Chapter Four

Evie's head felt pleasantly fuzzy, like it had when she and her sisters were children and they'd linked arms and spun in a circle until one (or all) fell down.

When they hadn't a care in the world.

When everything was new and innocent.

When they weren't struggling to keep pace with curmudgeonly earls.

"Would you wait up? You're going much too fast," she complained to Weston's broad shoulders as he marched along ahead her with all the steely determination of a solider heading off to battle.

Without giving any verbal indication that he'd heard her, Weston nevertheless shortened his stride, allowing her to catch up so they could walk abreast of each other instead of her trailing behind like a scolded child.

She slanted him a glance out of the corner of her eye, and couldn't help but giggle at what she saw.

"If you find something remotely frivolous about this situation, Miss Thorncroft," he said darkly, "by all means, please enlighten me."

"It's–it's your face," she gasped before she doubled over with a peal of laughter, wrapping her arms around her belly as her entire body shook with mirth.

Weston stopped short. "Pray tell, what about my face is so humorous?"

Between chortles, Evie managed to say, "It is very very serious."

A long pause, and then…

"Miss Thorncroft, you're foxed."

"Where's the fox?" Popping upright, she slanted a hand across her brow and peered off across the field. "I've only seen sheep."

"My point exactly." Weston removed his hat, ran his fingers through his hair, and regarded her with a lifted brow. "What am I supposed to do with you, Miss Thorncroft?"

"I'm rather thirsty," she said with a hopeful glance at the pocket that held his flask.

Although his mouth remained stern, his gaze held a faint, unmistakable glint of amusement. "I should think not, Miss Thorncroft. I believe you'd had more than enough cognac."

"I thought you said it was brandy."

"Cognac is a type of brandy. Like a thoroughbred is a type of horse," he explained when her temple creased in confusion.

"Oh. I understand." She didn't really, as she knew as much about horses as she did different types of liquor, but nodding along seemed as if it were the most prudent thing to do. "I did not mean to insult your appearance, you know. No offense was intended."

"No offense was taken."

"Good. Because you're really very handsome."

"Thank you, Miss Thorn–"

"Almost as handsome as Evan Bridgeton," she went on.

Weston's eyes narrowed. "Who the devil is Evan Bridgeton?"

"The man I was going to marry. Oh, look! That sheep has a lamb."

"You were engaged?"

"No, I…why Lord Hawkridge," she cooed, lashes fluttering. "Are you envious of Mr. Bridgeton?"

Evie's head may have been fuzzy, but she wasn't so inebriated that she didn't recognize a flash of jealousy when she saw it. And Weston, with his taut jaw and drawn fists, was most definitely jealous.

How…interesting.

"You needn't be, you know. Envious, that is," she said when his only reply was a low, rumbling growl. "It's true, Mr. Bridgeton was renowned throughout our village for his striking blond hair, piercing green eyes, and chiseled countenance, but it is not as if he was a Greek god or anything. However, come to think of it, I did hear him compared to Adonis on occasion. And yes, he was the son of a senator, which, in America, might as well have made him a marquess." She tapped her chin. "A marquess is higher in ranking than an earl, is it not?"

Weston's growl intensified.

"Do you have something in your throat?" she asked innocently. "Perhaps a nip of brandy might help."

"Miss Thorncroft," he bit out through gritted teeth, "has anyone ever told you how incredibly vexing you are?"

"Not Mr. Bridgeton. He thought I was…what were the words he used…" She pursed her lips. "That's right! Now I remember. ‘Delightfully charming, astonishingly beautiful, and virtuous beyond reproach.'"

"A regular Alfred Tennyson, your Mr. Bridgeton," Weston sneered. "If he was so bloody perfect, why didn't you marry him?"

"Because I–oh, Lord Hawkridge, look!" On a gasp, Evie drew attention to a small, bleating lamb that had just come into view over the top of the hillside. "It's in trouble. We have to help it."

"It's a sheep in a field filled with sheep," he said pointedly. "I am fairly confident it does not require the assistance of two people, one of whom is–Miss Thorncroft, where the hell do you think you're going?"

Much later, Evie would look back on her actions and feel nothing short of humiliating, cheek-burning embarrassment. But in that moment, with her mind still pleasantly numb and her emotions running high, all she saw was a lamb calling out for its mother. As she knew the sting of losing a parent all too well, how could she not help?

