines, slowing the gig, and then she realized it was Haskell. Movement behind her and to her left caught her eye. In the field to the south, men were gathered around something.
The crowd shifted and she spotted a man stretched on the ground. She stopped the gig and jumped out.
One of the field workers waved. Fleur clutched her skirts and dodged through a clump of low hedging, with Haskell an arm’s length behind her.
* * *
Gareth pokedhis head into the study and found Mr. Sherington pouring over his harvest reports.
“All’s well in those last fields, sir.” He handed over a written report. “Your tenants there have finished.”
“I thank you, Ardleigh.”
“How goes the rest?”
“I wish I knew. Where is Chigwell? He promised to report to me an hour ago.”
“Not in his office. I stopped there first.” He’d scraped the mud off his boots and dusted his buckskin pants before making his way deeper into the house. “Shall I go look for him?”
A few minutes later he was mounted and making his way down the drive. At the turn onto the lane, his heart thudded.
Men were huddled in a nearby field. The Bicton-Grange cart—Fleur’s cart—was stopped on the roadside. She was running—toward Sherington Manor, with a man chasing her.
His blood pounded and he spurred his horse. Even at this distance he recognized Haskell.
The devil. She ought to be shouting. Why weren’t the others running to help her? Unless Haskell was chasing her toward them.
He’d break every bone in the bastard’s body.
Before Gareth could reach her and scoop her up, she swerved and ran towards the group in the field.
The men parted, waved, shouted.
Gareth reined up, leapt from his mount, and hurried to join them. The bulky body, the shaggy white hair—it was Chigwell.
CHAPTEREIGHT
Sometime later, he found Fleur in the steward’s cottage kitchen heating water for tea; a fresh pot, it seemed as Haskell was seated at the plain deal table drinking a cup, his gaze following Fleur’s every move.
Outrage rose again in him, the same anger that had roared to life when he thought Haskell was chasing her.
When he stepped into the room, both Haskell and Fleur turned his way. He exchanged nods with Haskell and glared at Fleur.
She shouldn’t be alone with this rough fellow.
“Doctor Wagner is with him,” she said in a distant, flat voice. “You’ve informed Mr. Sherington?”
They'd found Chigwell conscious and breathing, but too weak to walk. While Gareth fetched the doctor, the men loaded the steward into Fleur’s cart and moved him home.
“Yes,” Gareth said. “He came back with me. He’s just gone up to the bedchamber.”
The kitchen was surprisingly modern, fitted out with a Rumsford stove. In fact, the cottage was larger than what he’d expected, with a hectare of land for a large garden and grazing.
It would indeed be a good situation for a man such as himself. If only Cheshire had the climate for grapes.
Fleur’s arm wobbled hefting the steaming pot. “Let me.” Haskell jumped from his chair and touched her arm, nudging her away from the stove.
It ought to have been him helping her, not this fellow. He himself had hefted many a pot around a campfire or in the mess, whereas Fleur... French, English, what did it matter? She was a lady.