Never mind that she didn't even like animals.

Especially of the smelly farm variety.

But while piles of dung would have been of utmost concern to sober Evie, intoxicated Evie barely noticed as she bunched up her skirts, climbed through the fence, and dashed off up the hill.

With alarmed bleats, woolly white sheep scattered in every direction. But the lost lamb didn't move. And it wasn't until she'd reached the frantically bleating baby and caught a glimpse of what was laying at the bottom on the other side of the hill that she understood why.

"Close your eyes," Weston ordered, materializing as if out of nowhere to grasp her waist and spin her away from the gruesome sight. He wrapped his arms around her trembling frame, holding her in a protective embrace against his chest as her stomach rolled in protest at what she'd seen.

"That poor thing," she cried. "It was…it was…"

"Dead," he said flatly. "Killed early this morning, if I had to guess."

"What could do such a thing? Wolves?"

"There haven't been wolves in England for hundreds of years. The sheep was butchered by poachers, most likely, as there's no natural predator large enough to take down a full grown ewe. At least nothing that would leave behind its lamb."

"The lamb!" Slipping out of Weston's hold, Evie crouched beside the distraught baby and gently ran her hand across its back. It couldn't have been older than a few days, a week at the most. She'd never seen one this size before. It had large, liquid brown eyes, velvety ears that stuck straight out the side, and long, spindly legs that were knobby at the knees. The lamb was as adorable as it was pitiful, and Evie could not conceive abandoning it where it was to either slowly starve to death or be picked off by some sort of creature. She gazed beseechingly up at Weston. "We have to bring it with us."

"Bring it…no," said the earl with a curt shake of his head. "Absolutely not."

"Why?" she demanded. "It's all alone. It needs us."

"There's easily five dozen sheep standing right over there. They can take care of it."

"Well they're not doing a very good job, are they?" Resolute in her decision, Evie carefully placed one hand on the lamb's chest, another under its belly, and scooped it up. It weighed less than a bag of feathers, and was in such shock that it didn't even raise a fuss, but instead pushed its head in the crook of Evie's elbow. Within moments, its rapid breathing had steadied, and the lamb fell fast asleep.

"This is stealing, you know," Weston commented as they made way out of the field and onto the road. But he reached for the lamb to lift it over the fence without Evie having to ask, and as she climbed between the wooden boards, she would have sworn his mouth curved into a shape that suspiciously resembled a smile.

Giving her skirts a good thwack with the palm of her hand to clear them of dust, she straightened her hat as best she could and tucked a limp strand of hair behind her ear. She must have looked like a positive fright but, for once, Evie didn't care about that. Her first concern was the slight, vulnerable animal being so tenderly held in the arms of the gruff, surly Earl of Hawkridge. Except no one, not even Weston, could look gruff or surly when they were cradling a lamb.

"We'll find the farmer and pay him fairly for it," she said dismissively. "No harm done."

"We're not buying anything," Weston said. "We're returning it at the first opportunity. I already have one uninvited houseguest to deal with. I'm not adding another."

"Shhh," Evie said, frowning. "She'll hear you."

"She?"

"Yes. Doesn't she strike you as a girl?" It was likely the lingering effects of the brandy, but Evie felt a distinctive maternal tug as she reached out and stroked the top of the slumbering lamb's head. Strange, as she'd never been particularly aware of any mothering instinct before.

As a child, she hadn't played with dolls as much as she'd used their hair to practice braiding. When she grew older and her friends began to discuss how many children they were going to have, she'd been more concerned with keeping pace with the latest fashion trends coming in from Paris via the Boston Women's Quarterly which was at least four weeks behind than using the petals of a daisy to dictate whether she was going to have two boys or three girls.

All that to say, Evie knew she'd have to have children someday if she wanted to marry well, as the production of an heir was all but written into the contract. But she'd never given much consideration into what kind of mother she wanted to be.

Or what kind of father she wanted for her children.

Wealth and prestige were much more important factors in determining a suitable husband. At least, they had been until Weston absently rubbed the lamb's ear and Evie's heart did an odd pitter-pat inside of her chest.

"We should call her Posy," she whispered, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes.

"Posy the lamb," he snorted quietly. "How original."

"What would you name her, then?"

"Nothing. I am calling it nothing, because we're giving it back."

No, she thought silently as she watched Weston unknot his cravat and drape it over Posy so that the lamb's delicate pink nose wouldn't be burned by the sun, I really don't think we are.

If someone had bet Weston fifty pounds that he would soon find himself responsible for a beautiful American and an orphaned lamb while stranded in the middle of the countryside, he'd have laughed and ordered the poor sot to hand over the money outright.

A fool's bet, he would have called it.

As it so happened, he was the damned fool.

He never should have agreed to travel with Evie to Hawkridge Manor. Not that they were anywhere near their destination, and were now actively walking away from it as they'd veered off the road onto a private, tree-lined drive that led to a cottage with a crumbling stone wall behind which several sheep grazed, indicating they'd found whom the lamb belonged to.

A line of geese temporarily halted their progression as the feathered fowl marched across the drive in an orderly row, chests puffed and orange beaks proudly held aloft. Once the parade had waddled past, he and Evie proceeded to the front door.

He knew by her stiff gait and the mutinous set of her lips that she wasn't pleased with his decision to return the lamb. But what did she expect him to do, willingly abscond with stolen livestock? He was an earl, not a thief. An earl who was beginning to question his own sanity with every minute that passed and he didn't leave Evie and her lamb behind to find their own way home.

Weston was no gallant knight devoted to safeguarding helpless maidens and defenseless animals. No one would think differently of him if he said to hell with it and left his charges on this very doorstep. Brynne wouldn't be pleased, but if Evie eventually made her way to Hawkridge Manor, what was the harm? He didn't owe this American anything. Certainly not any more of his valuable time than he'd already given. But neither could he bring himself to abandon her. It was an…unexpected conundrum. One he'd never faced before, as he made it a point to keep everyone at arm's length where it was easier to remain impersonal and indifferent.

Even his own mistresses were not privy to his undivided attention. Chosen strictly for their discretion and skills in the bedchamber, his intimate partners were informed at the beginning that there was to be no emotional attachment. And if that were to ever change (as it inevitably did, much to his general annoyance), they would be relieved of their position immediately. For if there was anything Weston's childhood had taught him, it was that it was better to be the person withholding love and affection than to be the one constantly craving it.

Vulnerability was another weakness, and a man was never so vulnerable than when a woman held his heart in the palm of her hand. Which was why he'd ensured that his heart was too cold to touch a long time ago.

But since having Evie forced upon him, he had felt anything but cold.

The woman infuriated him, and with fury came heat.

With heat came fire.

And with fire came desire.

The kind of desire that would lead a man to traipse through the countryside carrying a sheep because a raven-haired minx who heated his blood like no other had insisted they save the damned thing.

"This is for the best," he told Evie as he knocked on the door. "The farmer needs to be told there are poachers after his flock, and with this many sheep about I'm sure he has a ewe who can take the lamb on as its own."

"And if he doesn't?" she asked, her damning blue gaze making him feel for all the world as if he were about to toss a puppy into a pit of crocodiles.

Before Weston could reply, the door swung inward to reveal a young man with freckles across his cheeks and a shock of red hair sticking out beneath a flat brown cap.

"Can I help ye?" he asked, his curious gaze flicking from Evie to Weston before centering on the lamb.

"Yes," said Weston. "We were walking past your field–"

"Walking?" The lad scratched the back of his neck. "Where's yer carriage?"

"An excellent question," Evie interceded with a glare at Weston.

"A broken axle back by the Three Crossings," he explained, returning her glare. "We left the driver to tend the horses and set off on foot. Whereupon we found this fellow here"–he held out the lamb, which gave a worried sounding bleat–"and its dead mother. Butchered for her meat, if I had to guess."

"Aye," said the lad. "We've been having trouble with trespassers."

When he didn't say anything else, Weston bit back a curse of frustration (could nothing about this cursed journey be simple?) and said, "Can you take the lamb, then? Or direct us to someone who can?" He glanced past the boy into the house. From what he could see, it was sparsely decorated, but freshly swept. "Is your father or mother here?"

"They're gone. Won't return until tomorrow." The lad shifted his weight from side to side. Then his face brightened. "I can give it to my sister. She's just in the kitchen. Gertie!" he yelled, turning his head. "Gertie, I've another lamb for ye!"

Weston felt a tightness on his arm. He glanced down to see Evie had her fingers curled around his wrist.

"Why would you bring Posy into the kitchen?" she asked, her pretty brow creasing. "To warm her up?"

"Warm her up?" the boy said, visibly confused. "Ye mean when we put her in the stew?"

Evie blanched. "The stew? You're going to cook Posy?"

"I am sure that is not what he meant," said Weston. Having eaten his fair share of lamb and mutton stew, he knew that was exactly what the boy meant, but why alarm Evie any more than she already was? A pot of boiling water wasn't the ending he'd foreseen for poor Posy, but then life was often cruel and unforgiving. If that lesson had somehow escaped Evie thus far, it was better she learn it now than later.

"Aye," said the lad. "What else would we do with it?"

"Lord Hawkridge, you cannot mean to allow Posy to be turned into stew!" Evie cried. "Tell him we'll pay for her. Whatever price he wants. Please!"

"The lamb's yers for fifty pounds." Wiping her hands clean on an apron, a stringy beanpole of a woman with the lad's red hair and none of his youthful naivety sauntered up to the doorway and gave a shrewd smile. "Fifty-five, and we'll toss in a ribbon to go round its neck."

Weston almost choked on his own tongue. "Fifty pounds? It's worth half a shilling, if that."

"It is worth what someone will pay for it," said Gertie.

She wasn't wrong, but Weston would be damned if he spent a fortune on a sheep. Then he made the mistake of looking at Evie. A single glimpse at her heartbroken countenance, complete with a wobbling bottom lip, had him reaching into his pocket.

"I can give you ten now, and have the rest sent later." Given the recent rise in highwaymen scouring the roads for easy victims, Weston had stopped carrying large quantities of money on his person several months ago.

"The price is fifty," said Gertie, jutting out her chin.

Weston resisted the urge to grind his teeth. "I am the Earl of Hawkridge. Here, this is my family signet." He extended his left hand to show his gold seal ring with the family crest engraved on the top. "I can assure you that I am good for it."

"Fifty," Gertie repeated. "Or the lamb goes in the pot."

"As I told you, I do not have that sum currently, but I can easily acquire it once I reach my estate." Beside him, Evie tensed. Without giving much thought to what he was doing, he reached across the front of Posy and gently covered Evie's hand with his own. His fingers intertwining with hers, he gave a reassuring squeeze. It was, to his knowledge, the first time he had ever deliberately sought to give a woman comfort.

"Surely we can come to a mutual agreement," he said, speaking with the calm assurance of an entrepreneur accustomed to striking any manner of deals. Following a ten-hour negotiation, he'd leveraged his money and reputation to gain a position on the board of the Midland Railway Company at a time when investors were divesting themselves of railway shares as quickly as possible.

Within half a year, Weston had secured enough private land leases to build a new railway from London to Bath. The more direct route had undercut their top competitor's time by nearly two hours, leading the Midland Railway Company to buy them out and become the second largest railway in all of England.

If he could accomplish that (no inconsiderable feat), then surely he could negotiate the simple sale of a lamb.

Except it appeared Gertie had no intention of negotiating.

"Tom," she said, her brown eyes hardening to chips of rock, "get Pa's pistol."

"You are being utterly unreasonable." Weston frowned as the lad obediently scampered off.

Gertie arched a scrawny red brow. "Ye've come to my parents' house, and ye stole one of our lambs, and I'm being unreasonable? Count yerself lucky I didn't have my brother shoot first and ask questions later. How do I know ye aren't the poachers that've been after our flock?"

"We did not steal anything," Evie cut in with a sniff. "We saved Posy. You should be thanking us." She gave Weston a hard nudge with her elbow.

"What was that for?" he snapped.

"I told you we shouldn't have come here."

Tom returned swiftly with the item his sister had requested, and gingerly handed it over.

Without hesitation, Gertie drew back the hammer and pointed the pistol at the ceiling. "Give my brother the lamb," she said threateningly. "Or else."

Had Weston been by himself, he would have tossed Posy over directly. He was a stubborn sod who didn't like to lose, but he wasn't an idiot, and he sure as hell wasn't about to get shot over a sheep.

But there was Evie and her wobbling lip to consider.

Along with the fact that he'd left his own pistol with his driver in case any passersby got it in their heads to help themselves to the contents of the town coach.

"No one puts Posy in a pot," he growled.

He looked at Evie.

She looked at him.

"Run," he said grimly, and that's what they did.

Down the steps, around the stone wall, and back to the road while Gertie, who likely belonged in a mental asylum for the lamb stew obsessed, fired bullets into the air.

Weston could have sworn he felt one fly over his shoulder, and he shoved Evie in front of him into a thicket of overgrown bushes. They huddled together, with Posy pressed between them, as their breathing slowed and steadied…but all it took was a quick measure of how close Evie's hand was to his groin for Weston's pulse rate to accelerate all over again.

Bloody hell.

What was he doing?

Then Evie started to adjust her position but lost her balance and used Weston's leg to regain it, her fingers burning through his trousers like an iron brand as they splayed across his upper thigh. She jerked her head up, and their eyes met, and all he could think as the air vibrated with delicious tension was what the devil were they doing?

Neither of them spoke. There was no need for it. Even if they weren't supposed to be in hiding, the mutual lust in their gazes said more than any words possibly could.

He leaned towards her, his thumb gliding along the edge of her jaw as he swept a tendril of hair behind her ear.

God, but she was gorgeous. He had strolled through London's ballrooms with some of the ton's Great Beauties on his arm and all of them, every last one, paled in comparison to Evelyn Thorncroft.

It wasn't just her sapphire-blue eyes or the soft pink of her lips. It wasn't all that black, silky hair or those thick, sooty lashes. It wasn't her high cheekbones or the tiny, almost invisible freckle to the left of her nose that he wanted to nip.

No, what made Evie exquisite–what made her truly incomparable–was the intimate knowledge that she possessed of her own beauty and stunning self-worth.

Even with her hat all askew, and dirt on her face, and her dress wrinkled nearly beyond repair, she exuded confidence. She flaunted grace. She held her chin as high as any queen's, and her small, catlike smile all but dared him to try and steal her crown.

For Weston, passion had invariably been about necessity. He used it to fulfill a need, nothing more. But Evie…Evie, he wanted to savor. Like a fine glass of port or a good cigar, he wanted to linger over her until the sun faded to black and the stars scattered across the heavens.

He wanted to lick, and taste, and nuzzle.

He wanted to hear her moan, and gasp, and cry out.

He wanted to watch those blue eyes glaze over, and her head fall back, and her body arch beneath his.

He wanted all that, and more.

So much more.

But for now…for now, he'd settle for a kiss.

And pray it was enough to satisfy this acute, feverish ache inside of him.

He cupped her chin, this siren whom he desired every bit as much as he despised.

Her eyes widened with awareness, but she did not pull away.

He slowly lowered his head, and…she licked his face.

No, not Evie, he realized as he pulled sharply back and swiped the cuff of his coat across his damp cheek. That hadn't been the sweet, seductive flick of a woman's tongue, but rather the wet, rough slurp of a…

"Posy!" Evie scolded, wagging her finger at the lamb. "That's quite forward of you."

Weston, the Earl of Hawkridge and heir apparent to the Dukedom of Caldwell, had been kissed by a sheep.

To add insult to grievous injury, Evie had witnessed it.

And she was laughing at him.

It really was too much to be borne.

"Get up," he snarled at her, all but tossing Posy into her lap before he surged to his feet. "We've yet a long way to walk if we want to reach the inn by nightfall."

"Yes, my lord." Blue eyes sparkling with merriment, Evie gave the lamb an affectionate pat behind its floppy ear before she set it on the ground and stood up, brushing bits of grass and leaves from her skirts. She started to step out of the thicket but stopped short, biting her bottom lip as she glanced at him over her shoulder. "Do you think Gertie and her brother are waiting for us?"

Weston looked at her mouth. He couldn't help himself. It was just there, all plump and tempting and his for the taking, but for the untimely lamb kiss he'd received.

Not to say that a lamb kiss should ever be considered timely.

Jaw clenching, he averted his gaze and deliberately took a step into the open. At this point, he'd almost welcome a bullet. But none was forthcoming, and after ascertaining that the way was safe and clear, he motioned for Evie to follow him out onto the road.

Side by side, the beleaguered earl and the amused American set off once again, with Posy scampering along behind.